Often times people will ask me, “What does Black History Month mean to me?” So let me first explain what black is to me, then why Black History Month matters.

Growing up in Brentwood, Long Island, NY, I never really knew what it had meant to be black. Most of the kids who lived in my area were either black, Hispanic, or of some foreign nationality. There wasn’t much talk about race on a daily basis. We all went to school, came home, played out in the streets together, then went home. The color of my skin was just that—a color. We were all the same to me and I was fine with that.

But then I moved to Lawrenceville, GA. Where the farms and fields were plenty, so many dull two lane roads, and a grocery store so far that walking, like I did in NY, was not an option. Everyone said yes sir or yes ma’am. Sweet tea was somehow different than iced tea. The sun seemed to be down the block over the summers as opposed to light years away. Oh yeah, pollen was not just micro-particles any more, but more like the south’s version of snow.

But most importantly, others had me believe I was “unfortunately” black.

From those days on, I took it upon myself to get educated about being black and found pride in who I was. I read books, watched more TV tailored to those like me, I made new friends with people accepted me for who I was and would drive me to be a version of myself, not someone else. I embraced an identity of blackness. A group that had it harder than others, came from much less, were looked upon as less than, but I didn’t care. If I considered myself to be something other than what I was, I might as well have been nothing at all. Coming to Georgia taught me what it was to be black and I will forever be grateful because I am black and beautiful.

I dedicated myself to helping others realize what I had realized at such a young age. To be proud of who you are, and to be who you are. In college I devoted myself to an organization that would enhance the black male experience and not only aid in, but demand excellence. I became aware politically and socially. I for once in my life had come into microcosmic encounters of what prior generations had faced in full force. Reflecting on racist situations created a greater sense of respect to those who had to endure so much more than I could ever fathom. In turn it also created a greater sense of responsibility to embrace my fellow man and connect with them in ways others would not understand because of who we were. It changed me. BHM challenged me every year to truly find out who I am, where I come from, where I intended to go, and how many I could take with me.

It is a sad to reality to think such masses of people are not comfortable in their skin, simply because people tell them they aren’t in the right skin. Or even worse because they are ashamed of their history and in some ways bear the burden of things like slavery, and genocide, and segregation, and Jim Crow.

Today’s society doesn’t make it any easier. Black people are often told to forget what happened, or get over it. But how? It is ingrained into who we are. In this day and age so many of us are still not equal whether we want to believe it or not. No one will forget the holocaust. No one will forget 9/11.  And I am far from saying those events are unworthy of remembering, but somehow the tragic events of slavery, segregation and racism are irrelevant and no one is to blame. These are the reasons the gaps remain unbridged. These are the reasons the tensions are forever real. This is why I cling to black history and will never forget.

So Black History Month to me is not just a conglomerate of days with a title. It is a month long celebration of all that those before me had to endure and still endure to this day. It is a testament to the many that came before me and sacrificed often times everything they had including their lives, to pave the way for the next one up.

It is a beacon of hope for the many that find themselves hiding behind impersonations and false identities. It is a birthday for so many who left the earth so early fighting for what they believed in and some just going about their business. It is a statement to the world that no matter how many times you are beaten, broken, turned away, segregated, devalued or defamed, you can rise again. You will rise again. Because we rose again.

I want to get some things clear:
A rapist does not have to drive a white van.

A rapist does not have to be a bum.

A rapist does not have to be strung out.

A rapist does not have to be Hispanic, or Latino, or Black.

A rapist does not have to wear a wife beater or have any gang paraphernalia,

Hell, a rapist does not have to be a guy…

A rapist can have a 401 K.

A rapist can have a trust fund.

A rapist can have a kid, who is cute as a button, and can have pictures of this kid framed all over his house, which leads me to my next point…

A rapist can wear Vineyard Vines (or in my case, a blue button down, which I fixated on as I came to), can be from the suburbs, and look like the complete package.

A rapist can be your friend.

Looks can be deceiving.

I learned that the hard way.

And now that our nation is finally sensitive toward having that “hard conversation,” as they referred to it, in countless post-rape talk and group therapy support sessions, there are still some things that are yet to be cleared up.

Rape is never a joke.

No, you did not rape him on the court.

You did not get raped by that test.

Your best friend did not “rape you” when you shriek, in jest, as her or she hugged or touched you in a way that you wholeheartedly welcomed and appreciated.

Rape is not funny,

Even if you don’t intend to poke fun, you need to choose your words wisely, because so many people in our country, like myself, are secret survivors in a silent sisterhood (or gender-inclusive community, at large), who are struggling to get through each day without a reminder of what was taken from them.

The word “rape” is a trigger.

We do not want to be reminded of what we endured more than already necessary; our brains naturally provide us with waves of flashback to those heart-wrenching moments, on a near-daily basis (depending on the person)…things will never be normal for us. Even in our complacency, survival and endurance epitomize the new normal.

Being pulled into those flashbacks by inappropriate, ill-fitting comments, regardless of the intention, can be trying to any survivor, who already withstands uncontrollable memory-stimulated flashbacks as a means of coping and purging.

When I hear people use the word “rape” in an inappropriate, joking manner, I can’t help but flash back.

I see myself trusting a “friend” to sleep on his couch for the night due to roommate issues.

I see the texts I sent him, making him promise that he would respect me if I stayed over. That he would respect our friendship, and just let me couch surf as he would any other dude. Preventative measures, because as a girl in this patriarchal world, I knew I had to protect myself.

I see myself accepting a glass of some sort of alcohol from him, because I was too sober to deal with his drunkenness, and just wanted to sleep.

I see the pixels of those texts, engorging then retracting, now fuzzy and obsolete; meaningless promises spinning down the rabbit hole with my dignity as I immediately black out.

I see myself from an out of body POV, hanging above, waking up, on his couch…my pants are on the ground, I am in his boxers, I have no recollection of the previous night, but I am in extreme pain.

I see the bruises running up my sides.

I see the tears streaming down my face.

I see his goddamn blue button down…one of my triggers, a fixation, as I come to.

I see a loss of dignity, an onslaught of probes, prods, things being taken from me, to ensure that I’m all right because HE took something FROM me.

My “friend.”

Not a stranger…a white, preppy trust fund kid from the suburbs, with a good job and a 401K.

One of my close guy friends said it was my fault…that I “asked for it” by sleeping at a guy’s place.

Do guy’s “ask for it” when they spend the night at each other’s places?

Did I ask to be stripped of my ability to trust?

Every day when I look in the mirror, I still see bruises. Even though I know they are gone, I can still see them crawling up my side, like vines.

We, as a society, need to be more sensitive to the plight of survivors.

We are not victims. We are coping, adjusting to a new normal, riding the waves of traumatic recall, and ultimately surviving to thrive.

We are not untouchables.

The word “rape” cannot just be thrown around in jest. Similar to “retard,” and “gay,” it must be used with consideration…people are and have been constantly affected by such words. These words are our lives, or they have been, and it is not acceptable to use them inappropriately…think before you speak, because people fear judgment, and that is why they remain silent. Rape is a serious experience, and just because we choose to remain silent, does not entail cowardice; self-healing is a priority, and nobody should take it upon his or herself to judge those who have survived rape until they walk a mile in their moccasins. Do not throw around the term…it can cause unthinkable amounts of hurt.

For those who are survivors of rape or sexual assault: it is not your fault.

I know that isn’t always reassuring to hear, but after having a few assholes try to weigh you down by saying otherwise, you need to know, that nobody has a right to you, your voice, or your body except you.

We need to reevaluate our perspectives on rape culture. We need to realize that not all rapes are the “stereotypical strangers,” but that they can hit closer to home then we might think. The best way to prevent is to inform, and I think we can start by sharing our stories, anonymous or not. But remember, you are never alone.