“I am not a victim. I am victorious.” -Jennifer Schuett
A mini-screenplay written by Licia Berry, (c) 2009
Dark stage, a fire is in the center.
(here introduce the Old WiseWoman, the Teller of Stories)
Come round ye women, of old and of young
To hear the tale of a Shero sprung
From the heart of a child; a lion emerged
To claim her true power…all factors converged.
Come round me, women,
and listen to my tale
Of a woman who spoke up
When no voice was there
Come round the fire and lend me your heart
As I show you a vision of your own Lionheart.
A story of the strength you possess
Whether you be healer, sage or sorceress.
Listen to me sing this song of triumph and woe
Listen to this song of a true Shero
She who has risen from the ashes,
She who did not bow before the lash.
A woman who valued herself so much
that she would not allow the heinous crime
committed against her to claim her life,
and now she is speaking out, loud and proud
so others will have courage to do the same.
(There is movement from the dark corners of the stage. Here introduce Women in the crowd, around the fire, gathering. They say, with trepidation, unsure…)
Let us raise our voices to the Shero in all of us
Who perseveres and vanquishes her enemy
Let us take heart and dare to feel hope
From hearing her song
~
(Old WiseWoman, Teller of Stories)
On this day from the banks of clouds
A mortal woman inspires song
Her trials she bore at the hands of a “man”
Did undo her, but not for long.
Remember, she is of the universe’s stars
unvanquished, stellar, one of ours
Of tougher stuff she was made,
Just as we all originate.
But did the fates have hurts allow
to bring her down, earth to brow?
What great purpose did it serve
to break this girl and so unnerve?
What great seed of faith do we possess
to live through the fire of man’s neediness
to dissolve to ash and then reform
with strength and resolve, only to be reborn?
~
(Women around the fire stir, look nervous, as if preparing for bad news. The Old WiseWoman continues.)
As a maiden, but a child, she was plucked
From the warmth and safety of her familial nightly bed,
Stolen from the window of her room,
good bye mother, goodbye father
And secreted away in the dark. Beaten.
And her innocent girl body deflowered.
Her tender throat cut open, and left for dead.
Oh, what did she wonder as she watched
The stars o’er head, her silent witnesses?
Did she want her family, miss her dolly,
worry for her life, while the sickness of men possesses?
(Women around the fire, incredulous, angry)
A child is to be protected, cherished, adored
Not beaten, abused, and made into whores!
A child taken by adult woes
Carries that pain wherever they go!
(Old WiseWoman, Teller of Stories)
Powerless to overthrow him, powerless to stop him,
Powerless to scream, run, fight, or beat him
A little girl in her nightgown, tendrils of sweet curls hanging down
She was the victim of his madness, prey to him.
Her voice, her sweet voice, it was made obsolete
By his cruel knife, an attempted final defeat.
No way to call, no way to cry
It is truly a wonder that she did not die.
He threw her away when he was done, lifeless
Onto earth’s field, her blood spilt on the ground
Did he have a moment’s remorse, a thought to whom he’d laid bare?
Or like so much trash, turned his back on her that made no sound?
She lay there until the light of day, almost one with the dirt
Barely alive, semi-conscious; and thus began the true work
Of reclaiming her life from that awful night, when innocence was taken
And retrieving her spirit from the blood, semen, and murk.
(The Women around the fire are stunned into silence; the Story Teller continues, quietly at first )
The choice to live after one’s heart, mind and body are broken
Is a courageous one, to be sure, make no mistake.
A victim as a child, most certainly; but as she grew,
Her goal to have justice was a thirst unslaked.
The burning to find her monster, to put him away
Formed a kind of resolve, a strength, a spine.
To put right what was put asunder
To take back, to reclaim what was thine.
How many would cringe, wish for and hold tight to their deaths
Rather than stand up, point and loudly scream his name?
How many would turn the old patriarch over on his grey head
And show him the grit of our spirits, the scars from his shame?
(Women around the fire, enraged and feeling their ire)
The choice not to die
Despite some men’s wishes
Is a clue to our strength.
In your face, sons of bitches!
And well meaning advice is forced upon us,
“Let it go”, “It’s karma”, “Forgive and forget”
Not knowing, they perpetrate
The violence that silence begets!
(Old WiseWoman, Teller of Stories)
The stories of old would nourish us in these times,
When women and children still bear the brunt of men’s weakness.
Stories of women and goddesses, who were erased from the books
But nevertheless, through their sex, show their uniqueness.
There is a power, unspoken, quiet but sure
A thread of life that runs through us, no matter what we endure
If we are but willing to take hold of that thread
The long ancestral line of Woman will tenderly hold our head.
And when we feel Her strength and resolve,
We will find our voices again, stand up and behold
Our own significant part of All Creation
So marvelous, precious, fierce and bold.
~
And now in this day of bombing the ancient face of the moon,
Women everywhere would take heart from Jennifer’s role
To find her OWN voice, to face her offender, no matter the years
To bring eyes, justice, awareness, then freedom to her soul.
“To thine own self be true” was ne’er so bright
As when a little girl overcame fear to set things right.
And while we all may be spiritually “playing our part”,
I will go with the Amazon, true to her warrior heart.
Jennifer Schuett, you are a SHERO.
Jennifer Schuett holds the scar on her neck as she recounts her abduction in 1990 in which she was raped, her throat slit and she was left for dead in a field in League City.
In deep and humble gratitude,
With Love and Blessings,
Licia Berry
Copyright Licia Berry, 2009, all rights reserved
