Re/Dejected: Fire Trucks Don’t Stop at Red lights

This aluminum self-portrait figure, seated at an altered table, embodies my public persona. She’s composed while concealing internal struggles. The surrounding installation delves into the burdens of womanhood, confronting traditional gender norms through sculptural narratives of personal trauma. She rest her head on the table, its surface burned with a blackout poem and place settings. Rendering the settings inaccessible yet hauntingly familiar. Each plate signifies a participant in this narrative, one of sexual violence: the perpetrator’s place is marked by silverware (his weapons as he has eaten from her body), the figure’s own setting appears defenseless and empty, and two absent observers. Yet within her fractured body lies a concealed set of utensils—symbols of a complex journey of healing and power— sometimes accessible, and sometimes not. Regardless, her weapons are with her and have always been.

The poem reads: 

“Naively, my confession would cast me into torment. He became fear, cruelty, rampage, taunting. His words expanded to barbs. Now fractured, I became trapped in his malice. Hope evaporating by a physically violent push. You stayed silent, staring, and listening to my desperation. Authorities felt that, “boys will be boys.” I initiate the wounds. Insult paired with touch. Grabbing me. Taunting me. His hand. My thigh. Yet, firetrucks don’t stop at red lights.”

The goal of sharing my personal stories is to make a space safe to discuss difficult experiences and advocate for change by exposing long term traumas. I will forever be that 13 year old on a school bus. What hurts the most is knowing that I’m not alone.