{"id":137588,"date":"2019-06-26T13:00:38","date_gmt":"2019-06-26T17:00:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=137588"},"modified":"2019-06-26T13:00:05","modified_gmt":"2019-06-26T17:00:05","slug":"one-word-striking","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/06\/26\/one-word-striking\/","title":{"rendered":"One Word: Striking"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

While aiming a lens at my face, the photographer whispered, \u201cYou\u2019re striking.\u201d<\/p>\n

This quality lives far from pretty. Daisies are pretty. Adolescent hamsters are pretty. William Wordsworth wrote pretty poetry. It wasn\u2019t striking. Striking poetry ambushes us. The sensory details are chosen to paralyze, discomfit, or inflict pain. When such poetry bears lilies, they fester. When such poetry harbors horses, they crush toes. When such poetry casts a fishhook, its metal sinks into an open eye.<\/p>\n

Striking phenomena resemble beautiful ones in their force and strength. \u201cBeauty quickens,\u201d said critic Elaine Scarry. \u201cIt adrenalizes. It makes the heart beat faster. It makes life more vivid.\u201d<\/p>\n

When I was a ten-year-old tomboy, I asked my father, \u201cWhy does evil exist?\u201d<\/p>\n

After looking up from his watch, he replied, \u201cMyriam, imagine how boring life would be if evil didn\u2019t exist.\u201d<\/p>\n

It makes life more vivid. At the time, my father\u2019s authority on the matter went unquestioned. In hindsight, his answer strikes me as slapdash, dangerous, and wrong.<\/p>\n

When I was older, I lived with a man who, though he was evil, was as boring as he was dangerous. Here is an inventory of his pastimes: plucking bass guitar while buzzed, extolling the greatness of soccer player Lionel Messi, and misogyny.<\/p>\n

He turned me into a human soccer ball, and yet I couldn\u2019t recognize what was happening. The radical feminist Andrea Dworkin experienced this same perceptual inability, explaining that the horror of what is happening to a battered woman exists, \u201cquite literally, beyond her imagination.\u201d My mind could not name what he did to me. Misogyny struck me dumb.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The first time it happened, we were standing together in the dining room. I tapped his shoulder. \u201cQuit it,\u201d he snapped.<\/p>\n

Playfully, I tapped again.<\/p>\n

He twisted and his fist punched me hard enough to make me gasp and reel.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou hit me!\u201d I declared.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou started it,\u201d he accused.<\/p>\n

Confusion took over. My arm throbbed.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d seen men raise fists at women in cartoons but those caricatures hadn\u2019t prepared me for how it would feel. The cartoons never revealed the punching bag\u2019s interiority, her sense of shock that cedes to disbelief. How can it be that the man who brought you sunflowers, grilled salmon for you, kissed your eyelids, and admired your baby pictures is the same person now turning you purple?<\/p>\n

Incredulity seduces. It makes us succumb to the fallacy that the world is just, that the violence we receive must be merited. When we confide in others about what happened, they often indulge in this, too. It satisfies our appetite for order. Our horror is wallpapered over with karmic perversion: people who deserve bad luck get it.<\/p>\n

Weeks before I left this man once and for all, he stood in the middle of the living room. Folk music played.<\/p>\n

\u201cDance with me,\u201d he ordered.<\/p>\n

His command wove a catch-22. If I danced, he\u2019d mock me, comparing my movements to a \u201cretard\u2019s.\u201d If I declined, a painful or degrading ambush would likely occur. I said no.<\/p>\n

Batterers are allergic to women\u2019s noes. He persisted, begging, and I knew he wasn\u2019t going to relent until I danced with him. I joined him and swayed. He shimmied, twirled, and said, \u201cDo what I\u2019m doing.\u201d I mimicked his movements. As my muscles relaxed, a blur sailed at my face.<\/p>\n

It stung, stunning me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou slapped me!\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

He bristled. His face grew stern. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t that hard.\u201d<\/p>\n

I tingled with fear and disgust. Underneath that, I felt rage. Through clenched teeth, I said, \u201cIt was hard enough.\u201d<\/p>\n

His nostrils flared. He scowled. Glaring, he repeated, \u201cIt wasn\u2019t that hard. I know because I hit you.\u201d He puffed up like a rooster ready for a cockfight. He pointed at his cheek and ordered, \u201cHit me as hard as I hit you. If you hit me harder, you\u2019ll get it worse.\u201d His other hand made a fist.<\/p>\n

In a striking display of defiance, I hissed, \u201cI\u2019m not going to hit you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I knew better than to even glance at the door.<\/p>\n

The last time I\u2019d made a run for it, he had, among other things, suspended me by the head and strangled me. You might think me stupid for having stayed. If you think so, you misunderstand that survival doesn\u2019t always belong to the fittest. Sometimes it belongs to the most patient. You see, this man had shown me he\u2019d kill me for leaving him. That\u2019s what strangulation is, a death threat. The cost of my emancipation was too high, and my fear made his violence effective. I felt his hands around my neck even when they weren\u2019t there. I wore their memory like an invisible dog collar.<\/p>\n

From an ignorant distance, the choices battered women make to survive might strike observers as ridiculous and self-defeating. The philosopher Albert Camus traced the contours of this misinterpretation when he wrote, \u201cThe absurd is lucid reasoning noting its limits.\u201d<\/p>\n

Post-strangulation, I struck a deal with myself: Stay with this man in order to stay alive. Wait. Plan. Get out once he leaves a metaphorical door ajar.<\/p>\n

The verb to strike<\/em> comes from Middle English. It meant \u201cto stroke\u201d before it came to mean \u201cto deal a blow.\u201d I read the Middle English classic The Canterbury Tales<\/em> in college. Back then, the only person who\u2019d ever slapped me was a woman, my mother. I admired a brash Chaucer character who\u2019d also been hit, the wife of Bath. Jankyn, her husband, entertains himself with story after story about the \u201cwickedness\u201d and \u201cwretchedness\u201d of women, and the wife tires of his misogynist pastime. She retaliates by ripping a single page from one of his books. For her vandalism, Jankyn raises his and hand and \u201c[strikes his wife] \u2026 deef.\u201d<\/p>\n

From across the centuries, the wife of Bath, struck deaf for destroying a man\u2019s pleasure, beseeches: \u201cIf women hadde written stories, \/ As clerkes han withinne hire oratories, \/ They wold han writen of men moore wickednesse \/ Than all of the mark of Adam may redress.\u201d It\u2019s in honor of the wife\u2019s daring hand that I tell the story of my face, my face that has been struck and strikes. I no longer feel hands around my neck. \u201cYou\u2019re striking,\u201d the photographer says. I exhale, I face the lens, and refuse to smile.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Myriam Gurba is the author of\u00a0<\/em>Mean, a nonfiction novel and memoir. She lives in California and loves cash, succulents, and the elderly.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019d seen men raise fists at women in cartoons, but those caricatures hadn\u2019t prepared me for how it would feel. The cartoons never revealed the punching bag\u2019s interiority, her sense of shock that cedes to disbelief.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1300,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[45306],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-137588","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-one-word"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nOne Word: Striking by Myriam Gurba<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"June 26, 2019 \u2013 I\u2019d seen men raise fists at women in cartoons, but those caricatures hadn\u2019t prepared me for how it would feel. 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