Several months ago, I attended a gathering of tribes, environmental groups, and allies to discuss the importance of protecting water, salmon, and orcas. It was a great event, with many vital conversations rooted in the intersection of science and indigenous culture. At the start of a women’s panel discussion, a female tribal scientist began to speak, her voice and hands shaking as she looked out at the room of 300 participants. Almost in passing, she mentioned she was an abuse survivor and that public speaking was hard for her. When she concluded, she passed the mic to a second woman, and as this woman began to talk, she said she, too, was an abuse survivor and commended the previous woman on her courage.
The interaction was a notable example of vulnerability and support because it wouldn’t have happened had the panelists been white women. Maybe I’m wrong, but the white female scientists, policymakers, and professional allies I’ve worked around seem to need a tough exterior to function in a field dominated by men. Touchy-feely stuff could discredit authority, and hypervigilance about judgment and fears of too much personal mixed into our professional interactions keeps women aloof – especially in a room full of strangers.
As the women rose to leave the stage, a group of solemn men holding drums surrounded them. A quiet conversation took place, and the room stilled. The male leader took the mic, asking that recording devices be shut off – what they would do next should be held in this room only. They’d asked the women if it would be okay if the men offered a healing song.
I think he spoke of the harm men caused, of men needing to support women and put an end to abuse by holding other men accountable. Of their grief for women’s suffering that rippled through the entire community as the life-bringers, the caregivers. Of their anger at what has been done and continues to be done to native women. Or maybe all that was said in the song, the words spoken in a language only my heart could understand.
The men began to drum, voices low, then calling out in a loud, pleading sorrow so profound that tears immediately spilled down my cheeks. My first thought (one I’m not incredibly proud of ) was, “Who would ever sing for me? Why so public – is this appropriate?” But nearly immediately, I realized my error. This song was not just about the women on this stage. This was a song of solidarity and healing for all of us. Hurt women, hurt men, communities impacted by violence, people lacking support, all of our grief.
Their voices rose and fell, wrapping around the room as we received the gift of shared outrage and boundless compassion. As the room reverberated with drumbeats, their voices shifted, taking on a solidity, a back-in-this-moment reminder that who we are now is because of what we have overcome. A tribute to our strength, a reminder that we do not stand alone, and a joyful acknowledgment of our survival. The song ended with a unified beat, and the room fell still.
Heads around me remained bowed as if in prayer, and the only sounds were sniffles and the rustling of napkins as tears were wiped away. I felt like I’d been transported elsewhere and was now rematerializing with my cellular structure slightly altered. The room, my job, the people around me, and how I walked in these spaces had changed.
It’s taken months to write about this. I’m guessing I can only do it now because my therapist and I have been talking about trauma and how it ends who we were before and closes us off to possibilities that existed before we were hurt. Recently he was explained how trauma changes our brains, and we never get that back. It was a hard thing to realize that despite how much I have achieved and overcome, my original wholeness had been destroyed by someone else when I was a very young child. How sad for me – how sad for everyone.
The song that was offered wasn’t sung by men who were without blame or were perfect or better than any other person. But as indigenous people whose entire culture and history have been devastated by trauma, they were in a unique position to hold their sister’s loss. They deeply understood that who we are is not separate from the trauma that has occurred. It informs every part of us. To let it go unacknowledged continues to harm. Offering this song in the middle of a gathering, while everyone present was there in their professional capacities, was an intentional reconnection of pieces white culture – or the white culture I operate within – expects us to keep separate. This song was healing for everyone in the room, partly because it presented a map for how we can walk in the world more whole and with greater compassion. Ordinary people, acknowledging extraordinary hurt and changing the world for all of us.
Robyn Lynn 
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