DAY RECENTLY I saw a woman fall. I was walking with a friend on a busy city street, when, as if in slow motion, the woman walking just ahead of us missed her step on a curb and fell flat on her face. The fall must have taken her by complete surprise. She didn't shield it with her hands; instead she fell forcefully. I watched her head bounce on the sidewalk.
I hurried over to her, bent down, and asked if I might help. Without even looking at me, she said no, she was fine, thank you. And then she simply got up and walked away. My heart was still beating fast; I couldn't imagine how she was okay.
My friend and I continued our walking down the street. A block away we met the woman returning from her quick errand. She had a huge “egg” on her head, visibly throbbing and already every shade of black and purple, as well as serious abrasions on both her arms. It was obvious she was far from okay.
The experience led me to reflect on my own experiences of falling (in all senses of the word), as well as the experiences of so many other women I have known. I particularly remember lamenting the common feeling of humiliation, especially if the “fall” happened in public. Not focused on whether we were physically hurt, needed medical attention or just love and support, or even a moment or two to simply recollect ourselves before getting up, we worried about being humiliated and embarrassed.
And another story of like kind: I was walking, semi-hurriedly, to the bathroom in a crowded movie theatre, knowing I'd have to face a line. As I neared the bathroom, a couple in front of me, walking oddly and slowly, blocked my way. I could not get around them. The woman of the couple was also headed to the bathroom, and indeed there was a line, so I queued up behind her.
Now, for the first time, I could see her face, which was contorted in agony. She was obviously not just experiencing mild discomfort but real physical pain. When she noticed me looking at her, she explained that she had had to go to the bathroom for a half-hour but hadn't wanted to miss any of the movie. Sensing her real distress, I suggested that she go to the head of the line.
She didn't respond—just continued to stand there in her private pain. Then she looked at me pleadingly and said, not exactly to me but as if she was speaking out loud to herself, “I can't stand this.”
“My God,” I said, “please, go plead your case to the woman in front or try the men's room,” which was right across the hallway. Again she appeared not even to register my words. By this time she was standing with her legs pressed together tightly and her face crunched in pure agony.
Just as I was beginning to feel truly unnerved, she blurted out, “I cannot do this! I have to find another bathroom,” and turned and walked away in a very slow, clumsy, pigeon-toed way, her inner thighs pressed together. She briefly stopped to look into the men's room for her male friend and then walked on.
For reasons I will never know, this woman simply could not or would not ask for help, could not or would not make her needs and situation known, even to take care of a very real biological need. As I reflect back on the scene, I imagine the private horror of not being able to say, or better yet, assert herself in such a time of genuine need. I see her vulnerable to a humiliating or painful experience because she could not say, out loud and publicly, “Look at me, please, I need some help and I need it now.”
Just what was her risk? The risk of being scorned, not listened to, not believed? The risk of having too much attention paid to a humiliating moment? Why did this seem greater than the risk that she would be able to get to the toilet before her bladder burst?
What these stories reveal is the raw face of shame—the shame that can squelch the hurt and the desperate. Shame powerful enough to have people wish or believe they were invisible, not really there, not connected to anyone else, not mattering. Shame that impedes our willingness and ability to take ourselves seriously. In this chapter we look at what gets in the way of taking care of ourselves, of getting our needs met; how to move through those obstacles and know where else to turn when our needs cannot be met.
the raw face of shame
The Greek root of the word shame is scham, the skin used to cover the exposed, vulnerable parts of a person. I have watched shame work “miracles” as it turns attractive women into believing they are ugly, bewitching confidence into self-loathing, talent drowned in addiction, and beauty of the soul torn apart by eating disorders and other self-destructive behaviors. So while the stories I've just recounted might seem unusual or extreme, most of us know full well the feelings of shame in one form or another.
We are living in a world that looks askance at vulnerability and fragility. As women, we have learned to feel ashamed of our tender sensitivities and often feel humiliated when they are revealed. However unnatural it may be to be ashamed of our needs—and it certainly is—we have been handed a legacy of being subordinated, powerless, manipulated to believe we are inferior citizens; in fact, we have, often, through history, been scapegoated—scapegoated to carry the extra burden of shame for the rest of the society.
Let's look at one way we inherited this legacy of shame for having needs. Throughout time, the human being has been all too aware of the dangers and threats to life and limb. Whether it is natural forces, human enemies, or the awareness of the inevitability of death, our lineage shows the human attempting to appease and avoid these forces. It is not a good idea to be overly susceptible or vulnerable to these threats, and so, in biblical times our ancestors employed the use of a scapegoat—a literal goat, symbolically dressed in all the sins and vulnerabilities of the citizens of the society—and then deliberately exiled from the community that was attempting to find security. And, if our ancestors did not use an exiled goat, they would slay a beast or victim in order to appease the gods with a sacrifice. Over time, the concepts of victimization and scapegoating became intimately connected; the word victim originally meant a beast selected for sacrifice. Our relatives, in a ritualistic fashion, commonly practiced either sacrificing a beast/victim or excluding a scapegoat—two ways of symbolically making the rest of the community feel safe from harm. The finding and labeling of a scapegoat would “ensure” that the rest of the community would be safe from unpleasant and overwhelming feelings of vulnerability and helplessness. If the victim or scapegoat could be seen by the gods as carrying all the community's wrongdoings, then the average, model citizen would be seen as strong and sinless.
In order for this ritual to work effectively, it was important for the community to genuinely see the scapegoat as bad, evil, sinful, dirty, wrong. When you believe that there is something wrong with the victim or scapegoat, and therefore it is deserving of punishment, then you don't have to be susceptible to the senseless and irrational terrors of the world. It is best, of course, if the scapegoat embodies those qualities the dominant group considers absolutely other, such that society is willing to sacrifice, for only in isolation (not connected to the dominant clan) can this other absorb the great variety of the community's hostile and contradictory accusations. That's why scapegoats are most often sought among the weak and powerless; they cannot strike back in revenge, and therefore cannot plunge society back into reciprocal violence. Any bully on the schoolyard knows this instinctively.
We live in the wake of three patriarchal religions that posit the view that women are dangerous, unequal to men, and have the ability to distract men from important work. Women's sexuality, emotions, and natural work of nurturing and caretaking are seen as troublesome, weak, and inferior. To the degree that any individual woman buys into this scapegoating as the weaker and inferior sex is the degree to which the woman will render herself invisible, not wanting to take up any space and certainly not needing anything.
To need is to be present, alive, and deserving. To be a scapegoat means your role is to sacrifice your needs for the good of the dominant society. To “go against” the role given can induce a feeling of being wrong, standing out too much, and experiencing shame. Women still
