A Sistahood of Silence
I always wanted a sister. My mother had four of them and although they had their differences, those old reel-to-reel movies of them dancing in my aunt’s basement or the knowing smiles they shared across the table at holidays made me crave sisterhood. I sought it first in friends, not knowing really how to value myself, let alone another girl. Back then, people used me to suit their purposes and I used them to suit mine and we called it friendship, knowing that same things we said about other folks when they weren’t around were said behind our backs too. Knowing that despite our best efforts, we were far from sisters, far from friends.
Still, I desired sisterhood, looking fondly at the sorority girls during college, enraptured by their secret dances and graceful calls. But that wasn’t my road either. When I married a man with a sister, I thought I’d struck gold after sifting through roommates, co-workers and girls down the street. I’d finally have a sister. But that wasn’t to be, either. She was already somebody’s sister. She wasn’t looking for another.
I stopped seeking sisterhood around that time and started seeking Jesus. It was a crooked path, like a never ending treasure map, with God leaving gifts and drawing me to Him, step-by-step, verse-by-verse. He asked for all of me, everything I had: my daddy hunger, my need for sister love, the guilt, the shame, the confusion. Everything. And I gave it all, with one eyebrow raised, wondering what on earth He’d do with all of that. He was God, true enough, but that was a lot of mess. And I hadn’t even had time to pack it up properly before handing it over. Jesus took my stuff in trash bags and shoeboxes, old envelopes and yellowed notebooks.
In the meantime, I wandered into churches, listening to people being referred to as “Sister So-and-so” only to have them look at me as though they wanted to run. Me, with my baby carrier and twisted slip trying to get to Jesus. I wasn’t “sister” material. Evidently you had to be over 40, married to a deacon and a member of the church for over 30 years to break into the sisterhood. Well, I just didn’t have that kind of time. Still hoping, still hungering for a place to belong, for women to belong to, I moved on.
My journey took me on to other places, more crosses, more sisters. This time, they had lace collars and flowered dresses, big hair and sunny smiles. And rules. Lots and lots of rules. But their tea tasted good and they seemed to have this Christian woman thing down to a science, so I stuck around, trying to get all the rules down pat. It was tough. After a while, I dug out my blue jeans and lipstick and crawled away. Nobody seemed to notice (and those who did notice didn’t want to get in trouble). So with waving hankies and a few “we’ll pray for you”s, I was on my way again.
Most of all, they believed God with me and for me, moving past the hedge of shame I’d placed around myself. Though they were women of power, women of God, they uncovered themselves to cover me. They saw my Tamar heart and helped to bring my life to the Father’s house. They covered me, comforted me, encouraged me, heard me, held me and more important than anything else, they told me their stories. They showed me that every woman needs a place to dress her wounds, a sistahood to bleed in, to hurt in. I’d done that before, but my wounds had always been dressed by those who meant me evil, those who inflicted more pain, leaving me infected.
Even the “sisters” of the church with their china cups and giftedness at being appropriate (something I certainly wasn’t) refused to give me the one thing I needed from them most—their testimonies. They gave me rules without relationship, censure without context. I needed to know about their failures and the triumphs. I needed to know that there was hope for me.
So who is a sistah? She’s someone you can take your bra off with. Someone who can see you at your worst. Someone you don’t have to explain things to because she’s been there and she already knows. She’s someone who’ll come to your aid even if she hasn’t heard from you in ages. She’s funny. She’s serious. She’s loud. She’s quiet. She’s peanut butter brown. She’s ebony satin black. She’s pecan tan. She’s alabaster white. She loves people and loves God. She looks different on any given day, but when you meet her, you know her because she’ll listen to your story…and tell you hers.
My “sistahs” as I call the women who brought me that hope, gave me a precious gift in sharing their stories with me— so much so that when speaking, I began to tell their stories along with mine. New sistahs came too, whispering their tales to me, things some of them had never told. I shall attempt to share some of these stories with you. In this volume, you’ll meet my coverers, the survivors of sexual abuse, abortion, abandonment and most of all, shame. To include all the wonderful women God has brought me would be impossible, but I hope the stories I’ve chosen to tell will give you a glimpse of how blessed I am. I’ve given some of my sistah’s new names to protect their children. Others speak in their own names at risk of their lives.
As you read these stories, I pray that you will learn something new about being a woman, being a Christian and being a friend. I pray that through these stories, you gain the courage to get real with the women in your life, to both listen to their tales and share your own.
Copyright Marilynn Griffith 2006, All Rights Reserved
The idea of this 'Sistahfaith' thing is like manna! I hope to join your next session (if I can remember that it's EST and not CST). Ladies, continue to carry the torch for all of us 'walking wounded' sistahs, your light will help us stop stumbling in the pain and darkness of our past. One by one, we'll start to turn toward the Light.
Posted by: Jeanette Hill | March 18, 2007 at 08:52 PM