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ARTICLE: HOW WE WOUND | AUTHOR Q&A | AUTHOR BIO
This guest post and interview has been in the works for a while now, and I’m so excited to finally get to share it with you :)
Courtney Ariel is one of our dearest friends, the godmother to our son, and one of my most trusted sources of nuance, generosity, insight, compassion, and honesty. I wish with my whole heart there were more of her in the world, and I’m at the same time so grateful to have such a long and transformative friendship with someone so uniquely thoughtful and kind. Courtney gave me the go-ahead to share one of her recent writings here. Then we had, I think, a very special conversation about it all, which we’ve shared here as well.
This is a longer piece, but I hope you might find a moment in the next few days to mull over some of these questions of wounding, healing, transformation, and accountability. I have a feeling you’ll be glad you did :)
How we Wound: Thoughts on Endings
Author’s note: This reflection examines the ending of relationships that are not defined by intimate partner violence.
The past year brought me to some of the most complex and sprawling heartache I’ve experienced, and one of the earliest pieces of advice I was given after the break-up came from a dear friend. She said to me, “there is no pain quite like it.” And she was right. It is particular because there is often the possibility of choosing how a relationship ends. There is responsibility too.
Of course, mistakes happen. We are each a part of one another’s learning about being human—all of the beauty and pain that this implies. It took the better part of a year for the mishandling of the break-up to be addressed by my former partner. It did not happen as a result of his courage or commitment to acknowledge the harm done; it happened because of mine. I realize that grief is an inevitable part of losing a big love. And we, each of us, can influence how we wound.
I realize that grief is an inevitable part of losing a big love. And we, each of us, can influence how we wound.
I’ve learned from the stories of many other women and femmes that years-long relationships ending over text messages, or through harsh phone calls is not entirely uncommon. What we all have in common is that we dated men who were socialized within remarkably limited expressions of masculinity.
Like most of us, I grew up in an environment of both subtle and overt misogyny and misogynoir.[1] I also grew up really loving the 1999 movie, “10 Things I Hate About You,” which is relevant, I promise! In the prom scene of that movie (all YA classics have a prom scene), the band sings:
You've gotta be cruel to be kind, in the right measure
Cruel to be kind, it's a very good sign
Cruel to be kind, means that I love you, baby
You gotta be cruel to be kind…[2]
It’s such a good song. It’s such a toxic and not uncommon belief, that being cruel to someone will do the work of letting go for them. An act of service, perhaps? The not-so-surprising reality is that relationship “closure” likely makes healing more possible for all involved. I don’t know how real I think “closure” is, which is why I keep putting it in quotations. But it helps me to imagine it as a mutual recognition of a relationship ending, where everyone involved is let into the process. That seems like a generative (and possible) way to end something meaningful.
This past year, I began to wonder how many of us (inside and outside of heteronormativity) have told ourselves that a cruel ending was somehow the best or only option? What are the implications of this? And how does this manifest in Black relationships that are uniquely prone to deterioration when situated within the confines of binaries & colonial un-imagination?
Now that I’m no longer a pre-teen, I can hear the message of a song like this more clearly. I’m curious about who we become if we never learn to acknowledge and care for the wounds we cause; if we continue to absorb the lie that we have to be “cruel to be kind.” Who do we become if we never learn that being responsible and accountable to one another can offer us an abundance of good & growth that we'd be hard pressed to find any other way?
Who do we become if we never learn that being responsible and accountable to one another can offer us an abundance of good & growth that we'd be hard pressed to find any other way?
I’m deeply saddened by the decay of empathy that is the result of a lifetime of chosen-apathy towards women. And I’m concerned about how the emotional unwellness of some (not all!) men leaves many women (and others on the broad spectrum of humanity) carrying invisible wounds that might never be acknowledged by the ones who caused the pain.
I think that a fundamental part of addressing gendered oppression is acknowledging the ways it demands that someone’s well-treatment become secondary to upholding the comfort/power of another. And while I am only exploring relationship endings, this is a branch of the same tree that protects the perpetual violation of women. It all points to how normative it is for women to be transgressed and discarded.
Folks who know me well know that my theology is pretty ordinary. It has a lot to do with believing our stories are written in the ways we recognize and care for the Divinity within one another, and this world. That actually seems kind of extraordinary to me. I was formed in the ways of patriarchy, and I am porous. I’ve undoubtedly absorbed (and perpetuated) misogyny and misogynoir in ways that I am aware of, and ways that I am not. I remain deconstructing alongside folks who invite me into accountability. It’s a process, and thankfully, it’s a progression.
It’s a process, and thankfully, it’s a progression.
As it relates to my own break-up, I now know that having my pain acknowledged by my former partner after nearly a year of wading in an ocean of grief, was truly a rare occurrence. This does not happen often. And that is perhaps the biggest question to hold: why? Ultimately, the work of repair and remedy lies within the choices to perpetuate toxic and life-denying portrayals of masculinity. There are so very many other expressions of masculinity to be chosen. Beautiful ones, illustrating gentleness as strength! So much more possibility than this.
I do regret the ways that heteronormative relationship practices—those rooted in an unnamed, socially accepted contempt of women—have influenced and profoundly limited our collective imagination about how we can be in relationship with one another. I am endlessly inspired to witness folks who are shattering expectations of harm; folks normalizing vulnerability, creativity, and transparency. My God, it is glorious!
I know that no single person or community is doing this perfectly or entirely consistently, it matters that we make a habit of intentionality and care. I also know that acting more expansively in relationships—from beginning to end—would be transformative for us all.
Q&A with Courtney Ariel
Q: The first thing that strikes me reading this is about the choice and responsibility involved in the ending of a relationship—and about the unique kind of pain that comes when the delivery of that choice is at best unkind, and the responsibility is shirked or mishandled. Breakup songs are everywhere, and most people have been brokenhearted in some way at some point, so of course there’s consideration given to the reality that relationships end—but I think what’s so profound about your essay is the deeper mulling-over of that How. How do our relationships end, and how does that influence how we feel about those endings, and about how we grieve them, and about how we heal? What have been the most significant take-aways for you in navigating a poorly-made ending personally and recently?
A: A big part of what I've learned (and am learning) has to do with this recognition of the How, and seeing it as dynamic, rather than static. I think because breakup songs are everywhere, and heartbreak is a genre that we consume through various types of media, these wounds can be seen as ordinary, and inevitable. So perhaps the How a relationship ends isn’t always considered to be a series of choices. Through all the fumbles, mistakes, the courage, cowardice, and fears that accompany endings, there can also be care. And I’ve learned that people are often telling us what they need in order to feel cared for in the end; in order to be accompanied in the atmosphere of grief. In order to heal. There are some landings that cannot be made softer in this life. What about the ones that don’t have to be brutal? If and when relationships come to an end, is there a way for everyone to be honored? It won’t always be possible, but for me (personally and recently), these questions have significant implications for how I think about (and practice) relational care, when it is easy to do so, and when it is difficult.
There are some landings that cannot be made softer in this life. What about the ones that don’t have to be brutal?
Q: First of all, I love “10 Things I Hate About You” - it’s one of my staple romcoms. And I love that you brought up that lyric, “Gotta be cruel to be kind.” You write, It’s such a toxic and not uncommon belief, that being cruel to someone will do the work of letting go for them. And I wholeheartedly agree with your assertion that this is a lie. Still, I think of all those middle-of-the-road bad relationships that have needed to come to that ending for years, and the friends I’ve had who’ve said, “I wish they would just do something terrible so I could leave and not feel so torn about it.” I wonder what your advice would be to people living through that kind of relationship right now?
A: I think because we are connecting over our shared love of “10 Things I Hate About You,” my mind immediately goes to the public school calendar that I lived by growing up. That calendar held so many emotions for me! Anticipation, uncertainty. Though I didn’t have the ability to name this at the time, there was also grief. And something I grew to appreciate is that the grief I began to feel toward the end of each year also marked the beginning of summer. Nothing bad happened, it was just time for that particular ending to occur.
Your question is so important. Many people do find themselves in these middle-of-the-road relationships, hoping for a partner to do something terrible. But I think the need for there to be a bad guy, or the need to feel justified for choosing an ending, can disconnect us from acknowledging when something has run its natural course. I wonder if situations such as these invite us to remain attentive to the ebbs and flows of seasons. Sometimes relationships begin like an exciting autumn, and roll into a cozy winter, followed by a vibrant spring. Then before you know it, it’s June. Endings that happen during temperate times can be bewildering. For the person who is ready to end the relationship—the one who feels the season changing first—the ending can also feel like the start of summer…that is bittersweet, for certain.
Endings that happen during temperate times can be bewildering.
Q: Recently a friend said to me, “In some ways, we have to choose our suffering: will we suffer in the process of healing the worst parts of ourselves? Or will we suffer not healing them?” When you talk about doing the hard work of taking responsibility in our relationships, this question comes to mind. You ask, Who do we become if we never learn that being responsible and accountable to one another can offer us an abundance of good & growth that we'd be hard pressed to find any other way? I would love, love, love to know how you’d answer this.
A: While I do think that being responsible and accountable to folks (who are well enough to practice reciprocity in this endeavor) is deeply nourishing, it’s certainly not something everyone will (or can) do. What I love about your friend’s question is that it conveys the discomfort that will come from healing, from growing. I’ve known people who avoid these growing pains at all costs. Instead, they pursue human connection in extractive, and transnational, ways. They take what they feel they need or desire from people, with no intention (and little capacity) to pour back in, and without consideration for what the other person might need or desire in return. I think one result of this is that care and curiosity for human beings (including oneself) can wither when it is not engaged; it can atrophy over time. If human connection is treated as inconsequential, and disposable, I think at some point, that will become true.
Care and curiosity for human beings (including oneself) can wither when it is not engaged.
Q: You use the words “chosen-apathy” to describe the attitude many men embody toward women and other gender minorities. I feel like, knowing you, those words were chosen carefully and thoughtfully. I wonder what the difference is to you between chosen-apathy, and attitudes or beliefs like hate, supremacy, disdain, or even casual, accidental apathy or ignorance? And what do all these have in common?
A: You’re correct, these words were chosen intentionally. And this is an idea that I know will be revealing itself to me over time, but I was hoping to illustrate something particular that I think is often framed as a legitimate way of being for many men. This way of being makes it permissible to engage with women, femmes, and other gender minorities in extractive, transactional, and oftentimes, harmful ways, because the man is actively choosing not to practice care, and that is deemed acceptable. It is deemed so acceptable that it can be the default mode of engagement. Meaning, that (in some instances) unless a man communicates that he will practice care/will treat a woman with humanity, the assumption is that he will not. I am speaking about an identity category that allows for men to frame themselves as good guys, completely separate from how they interact with women, femmes, and gender minorities. What is implied with this chosen-apathy is that women are not actual human beings—at least not in the same way that men are—thus, engagement with them doesn’t factor into how a man’s character, and integrity might be understood.
I do believe that this is oppression, 100%. I think that it is inculcated within a culture of cis-hetero male supremacy, and can certainly result in disdain, and hatred. It is also not surprising, considering how gender socialization and gender performance are broadly understood, and practiced in our U.S. context. I think accidental apathy, and ignorance can be a byproduct of this relatively uninterrogated way of being.
In our haste to be done with oppression already, we almost always bypass particularity. When examining specificity the response can often be, “what about the people that this doesn’t apply to?” The characteristic of chosen-apathy doesn’t apply to all men, certainly not. But if we never explore the nuances within lineages of harm, they are perpetuated.
In our haste to be done with oppression already, we almost always bypass particularity.
Q: Talk to me about the particularities of Black relationships in this context—you mention the unique proneness to deterioration when situated within the confines of binaries & colonial un-imagination, and we’ve talked at length the unique grief that came to you as a Black woman when the love, trust, and mutual respect you’d spent years building was abruptly lost. What feels in common with women of all races who’ve experienced this kind of loss, and what feels particular to Black women?
Mmm, this is good. Well, I can begin by saying that the relationship dynamics of captured African people were characterized by the experience of enslavement. The majority of Black people in the United States today are the descendants of enslaved people. I would argue that the ways we engage friendship, kinship, partnerships, and various connections, does not exist in a vacuum that is untouched by centuries of continuously ruptured relational bonds. Bonds ruptured through the sale of enslaved family members, kin; through capture, isolation, assault, brutality, incarceration, and on, and on. Black women (cis and trans) who desire to be partnered with someone who is also Black, are largely questioned for this desire. However implicit and unnamed this may be, it is expected that Black women, and femmes will navigate the aftermath of this relational rupture. However implicit and unnamed this may be, it is not expected that Black people will be together. There is an expectation that unfulfilled longings will characterize Black women’s lives. I think that the experience of Black love is rare. It is dazzling, beautiful! It is fragile, too. Not fragile as in weak, but fragile, as in deserving of guarding, and protection. I believe this makes Black women (trans and cis) and femme’s experiences of love, trust, and mutual respect, quite special. And I believe this makes the abrupt loss—the rupture—a particular one.
I can say that my break-up experience was one small part of the inspiration for this piece. The folks that I wrote in (internal) conversation with; the folks I held in my heart and mind as I wrote, were not all Black, were not all cis, or hetero; they differ in ability, and class. I hope very much that there is commonality found in this reflection for people across identities! I also think there is something in our understandable haste to be done with oppression already that can cause us to continually skip over this part. To brush past our particularities in the pursuit of an allyship that does little to actually reckon with oppression or truly disrupt power. I think that’s a mistake. While the stories of Black women and femmes were not the only ones I held while writing this, they were (they are) at the center of my concern.
I think that the experience of Black love is rare. It is dazzling, beautiful! It is fragile, too. Not fragile as in weak, but fragile, as in deserving of guarding, and protection.
Q: No question here - just wanted to take a moment to highlight this excerpt again and reflect on how utterly beautiful it is: I was formed in the ways of patriarchy, and I am porous. I’ve undoubtedly absorbed (and perpetuated) misogyny and misogynoir in ways that I am aware of, and ways that I am not. I remain deconstructing alongside folks who invite me into accountability. It’s a process, and thankfully, it’s a progression.
You and I speak often about this, the importance of being aware of our own complexities, and the challenges of acknowledging them in a climate of hyper-correction, critique, and canceling. So there is a risk in naming one’s own complexities. I shared this piece on my website, and not on social media, for that very reason. Your newsletter, your poetry, your being, in all spaces, consistently endeavors to hold nuance with great care. You do that. So, I thank you, my friend!
There is a risk in naming one’s own complexities.
Q: For those readers who don’t know, you are our son’s godmother. Reading through this, seeing your dream of a transformed vision of masculinity, it makes me so grateful you are in his life, and in ours. Your imagination for the embrace of gentleness and responsibility and connectedness gives me hope. I personally would love to know what advice you’d give me and Alex about helping our son develop the kind of courage that will allow him to, I hope, be a good man one day. (I know advice is always a bit of a weird ask, but truly, I very much want to know!)
I see you two model this courage again, and again. And it is not just who you became once you became parents. You both continually choose to deepen in ways that are brave, and I know this is impacting him for the good! I think imagination is nourished by possibility. Once something is presented as a finality, it becomes inert, and it’s difficult to shift or change that. If Auden does not repeatedly ingest gender tropes that depict girls as frivolous and weak, and boys as rational and strong, I think he will have the space to be curious about the wide terrain of human possibility! I feel that he already knows, intuitively, that to be human in this world is to be connected to an interior emotional world, as best we can. I also think he will know that this project to render men unfeeling is rooted in oppression. It is a life-denying, death-dealing project.
He holds privilege that he did not ask for. So it will be important for him to understand what the implications of his identity will be. I truly believe this will deepen his empathy, and gentleness! Binary gender tropes are also disrupted by young people being socialized together, not separated all the time based on their assigned genders; ya’ll are disrupting this. It is inspiring to imagine what his generation will continue unpacking, and dismantling. I am so grateful I get to know him in this special way!
Imagination is nourished by possibility.
Q: Finally, you wrote, I know that no single person or community is doing this perfectly or entirely consistently, it matters that we make a habit of intentionality and care. I also know that acting more expansively in relationships—from beginning to end—would be transformative for us all. For those of us wondering how to help this work along now, today, where do you recommend we begin?
This is a great question. Some of us do live with narratives of finality as it relates to our own humanity, and the humanity of others. In a fixed narrative, there is no possibility for change. I try to begin by interrogating whether or not I have a narrative of finality about something, or is there possibility? Do I tell myself that outcomes between groups of people are predetermined based on limited ideas about our capacities to either care, or choose apathy for one another? Do I tell myself that cruelty is the inevitable result of moving on? Have I normalized relational harm; has it become ordinary/common to me? Do I participate in my own wounding, or the wounding of others? In what ways? Questions such as these raise our awareness. They are hard, and we can be brave enough to pay attention to the answers. Your wife and I worked on a song together that we both love, called “May it Change You.” In the spirit of this final question, and that song, I think the willingness to change, and grow can become habitual. It can be something that we practice, ritualize, and return to.
About the Author
Courtney Ariel is a songwriter, writer, and storyteller. Her music can be found on most streaming platforms. She has written articles that appear on Sojourners, CNN, The Tennessean, and Harper's Bazaar. She is committed to working collectively toward the healing of Black people through the healing of relationships. She believes that this is vital for each of us.
She is from Southern California, and is currently enrolled in a doctoral program in Georgia; her research centers around Black women’s spirituality. She is a daughter, sister, friend; godmother to Auden and Vivian. She shows up trying, curious, loving, longing, learning & unlearning in community.
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Citations:
[1] Bailey, Moya, ‘They aren't talking about me …” published in Crunk Feminist Collective, March 14, 2010, http://www.crunkfeministcollective.com/2010/03/14/they-arent-talking-about-me/ (accessed August 31, 2022).
‘Misogynoir’ was defined by Moya Bailey as a “word made up to describe the particular brand of hatred directed at Black women in American visual & popular culture.” I use the term with great appreciation. I am not conflating misogyny with misogynoir.
[2] Lowe, Nick. “Cruel to be Kind.” Track one. Labour of Lust. Written by Nick Lowe and Ian Gomm. June, 1979. Performed by the band Letters to Cleo in the 1999 film “10 Things I Hate About You.” I really do love this song!
“How we Wound” © Written by Courtney Ariel Bowden, September, 2022
Please do not duplicate without author’s permission.