Voices In The Wind: The Clothesline Project

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The Purpose Of This Section:

In placing this section here for all to view, I hope to be able to enable you to come to a first hand look at what this valuable project has the capacity to accomplish. Here you will be able to read my thoughts and opinions upon witnessing the display firsthand. If, after reading this, you have comments or questions, as always, feel free to contact me via E-Mail

Walking The Streets: A Lesson In Life

Today, June 26, 1996 was the first annual "Walk To Fight Back Against Sexual Assault and Domestic Violence" here in Columbus, Ohio. I am so proud to be able to say that I made the whole 5 mile walk. It was hot and muggy, but Rob and I made the walk together.

Now, I am sitting here, alone at my computer, thinking back about today, the things I saw and the things I heard. For the first time in my life I was able to see a significant portion of the Clothesline Project being proudly displayed. Miles and miles of T-shirts hung on simple clotheslines tied to the trees wound their way throughout the park. Each one appearing to scream out the words: LOOK, LISTEN, and HELP.

I think the saddest thing I saw today, the one thing that hit me the hardest, was a T-shirt made by a mother for her child. It was a tiny newborn cotton top T-shirt no bigger than the palm of my hand. On it was a small gold unicorn. White T-shirts are displayed for those who have died as a result of the atrocity of abuse and/or violence. This shirt was so tiny and as I looked at it I felt myself begin to cry, but the tears only stuck in the back of my throat. It is easy to say to myself that "I was bad, I deserved what happened to me" but this? This was something else entirely. There is NOTHING, NOTHING a child, newly born into this life, could have ever done to merit abuse, let alone to force it's death. This was a senseless cold and vicious act perpetrated by someone who could not see past their own rage and hatred. Even now I am choked with tears.

I kept asking myself, what will MY shirt say? What message will it bear to mark my voice among the "chorus" of T-shirts? I don't know yet, especially right now, with all of their "voices" floating before my eyes.

There was one shirt that stopped me dead in my tracks. It was a pink ripped T-shirt and it read: "Bert, this is the actual shirt you didn't even bother to take off the night you raped me. It used to remind me of my shame. Now it hangs here to proclaim my freedom, my survival." I think this is what I want my shirt to be like. I KNOW this is what I want my life to be like.

I want to be able to walk down the street on a day like today and proudly say: I made it through. I want to know that I've been to Hell and back, and yet, I'm still alive and, because I'm alive, something is different in the world around me.

I took a picture of a white shirt that said boldly: "WAKE UP CHILLICOTHE!" I want to copy it and send it to all of those who said that "those types of things" didn't happen in my hometown. Isn't it odd that when "those types of things" don't happen the rates of abuse keep getting more and more staggering?

Today, I read that the pornography industry in the USA is now officially larger than the Commercial Movie Industry and the Record Industry combined! How then, can so many say that these voices lie?

All I can think of is that millions of people die everyday do to things than can not be cured nor helped, but this, this is senseless. It offers no logic, rhyme or reason. Yet, here in this park, there is another offering. It is the pain of voices that refuse to be silent any longer.

And The Message Is: Be Strong And Survive

"WAKE UP CHILLICOTHE." Black letters against a white background. Things like that don't happen in my home town? Then what is this one, proclaiming "We weren't safe in daddy's hands" and attached to it a farmer's work glove. The same type glove that I had seen my own gentle father wear in the garden a hundred times or more.

This place is like a ghost town with the memories of all of those who lived the horrors set out for all to see. There are lines of shirts in every color, and so many of those are steeped in white. Oh so many lives lost to a demon that should never have crossed their path.

Here! See this tiny one hanging in front of you. You can almost hear the silent baby cries that must have punctuated the surrounding air the day that child died. How small and innocent it was. Pinned to this tiny article of clothing, a gold unicorn, symbol of innocence and magic. No magic can save it now.

It's easy to say that one "deserved" rape, or "asked" for abuse, when you are looking into the face of a grown man or women, but how could you begin to fathom what act a tiny newborn baby could have ever have done to deserve such a fate. You can't because there is NO such act. Justification for this atrocity can only come from the one who perpetrated the impossible. It can only come from the one who, in the face of his/her own shame and rage, chose to take it out on something, someone, smaller and more helpless them themselves.

Can you see them waving in the breeze, hundreds of T-shirts proclaiming to the world that Sexual Abuse and Domestic Violence are REAL. They are not merely a "false memory" or a "fabrication." They are real and very much on the rampage. There must be hundreds of shirts here today. White, blue, red, orange, yellow, purple, black.... each with a story to tell. Each a testament to the life a woman has lived.

Standing here, tears begin to flow over my soul and the echoes of the past go flowing past me in the breeze. My past, their past, the past of a nation of men and women steeped in the strength of an eternity and the shadow of violence. I hear their voices crying out to me: "Listen to Me. Hear Me. Believe Me." I can hear them shrieking out in anguish at the hands of rapists, molesters, abusers, and killers. I hear a cry that once fell on silent ears. A cry that went unnoticed, sinking instead into the depths of shame, where it was left to fester and grow into fear, hatred, and disgust. Later, to bloom into the hands of self-abuse as the victims tried to purify their "soiled souls." I hear so many of them calling to me: Men, Women and Children, not selected by race, creed or color. Violence does not discriminate. Incest, Rape and Assault know no boundaries nor steer clear of any fences.

All of this creates a paradox inside of me. All of these people lived in silence, some even dying in silence. Yet, silence is the last thing heard here today. You see, voices carry generations and the past will always come to light. Strung here together like this, T-shirts blowing in the afternoon breeze, they become more like a ring of people, united in a single stance, singing strong and clear.

There are NO victims here, only Survivors. All free from the shame and the horror they bore and all of them taking back the life that was once stifled within them, placing themselves here for the world to see. You can not ignore what refuses to go unseen. Wake up indeed. Sleep is over. Unlike disease or natural disaster, this monster is stoppable. This is a wake up call to battle.

And I, I am leaving with their strength and their stories deeply instilled in me. It is like spending the afternoon living a hundred different lives, sharing a million different destinies, and then, leaving to somehow figure out my own.

You see, like them, I am a survivor too. And as the breeze brushes the line of shirts softly out to touch my shoulder, I seem to hear them saying: "Be strong and survive, for yourself, for all of us, and for all of those who are still afraid in the silence. It will be OK, because you are not alone." I see in their presence the faces of friends who struggle with me, and I imagine what I want to carry back to them today. What can I take from here to help them see that we are truly not alone and that we too can mark our place in this battle as soldiers in the war of a lifetime and as victors over those whose lives are ruled by aggression?

I have no answer to my question, except that I take back with me the feeling of "everyone" here and the pride to say "I AM a survivor." There is no shame in that, especially not today. I wonder what it will take before my own voice joins in the chorus, proclaiming my involvement in the wounded of the war? What verse is it that my spirit will choose to sing? What message shall I dare to pass on?

"Hear Me. Listen to Me. Believe Me."....... The Clothesline keeps growing. Where will the violence end?

Written By: Wendy S McWhorter-Finney. Clothesline photograph and text copyrighted. May only be reproduced with permission. ©1997

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