Clothesline Festival at USFSP

            Like Buddhist prayer flags in the autumn sun these survivors shirts blew in the October breezes. As a survivor myself, each story resounded as though it were a scar on my own arm. The power of their resolve rang of freedom: true freedom in the sense that nothing would ever take away their strength to stand strong. I danced with joy to know that I was not alone. My sisters and mother had not fought in vain. We were an army of women ready to succeed. We were witnesses to the unspeakable pain. We knew nothing would ever dissolve our purpose.

            Each shirt had a story to tell. Women at tables nearby sat ready to arm women with knowledge of how they too could find their freedom. Women at tables nearby sat ready to arm women with knowledge of how they too could survive. Women at tables nearby sat ready to catch the tear of a woman who might cry. The visceral energy of the moment stood poignant against my chest. It shook me to my core. I took pictures that were meant to speak the words I would never be able to speak. May we always remember the story. May we always remember the red road of pain. May we always remember the obstacles it takes to set our soul free. May we always remember how to speak.