Her Name. On November 23rd, 2019, she was walking into the open, open space of a parking garage. Just trying to get somewhere. Maybe she was tired, hungry, excited for her future. So alive, so ready to take on her nine years left of medical school. Enter the Dementor, The privileged footsteps of a canine with proven, convicted actions to its name. It liked her so much it just had to bark unrequited plantations into the soil of tainted masculinity and claim the molecules surrounding as its property. She, the brilliant, worthy human being kept on toward her destination ignoring the shapeless, gluttonous monster that echos her waking steps. The Khodumodumo presses on, opening its jaws, beating her unconscious, relishing in every movement. It felt invalidated, so it made itself known. She was made into a meal, made into the type of something everyone wants, yet no one is comfortable addressing. After her full, loved, human being existence was extinguished The monster walked away Her soul clamped tightly, comfortably, between its teeth. She was a sister, daughter, friend, student, believer, warrior, human being. She was valued, needed, loved, treasured, talented, understood, misunderstood, intelligent, human being. Made into a tire swing. Made into a victim, Made into a news report, Made into something to look at, only because of the monster. Everyone knows what happened. Did she know? Was she not apprised of the advances toward her choices and mortality? When the report leaves the mouth of our televisions, it is lead by the monsters name. They refer to it as ‘The Defendant’ As if it has anything left worth defending. She, Referred to only by her last name. Not given worth until she is dead They speak about what she was wearing, About where she was going, About what kind of car she was found in. But not about her life Not about her family Not the sparkle in her eyes Or the value in her brain. She, made into a steak, Tenderized before consumption. But never given a name We stand behind her. We, the ashamed, The girls, Turned into women by someone else’s hand. The boys, Afraid to know what it means to become a man. The people Now turned purple at any sign of possession. We, now chained to a crime scene by our own skin. The tape follows us into our dreams. We now look at ourselves and see the worth determined by what we can do with our bodies to satisfy monsters. We, the stone victims, Survivors, Get Through-ers, Silenced, Ashamed. “Nice people don’t convict strangers of something unseen. So lay in the chamber made out of the coarse, rotten bones of those that didn’t survive. Carry their meaning in your back pocket. Carry the guilt you feel in the other one. But don’t speak about it Don’t show them the strength built from the stones of trauma. Sit Be still Don’t cry. You have no excuses left.” We, who I assure you have so much to offer this world. To offer ourselves The worth comes from our ability to breath in the morning From the fact that we can lay down and sleep at night We can still say “I love you” Can still ask for help Can still take a stand against possession. I do not abide by shame. I, Another stone survivor was quiet in my room when I read about her and the monster. I cried for three hours Was shaken to my bent, sea coral spine And was sent raging for months I needed to know how much she was loved. I looked to her hurting family and supporters. Her name was Ruth George. She was 19, A sophomore in college, A promising medical student, Surrounded by people that loved her. Ruth George could have saved lives. Ruth George could have aided in humanity. Instead, Ruth George was turned to charcoal.
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