Warrior Girl Rising: From The Bottom Of My Soul

There, at the very bottom of my soul, is the soft spot.

Every time I pray and ask God who I am supposed to be in this world, the image of a warrior, with dirty armor and scuffed skin, calloused hands and iron weapons, assembles itself in my brain. I have tried to ask for something else — a more peaceful assignment, but the truth is I’ve always known that this was my commission. Not only that, it feels right to me. It feels important. When I try to lay down the armor of my faith and strength, the weapons of my words and deeds, it can only be for a short time before it boils up and out, and I once again take up my shield.

It makes it hard to fit in, to be sure. The first job of a warrior is to call out injustice and abuse. This is never a popular task, because so often, the injustice is so entwined into the fabric of everyday lives it seems normal. The abuse is such a normal part of our being that if it were gone, we might feel empty and guilt-ridden. And when the warrior comes along and points a spotlight on it, calls it out, there are eye rolls behind her back and the anger of privileged fragility. When the warrior girl dares finds her voice, everybody gets super uncomfortable and they go on the attack.

Take, for instance, my private Facebook feed, where I post my political opinions. Yesterday, a man I know kept insisting that I stop posting about the election. His reasoning was that he prefers to see lighter things, as my “ranting” was not going to change anything. I told him that I was certainly not just ranting, that I was putting action behind my words, and that I would not stop fighting for what I believed to be right. His position continued to be about what he wants to see on my Facebook feed.

The exchange was a classic example of how male privilege operates — it was almost textbook. Here was a man being made uncomfortable by my voice, my calling out. His assumption that I, on my personal Facebook page (which he could very easily scroll right on by) should worry about what he wants to see, and make appropriate adjustments by shutting the hell up, smacks of male privilege. He seriously seemed to think it was totally okay to tell me to stop speaking out in my own space, to adjust my voice to cater to his preference.

And he honestly didn’t seem to understand why I wouldn’t.

When I told him no, he minimized my beliefs. He called me hon, and told me my “rebellion” was due to a caffeine habit — you know. Not passion. Not intelligence. Not a dedication to justice. Caffeine abuse. Hon.

When I gave him the shocking news that my Facebook feed did not exist for his pleasure, he pitched a fit, called me a sore loser and a “soft butt”, whatever that is, and stopped engaging. He was unable to face the fact that I might have a difference of opinion, and was shocked that I wouldn’t stop voicing that opinion in order to attend to his needs.

It’s exhausting managing these kinds of entitled interactions on a daily basis, especially because privileged people can be very blind to their privilege. They (we — because I can do this, too) can get so busy defending ourselves that we can’t hear the pain in the calling out.  Sometimes we are defensive because we really care, and don’t want to participate in the system of privilege, and so we get upset to think that maybe, by accident, we do. And sometimes, we’re just belligerent. Either way, the defensiveness gets us no where.

There are times when I don’t engage. Times when I think I’ll choose my battles. But that time is not now. Even though I’m exhausted. Even though I wish there was a different way, or that I could be a peace keeper, the time is now to take up my cross, which is made of iron words, steel-bladed action, the trumpet call of activism.

Right now, on the Jerseygirl Jesus Facebook page, there’s one post that seems to have pissed some people off, when all I did was list the reasons people are afraid of a Trump presidency. The anger there — and worse, the blindness to the very real fear people are feeling — is disturbing and terrifying.

But really, this post isn’t about politics or trolls so much as it is about how I believe I’m asked to live out this life of being a Jesus Freak. After all, one body, many parts; I have come to believe that some people may be called to be peacemakers, others to be workers, and some of us, warriors.

Still, there’s that soft spot at the bottom of my soul, covered up in the hard shell of imperfections, weaknesses, desires, faith. That soft spot is vulnerable and sometimes, it hurts.

When family members disown me, it hurts. When Facebook trolls come out of the woodwork, it’s draining. When people I love don’t seem to understand my heart, it breaks.

And yet, I sense a bigger purpose here. I’m fighting for love. I’m fighting for justice. I’m fighting so that all people can feel safe here in this beautiful country of ours — this land which seems to be in the grip of fear. Because that’s all it really comes down to, right? Love, or fear.

I’m choosing love.

But Warrior Girl needs a bubble bath and a few glasses of wine.

I’ll put my armor back on tomorrow.