by Janalie Cobb

Illustration by Brooke Ripley

There’s a box in my memory filled with everything I learned in Catholic school. Somewhere in there, shoved between the prayer sheets and songbooks, stuck to the Bible verses and meaning of the Holy Trinity, is a concrete list of what it means to be a Catholic School Girl. A true Catholic School Girl does not yell, does not scream, does not take up space when she sits. She rests with legs crossed at the knee and hands folded in her lap. Her hair is either perfectly tied in a neat bun with a plaid hair tie or perfectly laid against her back with a plaid hair band. Her socks cover her ankles and her skirt goes below her knees. A Catholic School Girl must never show her shoulders or her stomach. If the outline of her bra is visible through her shirt, hell breaks loose. If you can see thigh, you can’t see God up high.

The most important thing, however, is not what you look like. It’s not the length of your hair or whether or not you’re wearing makeup. The most important thing is what you sound like—you should sound like silence.

Three Catholic schools. Five years. Five homeroom teachers. Each played their part in using a crucifix to carve the word silence onto the walls of the box in my memory. When it opens, the deafening sound of it runs you over. At age five, I brushed it off; I barely knew the definition of silence. At age eight, it confused me; how would I answer questions if I wasn’t supposed to speak? At age twelve, it threatened me; if you don’t remain invisible, you deserve what’s coming for you.

The justification was always the same—God did not intend for women to be seen. Jesus did not die on the cross to allow me to parade myself around the world. Each of my Catholic schools utilized their only weapon to its fullest extent: they distorted Catholicism. They contorted our spirituality to teach young girls that you must adhere to what God intended a woman to be to get into heaven. To pray to your patron saint meant being what a woman was supposed to be: virtuous, submissive, invisible.

Invisible. But my patron saint taught me otherwise; in finding her, I found my voice.

I chose my patron saint in seventh grade, ​Saint Josephine Bakhita​ from Sudan. She was canonized by the Catholic church in 2000, 63 years after her death on February 8, 1947. She suffered through slavery and injury and illness. From a very young age, Bakhita was scarred and branded by her mistress, a practice rampant across Sudan at the time. She was forced on her knees, her master gripping a whip in case she moved, as a maid drew designs on Bakhita’s back with flour before carving them out with a razor. She rubbed salt in the wounds to be sure they scarred. St. Josephine Bakhita was tortured, punished, and beaten to a pulp. She survived a life of punishment until finally being brought to Italy by the first kind master she had. The same master that left her with a convent when he travelled back to Sudan. That was where she was first introduced to God—in a convent in Italy after facing decades of brutality. Bakhita was eventually granted her freedom back from the Italian government.

Despite the numerous hardships she experienced, Josephine Bakhita found her way to God. Her God did not require her to be submissive or invisible. Her God was a God of opportunity and equality. He was the God who saved her from the horrors of slavery and allowed her the chance to use her voice, not hide it. She travelled to and from convents and schools, sharing her story with the Sisters and Brothers and preparing them for the charity work they would be doing across Africa. She used her powerful voice to effect change wherever she could. Josephine Bakhita was far from silent, and nothing near invisible.

When you choose your patron saint, their first name becomes your middle name. I proudly embrace Josephine as my new middle name and eagerly explain its significance. Catholicism, to Bakhita, never meant submission. She was not passive when she knew others were still suffering under the weight of shackles in Sudan. She refused to remain invisible to the world, and she succeeded.

I went to high school not knowing anything about world history. Catholic school didn’t teach me about the American Revolution or Jay Gatsby. I didn’t learn how many times Caesar was stabbed or what the Fibonacci sequence is. But the largest failure of all was that my schooling attempted to silence me and my female peers. In educating me on what it meant to be a good Catholic School Girl, on how to grow into a virtuous Catholic woman, my teachers taught me the power my voice can hold, how strong a woman can be when she doesn’t hide behind her religion, and instead takes control of it to empower herself and others.

by Velen Wu

“Don’t Look At Yourself Through Their Eyes” is a piece created in light of the increase pressure of looking thin and the rigid beauty standards that our society fosters. It’s an attempt to make people understand that words can and do translate into real effects on people. At the same time, it’s a call for change and empowerment; to see yourself not through the lenses that society imposes on people, but through your own to see what matters to you. Not anyone else.

Life was thriving on my street that night. Cars honking as they whizz by, rap music bumping from the building next door, and neighbors laughing on the busy streets. It was warm with that perfect balance of breeze. And yet I was shivering, seated on a dusty sky-blue beach chair listening to my seventeen-year-old sister share her experience of sexual assault. Her arms were crossed, eyes fixed on her feet; she couldn’t make out the words without a crack in her voice. A sober boy violated her incapacitated body at a party and she couldn’t come to terms with it.

Though I heard this story a year ago, I can remember every single detail of that night she told me as if it happened only a few hours ago. I must admit that I did not respond to her well. Frozen, choked-up, ears ringing, I wasn’t able to say “it’s not your fault,” or “I’m so sorry,” or “it’s okay to not be okay,” or “I’m here for you,” and “I love you.” Instead, I opened my mouth, and could voice nothing but silence silence.

I always thought of myself as someone who would know how to properly respond to these situations, but, in reality, I had no idea what to do. I, like countless of other teens, had no idea how to be an effective supporter of sexual assault victims. Many teens don’t have the necessary tools to effectively respond to sexual assault stories, a friend in an unhealthy relationship, or a rape joke at a lunch table. Because of this, schools become communities that normalize sexual violence. However, if students educated each other on how to stop being bystanders and become effective supporters, we could create a culture of intolerance for rape culture.

When students use their voice as the driving force at their school, changes can be made. Educate yourself and others on what it takes to be an effective supporter. We cannot tolerate passive support of sexual violence anymore. We are supposed to be the generation of people who make a difference in our world. In this day and age, people who are silent and passive will be left behind. So, it’s up to us, but it starts with you. In these moments when we must act, all it takes is one sentence, one action. Education can inspire countless number of bystander to intervene and disrupt the dangerous, cyclical societal norms in order to create a greater future for the generations to come.

by Paul James

In 1994, Becca Stevens was getting in the car with her four-year-old son, Levi Hummon, when he pointed to the sign of a stripper in a catsuit and asked why the lady was smiling. Stevens points to this as the moment when she became serious about starting a women’s shelter; she knew one day her son would no longer ask that question because the commoditization of women would become normal. Stevens set out with three goals in mind: finding a house, building a board and raising money. Her husband, a Grammy-winning songwriter, had a community of people willing to help, and Stevens also went to her congregation at Vanderbilt University, where she served as an Episcopal priest. “Since the beginning, for more than twenty years, I have been so filled with joy at how generous people are. People want to hope with you, people want to work with you when you have an idea,” she says. While we often hear reports of abuse and get caught in negative news loops, Stevens said through it all, she was met with generosity and kindness.

After her father died at a young age, Stevens herself faced child abuse beginning at five years old. She felt connected to the women she served through her ministry and in shelters, connected by similar experiences of abuse and assault. But whereas Stevens managed to live a clean life, she saw many women without the support to do the same. After more than two decades of operation, the Thistle Farms program partners with dozens of other women’s organizations and employs more than 1,800 women across the world.

With a house and funding to get through the first year of operation, Stevens helped her first five women in 1997. “Then it was a communal vision that launched the rest of it; it was me in concert with other survivors. Little by little, we grew a pretty massive organization. But it wasn’t me and it wasn’t me dictating the vision,” she says. And after that, Thistle Farms began to respond anywhere it could be of help. “It was more, ‘Here’s another need. Let’s see if we can address this, let’s see what we can do in response to these women farmers in Rwanda who are survivors who want help. Here’s a group of survivors in Wisconsin who make soap. What can we do to help them?’” Now, there are 30 women at a time going through Thistle Farms’ two-year program with a further 60 in residence, working as part of the community. Even with its partnerships with other shelters, Thistle Farms still has more than a hundred women on the waiting list, all survivors who came to seek out help.

Stevens said it often takes these women time to realize they need the help. “It’s not one time that people have these ideas. They will think, ‘This is a bad day; I need to get some help.’ But then there’s nothing around, so they get in deeper and deeper, so it’s not a one-time thing.” When their realization that they need the support Thistle Farms can offer coincides with an opening in the program, Stevens says it works. More than 85 percent of the women go on to lead “full, clean and sober lives forever.” The process to get them to that point focuses around three major points: economic independence so that they don’t feel tied to abusive relationships for security, healing the trauma they have experienced and forging a powerful sisterhood. Stevens says this last part is really important, “They need friends for life who are going to walk with them when something bad happens, whom they can go to when something joyful happens and people will actually celebrate with them.” In addition to the therapeutic work, Thistle Farms also offers job training for the women and advocates for them when they need to navigate complicated legal or health insurance systems. If they have been living and working on the streets, Thistle Farms tries to have their records expunged, recognizing that they were forced into selling their bodies instead of their skills.

Sisterhood and support are lacking in the lives of these women up until that point. Stevens says the average progression is they are raped between 7 and 11 years old and hit the streets between 14 and 16. Thistle Farms has accepted women of a range of ages, from 18 to people in their 50s. Some of the women working in the community café are in their 20s, and some of the women in manufacturing, where they make candles or Becca’s personal favorite, healing oils, are in their 50s. “One of them said it was her first Christmas since she was twelve that she felt safe,” Stevens said.

There are more success stories all the time. Stevens described one, “She came up and said, ‘I just wanted to thank you. I’m on my way, I’ve done it.’ I said to her, ‘No, thank you. Because now you become one more beautiful, bright light. A woman who most folks had given up on, who lost her way in prison and who came out and you did the hard work.’ My favorite part of the work, and the reason I think I never burn out, is getting those days where somebody has done the hard, hard work, and now they’re reaping the great harvest.” The women at Thistle Farms remain involved in the community throughout their lives, a true and enduring sisterhood of survivors.

Stevens acknowledges that the program doesn’t always work, though. “It breaks your heart. And sometimes when women relapse, horrible things happen to them. Over the years, I’ve probably buried four women who have relapsed and been murdered.” Even in the trying times, she manages to hold on to her personal creed and continue helping all the women she can. “I grieve in that moment in community and then just keep doing the work. Keep doing the work. Whether you feel inspired, joyful or great grief, keep doing the work,” she says.

Those who do seek out help and join the program give back to the community and work to prevent their abuses from happening to others. If the women can accept the support and learn to trust their fellow survivors, which is often the most difficult part, they become part of a global Thistle Farms community. “A lot of the survivors go out and speak at schools. They talk about the signs of an abuser and what to do if this has happened to you,” Stevens says. “The gift is when our brokenness turns into compassion for others. So we take our story, and we fashion it into a story of hope as we serve others.”

More information about Becca can be found at http://www.beccastevens.org and at http://thistlefarms.org.