“Haunting Memories: The Fatal Sting”
Angry Brown Woman Series
Video and Photographic Series 5 mins
Still Motion Photography
2018
Nearly 10 years of traversing through landmines, checkpoints, roadblocks, and landslides— a process of existing within an emotional warzone. In 2014, I received the news about my ex-husband’s desire to get a divorce. While he weds someone else a year later, I wanted to embark on a journey of self-exploration and self-care. But equally a journey of self-reflection surrounded by a community of friends, therapists, and students. Interestingly, the year I joined the Ph.D. program, Liz Homan released an article on Inside Higher Ed revealing the challenges of romantic partnerships during graduate school. A relationship requires a lot of work, but so does a Ph.D., both being long-term commitments, and one can’t afford to fail at either. The only difference is, knowledge can never be stolen, whereas a marriage can.
As I sit here with a completed dissertation, written about women who have survived the endless attacks of patriarchal dictums and attitudes, it has given me years to examine and reflect on how I too have been a survivor of masculinist expressions and enactments. Biggest of which has been the often-accepted invisible culture of blaming and gaslighting. My only hope is that these shared lived experiences will allow others to also see what was once invisible to me.
At the time of my separation, I was called several words of insult and hurt: Blind, irresponsible, dependent, selfish, and princess, to name a few. How easily words can damage an individual— I felt as though I was sinking in this murky water of guilt, unable to resurface, submerging deeper into the depths of darkness, with pressure building within. What did I do to deserve this? Was I really that awful of a spouse? What are people going to think of me? Did my selfishness cause me to go blind to all the signs of a failing marriage? I blamed myself for over a year. Four words that caused such immeasurable pain— blind, irresponsible, dependent, and selfish.
It’s awful to think that people who can love each other for so long, can become so vindictive. Etched into my psyche, these words did a lot of damage, as they would to anyone. It took me escaping to Canada, Alaska, India, Massachusetts, Vermont, New York, Belgium, England, California, and Quebec to begin entangling the psychological knots of toxicity that had been tied in my head. Many profound things happened in 2016: I met my dearest friend Nellie, became a naturalized citizen, and received a call from my ex calling for “closure.” I suppose one needs it to move on, before remarriage. For me, closure could only be achieved from within.
I immediately recalled the times I was called “blind.” Apparently, blind for note seeing how unhappy the marriage was. But I would in fact state, that I was blind for not seeing that in 2010, I was married to a man who had the capacity to cheat on his wife. I was blind to continue to trust and believe a man who continued to lie. I believed him till the last day when he said he had “recently” met a woman… only to realize much later that it takes being with someone for some time to confidently leave their spouse for the other. I wondered what other lies he told others. I was irresponsible, for not ending the marriage a lot earlier. I was dependent on a narrative that I thought was my duty— to forgive, forget, and continue to be a good spouse. I believed the narrative that I was selfish for asserting my wants and needs to pursue my own aspirations. And a princess because I lived under the support of my family during my formative schooling years. However, while working multiple jobs during his schooling, I remained the “loving,” and “supportive” wife. Women are expected to be selfless. These are not mere insults and words that cause immense hurt, rather they shift blame onto a woman.
I met my ex-partner at the young age of 21, and that was the year I began walking with a blindfold on for a decade to follow. As a young, brown woman, new to the cultural experiences of American society, I walked into a sea of whiteness- from fancy golf resorts at Hilton Head, to Thanksgiving and Christmas surrounded by people who explicitly displayed racist views— calling black footballers “niggers,” shouting “run nigger run,” to displaying growing concern over black neighbors moving into the historically white neighborhood, from boat rides in Miami, to a cruise to the Alaskan frontier where the people I identified most with were the servers and cleaners, from mandatory grace at the dinner table, to the critical eye over my smoking and wearing black and no makeup, from my need to “forgive, forget, and accept” members within the family who implicitly discriminated people of color, to the refusal and reluctance to visit my homelands of India and Thailand— needless to say, I lived through it all with mostly undisplayed disappointment. “White privilege” was a word that never crossed my young, ignorant mind. White privilege is blinding.. and to this day, I know, “they” still probably don’t see how that privilege blinded/ blinds them. The narrative I kept hearing was, to pay no attention and to forgive members of the family who displayed racist views, that they are old, from a different time and generation, and from a social upbringing where racial hate was common. Sound familiar? But what was not understood was the sheer anger that continued to build inside of me, for “their” inability to see that just because the members of the family have reformed their behavior towards me, mainly out of necessity, does not mean that their racism towards others was acceptable. I am, after all, a woman of color, and I will never be a white woman, and I am not here to please and comfort racist white people. So, why am I made to feel like I should? The need to comply, conform, and comfort was dictated through implicit narratives of blame that are cast onto many people of color within interracial marriages. I felt like the token brown woman which made them appear diverse and inclusive. But yet, “they” would illustrate to me how “they” are not racist because “they” have that one black friend or that one person of color friend from work. I continued to respond with a smile, after all, what could I do? This is not to cast the family in a negative light, because, race, culture, religious identity, class identity are so difficult to walk through in America, and I am grateful for the fact that people are slowly waking up to the complexities of race relations.
The blame narrative only became apparent to me a decade later. And, oh, how I wish I knew then what I know now. I remember the day when my ex visited my flat and jokingly stated, “You know you should date me because no other white guy will date you.” Surprised at what was an explicit racist remark, was quickly shrugged under the disguise of humor. Unaware if this is “American humor” or not, I smiled despite feeling enormously belittled. What gave him the impression that I was even interested in being with a white man, when in the past I had dated black and mixed race men? Once again, white privilege makes a debut appearance with no remorse or accountability. On another occasion, he introduced himself to someone by his name and his profession, and I as “this is my girlfriend.” I didn’t have a name, a title, a profession, nothing… merely an extension of his identity. That same day, my mother told me “You have a name, a profession, your own identity that is separate from his and it’s unique. Be proud of it.” Implicit and explicit forms of gaslighting and blame-shifting become easier to impose when a person is belittled.
As time went by, the blindfold slowly started slipping off. I grew increasingly tired of being around whiteness. Though, together we embraced friends who were increasingly more multicultural, I craved true diversity, difference, culture, different languages, just something vastly different. So when I got an acceptance letter to attend the San Francisco Art Institute, I was on the next flight. Hardly after a few months of living separately, I found out he was meeting an ex-girlfriend. Parading with endless apologies and confessions of love, a commitment to never repeat his mistake, I forgave him. But the trust was gone. A broken trust requires years to mend, indeed a slow and difficult process. It became apparent to me that day, that he will repeat this and I will be hurt once again. That day became the beginning of my new priority— to put my desires and professional needs first.
Needless to say, I applied for my Ph.D. and decided to embark on a journey to Texas. A state that terrified me, an unknown territory, but something new and different— exactly what I was in search of. And just like my journey to San Francisco, hardly a year into my program, I was informed of his interest in getting a divorce. “I have met someone and I want to be with her. I want a divorce.” Plain and simple. No explanations were owed, and no questions were answered— despite the fact that many questions were asked. I felt very alone and in a very dark space. As I said, I knew it was coming. It takes a special type of individual to betray someone they love, and it takes very little to betray again.
But after all that transpired, I felt blamed.
During the divorce proceedings, I heard, “You are selfish.” “You are a privileged little princess.” “You only care about yourself.” The act of betraying someone, and breaking commitments multiple times to the person you promise to love is…not selfish? But the entire institution of marriage is patriarchal. Numerous times I sat as the only brown woman in a room filled with white lawyers and paralegals in suits ingraining into me patriarchal dictums of marriage, and gendered social norms, while simultaneously offering the same consolation they offer to all other victims of such predation, “It happens to so many women.” And for some reason, I am supposed to feel better, knowing that? I openly began speaking about divorce to women, and to my surprise, women shared endless stories of their separations. From coffee shops to landlords, from women at the car dealership to women at gas stations, from women at grocery stores to women at the library, from security guards and the general manager at my former home to the multiple women in my own family, the outpouring of stories of frustrations became my source of anger and drive.
There is a reason why this story is so long. As a woman of color, from a very different cultural upbringing, familial upbringing, coming from a family where both parents have felt betrayed and abused by their own former partners, I knew well that honesty and a commitment to always support one another was the biggest value one can bring to a marriage. But honesty is difficult to accept at times. I remained honest, from the times of sharing my disappointments over racism within the family, to the lack of feeling accepted for my differences, from the need to share and introduce aspects of my culture into the family, to express my discomfort around masculinist white culture. These are not easy bridges to cross, but I knew that honesty in my expressions was an expression of my autonomy.
I didn’t want to be blamed or made to feel guilty for not making an appearance at a relative’s funeral who fundamentally displayed racial hate towards others and towards me and my family. I didn’t want to “say grace” at the dinner table. I didn’t want to be told to not sit with my legs crossed at the dinner table—I do not prescribe to Euro-American, imperialist dictums of etiquette. In my culture, it is common to sit with one’s legs crossed. There are implicit tones of judgment and criticism which when expressed are internalized as blame for not being “enough like us.” I do not care to celebrate Christmas and Thanksgiving. No, I do not subscribe to celebrating the slaughter of people native to this land. And for Christmas, well, it would be fun to celebrate the festivities of my culture, just as equally. I do not wish to go to church as I am of no faith. Are these acts of selfishness, or are they basic rights to one’s dignity and personal choices, and ones that we ought to acknowledge and respect? It is not that I didn’t succumb to trying it “their” way. I did. But there always remained a distinction between “my way” and “their way,” between “my people” and “their people,” between “my choices” and “their choices.” The distinction was set in stone from the start, the first time I met his family and was distinctly told “Don’t you dare be smoking in front of my son.”
The more I think about it, in Hinduism, it is well established that the honor of the husband and his family rests in the honor maintenance of the wife. As long as the wife maintains her expected social norms and gendered codes, she will not bring shame to the family’s honor. And oh.. what shame I brought! And just as Hindu scriptures would suggest, the preservation of familial and community honor requires the necessary disciplining of the wife, from all possible transgressions. I refuse to be blamed for a failed marriage for choosing my professional development and goals. I refuse to be told I was never there… when my identity as a woman is not solely defined as a wife or one that requires to be constantly situated by her partner, but rather also as a professional, a student, an educator, a scholar, a mentor, a daughter, a friend, et cetera. My role as a woman requires me to be in many places. I cannot be blamed for a failed marriage for not being a wife. In traditional, conservative expectations, a wife is required to be present by her husband, and I clearly was not always physically present, simply for one simple reason— I finally managed to swim to the surface and breathed a sigh of relief.
For three years following my divorce, every night I spoke to the moon. She was my true companion and one whose glimmering light allowed me to think with clarity. It dawned on me…I was once the “other woman.” I was unaware of it. But for him to move on, he needed to be with someone else before he could leave the woman he once loved. He needed to be with someone else before he could leave me. Ironically, it turns out, it never was me who was dependent, but rather he who constantly needed to depend on women to secure his masculine identity. It rips you to pieces to be blamed for the insecurities of others. However, I cannot be held responsible and more importantly blamed for someone else’s fragilities. I learned in due course, that masculinity is so fragile and vulnerable. So easily hurt, that you can’t help but feel sorry for grown men who have had to live their adult lives with such high levels of insecurities.
I hope this comes as a source of inspiration and empowerment to others who are facing similar challenges in life. That path filled with landmines, checkpoints, roadblocks, and landslides may not all disappear, or maybe you will come across a new pathway of rolling, green meadows and lavender fields, but you will maneuver through it all with far more ease. Such hard circumstances to traverse through, and though our stories are all unique in their own ways, I will end with what so many other women shared with me, “You will get through it, and you will be the best version of yourself.”