Skip to main content

To See it Go, by Jerika Perthuis


Truth is always defined by the majority collective, when the said majority is composed of disjointed points, especially disjointed players, truth will always consist of pillars left up to interpretation. Truth is definable, as those who overtake those interpretations cement a picture in their own nature. A nature defined by others, only residing in limited space, alone, will only lead to a future so far. 

 

Bending into the spurs of moments, we are all responsible for bearing the call, wherever, whenever, we feel it. And as much as we have sidestepped the screams of the voiceless, others have heard our silence. Others have reveled in our limited capacity. But, as the truth is defined by each individual responding to it, so is the call. Responding to a call of justice, equity, fairness, impartiality, the actions goes on and on, and yet the realization for laboring is small, even though the potential laborers for each category are many. 

 

What role do we play, in the context of defining the best truth, certainly, there is not only one truth, but there is an obvious amount of understanding, around the idea, that truth is not defined by one, only. 

 

As courteous and magnanimous as we would like to proceed forward, a fight is still a fight. And while the said fight may begin in one context and transform into another, change is hard, resolve to see a change to the end is, even so, harder. Smashing systems put into place, implicitly, explicitly, or in between, to dominate, to tamp down on the potential of others, requires a response. 

 

As much as we pretend like we just get right back up and go right back out, to try again, our cheek is still bruised. We leave little emphasis on the glaring fact that the cheek turned is only the first motion of reconciliation. 

 

One cannot predict every outcome, but we can predict the level of energy used to get to those desires. Define your clarion call. And know the hardest part of holding something in the palm of your hand is waiting for it to lift off, and after it does there is no glance back to you, no invitation to receive some sort of extended steadfastness, only a sobering understanding that you gave everything you could to see it go. 

 

Follow Me on Instagram

Follow Me on Twitter

 

 

 

 



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Run Home, Havilah Capshaw Bagnaro

I am so brave as I sit in front of the camera crew; about to describe a sexual assault that happened to me, at the hands of Grant Pankratz, almost twenty years ago.  Leaning on my years of dance and theater training I feel no shyness as the cameraman adjusts my microphone and when the journalist asks me how I feel, I can honestly answer that I feel just fine. How bizarre it is to finally be speaking about something that is still so visceral. I can take my mind back, easily, to the exact moment it happened and replay it like a favorite television show and yet is so secret I have never even told my husband. I get through the interview easily with little emotion and do not feel at all overwhelmed; even after everyone at the filming tells me I absolutely must file a police report, before the story airs the next evening on the ten o’ clock news.                      As I drive away from the filming location I realize what ...

Euphemisms, by Jerika Perthuis

At some point, amongst the crushing waves of pain and hard hitting despair, Kevin calls me, saying he has something to tell me, wanting to make sure I am home. This cold intro causes an intense reaction from my body. Historically, Kevin had always delivered the worst news, out of nowhere, a feeling, even now, percolates even when he opens his mouth to start speaking to me. Before this Kevin had been given a sexual integrity test, which flagged him as addicted to sex. I was floored, feeling naive, and further betrayed. But Kevin has a seemingly laissez-faire attitude when telling me, I am confused as to what this all really means, and in reality, am in no way prepared for what this addiction really means.  As I waited for Kevin to come home, I went over hypotheticals, I had demanded he tell me what was going on, but he would not purge any sort of narrative. I completely thought the other person involved with him had killed themself or had tried to. This did n...

Not Really Going Anywhere, by Jerika Perthuis

Kevin and I have known each other since my late teens, we dated, casually, I was so intimidated by him I eventually stopped returning his phone calls. My first memory of Kevin is inside of a common area of a church; we are both volunteers for an after-school program for under-resourced students. Kevin is standing around with a basketball cupped by his side. Exuding inspirational, coach-like leadership, in a nearly commercial like quality, I notice him, but I don't recall what our very first conversation was about. Forcing Kevin to go on romantic picnics on the lake and dinners downtown did not yield much of anything meaningful back from me. Kevin will say we were formally boyfriend and girlfriend, but my memory does not recall that formality either.  Mutual friendships kept us in onesie, twosie, every now and then contact. This contact was usually him rebuffing my inquiries and changing his attention toward another person. I didn’t blame him. Yet, my feeling for him stayed with me,...