I Believe in Tutus

I am a lover of all things girlie.  So is my friend Kendra.  So, when we saw the tutu in the children’s section of TJ Maxx, we knew we had to buy it.  It wasn’t just any tutu; it was a deep purple and teal, flouncy, with a ribbon, and the best part of all – it was reversible!  Sure, it was a size 7/8, so I guess technically it was meant for a second grader, but it was stretchy.  And besides, who says grown-ups can’t wear tutus? 

             

I am a believer in coloring books and princesses, unicorn pillow pets and ballerina stickers.  I am a believer in ladybugs, in TinkerBell, in Hello Kitty, and in all things pink.  I am a believer in fairies, glitter, Shrinky Dinks, and hair ribbons.  And yes, I am a believer in tutus. 

             

Tutus mean spinning until you collapse, laughing, in the wet grass.  Tutus mean holding hands and dancing under the stars.  Tutus mean believing you are special and unique.  Tutus mean feeling pretty.  And why should these things belong only to eight year-olds? 

             

An eight year-old stands in front of the mirror.  She is wearing the purple and teal tutu.  She spins, watching it twirl. She looks in the mirror and sees her reflection.  She does not think, “I am not enough.”  She does not notice her flaws.  Instead, she sees her tutu.  She sees her beauty. 

             

It’s a good thing I work in a school and not in a bank.  I don’t think I’d do well in a business suit.  Sure, I don’t wear my tutu to work, but my style is closer to the 12 year-olds that I teach than the grown-ups who work in offices.  When I see real adults, going to real jobs, carrying briefcases and wearing high heels, I am so happy that I have a classroom with Hello Kitty and TinkerBell ceiling tiles and not a boring cubicle.  I am happy I can carry my ladybug lunchbox and my water bottle decorated in pigs wearing – yes, tutus.    

           

I believe in finding friends, like Kendra, who can appreciate a child’s spirit.  I believe in remembering to not take yourself so seriously, that life should be fun, that the little moments are what count.  I believe in twirling.  I believe in childhood.  I believe in tutus. 

Justice is Peace

He was guilty. Of that, all 12 jurors agreed. But, was there enough evidence to convict?

Last summer, I had the amazing opportunity to sit on a jury in a criminal case. Here is a brief rundown: On a summer day about 10 years ago, a man (H) allegedly sexually assaulted a six year-old girl (C). C never told anyone, until, 9 years later, on her way to her final dance recital as a senior in high school, she bumped into H at a gas station. She reacted to the trauma, broke down in tears, and arrived home to tell her mother what had happened that day when she was six. Her mother contacted the police. C did not perform in her dance recital that night.

After C made the allegation against H, K also came forward. As a little girl growing up in the same neighborhood as C, K had also been assaulted by H. She had told a friend in 7th grade about the incident; sworn to secrecy, that friend never told an adult. But after C came forward, K was able to gather the courage to tell what had happened to her when she was six years old.

So there we were, 12 strangers chosen to decide H's fate.

For a week and a half, we listened to the evidence. It was hard to hear. H had been a trusted friend and member of the community. His own children played with C and K. Listening to the evidence, I kept an open mind. But it became all to clear that H had committed the acts against these two small girls. What sealed it for me was the testimony of another little girl who had accused H of assaulting her at a Chuck E. Cheese. He was brought to trial at the time (in 1996) but was found not guilty.

Listening to C and K testify, it was clear that they were telling the truth. Why would they lie? C looked fragile, as if the events of the past few years had given her a wisdom, and a pain, beyond her 20 years.

As jurors, we were not allowed to discuss the case with anyone, including other jurors, until the testimony was completed. I longed to share what was happening in the courtroom with my family and friends. I like to hear the opinions of others; I make my decisions by weighing others' opinions and feelings before coming to a resolution. But this time, I was on my own. I had to trust myself, that voice inside of me that whispered my own truth.

After the closing statements were made (H pleaded not guilty), I found myself in a small room with eleven strangers. We started carefully weighing the evidence. The case for C was clear; he had done it, nobody had any doubts, guilty of rape and sexual assault of a minor. The case for K was less clear-cut. Her memories were vague and spotty; after all, we are talking about an incident that occurred more than ten years ago, when she was just a little girl. All jurors agreed that he had done it, that she was telling the truth. But was there enough evidence to convict?

At the beginning of deliberations, we were split pretty much down the middle, with a slight lean towards not guilty in the case of K. As I listened to the other jurors, I became more convinced of the truth of K's testimony. But, little by little, the other jurors that agreed with me were swayed. There wasn't enough evidence. Her memory was spotty. It couldn't have happened the way she told it. Yes, he did it, but there's not enough evidence to convict. It was so long ago. Besides, he is going away for a long time on the guilty verdict for C. So, there would be justice for K in that.

No, there wouldn't. Rarely have I ever felt such passion as I did in that deliberations room, fighting for K. I even shed some tears. The other jurors (particularly one man) told me that I shouldn't let my emotions, or my feelings for K, get in the way of justice. "I am fighting for justice," I told him. "K was assaulted. We all know she was assaulted. How can you go back into that courtroom, look her in the eye, look her family in the eye, and say not guilty? I'm sorry, but I can't live with myself if I did that."

Frustrated, after a long day of deliberations, it was 11-1 in favor of not guilty. I was the lone hold-out. We decided to come back for another day of deliberations.

The next morning, I entered deliberations with apprehension but a conviction that K should receive the justice, and peace, she deserved. I fought with everything I had. I stated my case clearly, with confidence. H had done this. We know he did it to C, and he did it to the little girl at Chuck E Cheese. Of course he did it to K. WHy would she lie? She had told a friend in 7th grade. It takes courage to speak of a sexual assault, especially when the victim is a child. Why would K put herself through the pain of a public trial if it had not happened? Yes, maybe the facts were blurred after 10 years. But, the bottom line is that the child had been assaulted. And as a jury it was our responsibility to give her the justice she deserved.

One by one, jurors came around and saw my side. I gained strength and conviction as the tide started to turn. Finally, after lunch on the second day of deliberations, we were unanimous: H was guilty on both counts, C AND K. The other jurors thanked me for sticking to my values and for fighting for what I felt was right. It felt like the world had been lifted off of my shoulders and I cried with relief. For now I could go into the courtroom, face K's family, and make a judgment based on truth.

Throughout this process, I learned a lot about myself as a person. I have always been indecisive and easily swayed. But I learned that when push came to shove, and the stakes were high, I could trust my own instincts and stand up for what I believed in. My voice is important and can make a difference. One person is enough.

After the trial, I heard that K had gotten a tattoo that read "Justice is Peace". I, too, am at peace, that I played a part in getting a young woman the justice she deserves.

Goodbye Jeans

My nutritionist and I recently had a party, and she and I blogged about it on her website.  Please check it out!
http://marcird.com/_blog/blog/post/Good-Bye_Jeans

xoxo
kara

Ballerina

A child is dancing.  She is at the beach -- alone, uninhibited, barefoot; she is twirling.  She laughs at her dizziness, stumbles and picks herself up, dances once more.  Her music is the waves crashing on the sand, the wind whipping through her hair; her song is one she creates, different every time, yet always her own, her voice sweet and clear and innocent.  There is no choreography and therefore there are no missteps; she is light and free and belongs only to herself.

And then one day, somebody sees her.  Watches her quietly for a while -- then entices her.  Whispers.  Come with me.  I will make you better.  I will make you stronger.  I will make you delicate, fragile, enchanting, precise, ethereal.  I will make you perfect.  Take my hand.  Come with me.

She goes willingly, trusting.  She does not yet realize the magnitude of that which she leaves behind.  At first, they work together.  They are a team.  She still loves to dance, she still sings her own song, but now he whispers to her from the wings.  Point your toes, arch your back, faster now; sing softer, softer.  Suddenly, she is aware of herself; corporal, flawed.  She no longer dances at the beach, under the stars, but rather on stage, under the spotlight.  Her movements are precise, practiced, routine; her music is an orchestra, her voice silenced.  She looks to Him for direction.  There is an audience now and they watch her, eyes wide, applaud her, give her flowers and kisses and admiration.

Sometimes she wishes she could go back to dancing on the beach.  But He reminds her:  You were nothing then.  You were nothing without me.

Slowly, steadily, without really even noticing, she begins to grow hollow.  She is voiceless and wooden; her dance, once a feeling in her soul, becomes nothing more to her than a progression of steps.  Waiting in the wings, He calls to her, reprimands her, demands perfection, reminds her that He is in charge, that she will never be enough.  And at the end of her dance each night, she no longer allows herself to enjoy the applause, because she knows that they do not belong to her, that they never will.

In time, His voice becomes intertwined with her own.  She can no longer determine where he ends and she begins.  The music from the orchestra grows louder, louder, louder, until it is deafening.  She spins and spins and spins, faster, numb to her dizziness, her breathlessness, her inability to stop.  The world around her becomes a blur.  She cannot see the faces of the audience, eyes full of concern.  She cannot hear them call to her, shouting to stop, please stop, you're hurting yourself, we are scared, you have to stop.  Some people leave, unwilling or unable to watch her self-destruct.  Others try to grab her by the wrist, slow her down, but she pulls away; all she can hear is His voice, seductive: Dance, dance, soon you will be enough; delicate, fragile, enchanting, precise, ethereal, perfect, dance, keep dancing, you were nothing without me, you will never be enough, dance.

The more she dances, the louder He screams; a deafening crescendo, a deadly duet.  She keeps dancing because she is too afraid to stop.  She dances until her feet are blistered and bloody.  She dances until her heart flutters and her legs cramp, she dances until her body is broken and battered, she dances until she is blinded by the spotlight and her tears.  She dances until she collapses, until she has nothing left to give, until she submits to exhaustion.  She dances until she is nothing more than a shell of a girl lying down on a darkened stage in an empty auditorium.

He is gone.

At first she is too afraid to pick herself up.  She waits for Him to tell her what to do next.  She waits for His direction.  But He is gone.  Yet His presence lingers, and like the eerie pain of a phantom limb, the hurt resonates.  She longs for Him, she longs for His comfort, His presence.  She longs for the girl she was when she was with Him, because she is afraid of the girl she might become without Him.  She longs for the audience, for the adoration, the accomplishment, the perfection.  But, in her own time, she lets herself remember; they never belonged to her.

A child is dancing.  She is not the same child she was before; her dance is no longer innocent, carefree.  After years of being controlled, her feet are reluctant to take risks; after years of being silenced, her voice resists being heard.  Her steps are tentative at first, her voice silent, then shaky -- broken, unsure.  Her stage is the sand beneath her feet, her audience the stars.  There is a vulnerability to her now, and also a strength in having survived.  A grace in overcoming.  A relinquishing of control that leads not to perfection, but to authenticity.  Her dance is not perfect, but it is her own.  And it is beautiful.

*****

So many of you, dear family and friends, have been by my side as I have battled this monster of an eating disorder.  You have laughed with me, cried with me, pushed me, held me up, forgiven me, supported me, cared for me, loved me.  I want to share my real self with you.  Not the Kara stolen by anorexia, but the Kara who used to play soccer on Saturday mornings.  The Kara who loved spaghetti and meatballs and hated spinach.  The Kara who laughed like her mother.  

I hope that you will join me as I reclaim my dance.  

Love,

Kara