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Resistance
noun
US: /rɪˈzɪs.təns/
UK: /rɪˈzɪs.təns/
C2 [U]
The act of fighting against something that is attacking you or refusing to accept something.
— Cambridge Dictionary
I think about my 7- or 8-year-old self, refusing to accept the role of victim when I was sexually abused. I didn’t tell anyone until college, and even then, it was only because of The Oprah Show and her episode on child molestation. That’s when I finally disclosed what happened at the recreation center across the street from my childhood home. My mother, older brother, and father were there.
Years later, when I was 265 pounds of muscle and one of the strongest members of my college football team, I came face-to-face with my abuser. It was New Year’s Eve, and I was home on winter break. He saw me in a dance club, approached me as if nothing had ever happened, and yet I never thought of hurting him. I had no reason to speak to him, but I also didn’t feel the need to retaliate.
Why didn’t I fight every person who called me the N-word in Iowa, Illinois, Arizona, or California? In Iowa, it happened while I was walking to work as a teen. In Illinois, I was with my White friend in the suburbs. In Arizona, I was waiting for the bus on my way to work. In California, it happened as I stepped off the trolley with groceries, my wife beside me.
Since elementary school, I was labeled as learning disabled. Yet I overcame the embarrassment of writing in public and even enrolled in a master’s program, fully aware of how difficult college is for me.
I resist because I’ve trained my mind to fight against racism without internalizing the hate. Resistance is a child understanding that being victimized in what should have been a safe place was never his fault. It’s an adult recognizing that predators stalk their prey and that the prey, once grown, can help others find meaning in life.
Resistance is silencing the mental chatter that tries to beat you down, even when dyslexia and dyscalculia make writing and math a lifelong struggle. It’s reliving those moments at the whiteboard, frozen in front of the class with a simple math problem, or sitting down first in the spelling bee.
The power is in my mind. I control how my subconscious filters the world. I can change the station in my head, replacing doubt with affirmations: This is my day to shine. My skin is beautiful. We all have the power to reframe our most damaging experiences by resisting—and by showing ourselves compassion.
P.S. I was raised by two hard-working, loving parents.
