An Open Letter to Janay Rice

Dear Janay, I hope you don't mind that I call you Janay. After all, we are together in a sisterhood, a sorority. We should feel comfortable calling each other by our first names. Yet, I hope and pray that no other woman pledge to our sorority, I BVSTA JAW. 

I'm sorry to say, though, it's not very exclusive. It breaks my heart to know that more and more women, young and old, are joining our club, and not of their own free will. We don't have secret handshakes or passwords, but you will recognize your sisters. We merely show our bruises, cuts, and broken noses from our initiations. We have the downcast eyes, the cowered shoulders, the flinches from fear of an angry word. You have to be on the receiving end of a forward thrown fist, a push into a plate glass window, a foot caught on a trip into a brick wall to be in this community. Oh, one other thing we have in common is we all feel that we are a member of a community of one, we are alone.

Admittedly, initiation can be pretty brutal, as you have found. Or maybe you already knew. Most of us keep it secret because we don't want our other loved ones knowing. We don't want our peers knowing. We don't want anyone knowing that we were weak and we stayed. We don't want others knowing that we said, "really sir, please don't arrest him because it was my fault. If I had just done something differently, my left eye wouldn't be swollen shut. If that man in line ahead of us hadn't looked at me, I wouldn't have a split lip. I should have said yes, after all, it was just sex. I started it. I hit him first." We all have that script. 

Janay, most of us don't have our beating on film for prosperity. I will never understand what you are going through by having the world see your fiancé throw his closed fist into your face and knock you the hell out. We all saw him drag your limp body out of the elevator, just like yesterday's garbage. Maybe even some of your own family, now that they, too have seen the footage, will tell you you started it. Your sisters know better. Your sisters know who is at fault. 

You know it's hard to leave him. We all know it's hard to leave him. You love him. He's probably down on his knees, begging, pleading. "Baby, I am so sorry. That's not me. I'll never do it again. I love you." Your sisters have heard it all. We've heard over and over. Some of us have heard it multiple times. We all have heard that script, too, and we hope and pray you learn from us and run far, far away. You know, in your heart, that he is a liar.

You blame the media, the folks who are trying to take you and your husband down. "To take something away from the man that I love that he has worked his ass off for all his life just to gain ratings is a horrific [sic]. THIS IS OUR LIFE. 'What don't you all get," you asked, "If your intentions were to hurt us, embarrass us make us feel alone, take all happiness away, you've succeeded on so many levels." 

No, we do not want to hurt you. We do not want to embarrass you, and believe me, you are not alone. We just do not want to attend your funeral.

Doing What We Love

Every morning when we awake and get out of bed, there's a chance that we will not return when it's time for another sleep. When we walk out our door to go about our day, we may not return upon day's end. Life is fleeting and uncertain. That old adage, "Live every day as if it was your last" is cliche to some, but every day that little cliche means more and more to me.

 Lately, I have read so many Facebook posts and blog essays that describe the feelings of dread people experience after they have read or heard of a motorcycle fatality. In some cases, that dread clouds that person's instincts and makes them afraid. In the last two weeks, there have been two motorcycle accidents that resulted in two deaths not one mile from my home. I am sad for them, both the deceased and those whom have escaped death that day, but I refuse to live in fear of that death.

 I don't ride my motorcycle every day, but when I do, I back it out of my driveway, point it down the street, and drive away from my house with the knowledge that I'm going to have a good day riding. I know there's a chance that I will not come back home, but that does not prevent me from doing something that I love, something that I am passionate about.

 Last Sunday morning, a young, beautiful, vibrant 34 year old woman backed her motorcycle out of her driveway, pointed it down her street, and drove away from her house with the knowledge that she was going to have a good day riding. She did not return. She died doing what she loved.