Morgan Settle

Let me preface this by saying that I know how you feel at this very moment. If you are the dumpee, right now, you are in a free-fall from the edge of a cliff. No matter how long you teeter, the point comes when you finally slip. You cling furiously to the side, your fingers digging into the hard rock, and shut your eyes. You instinctively reach out an arm and wait for your person to pull you up to safety, but that familiar touch never comes. Finally, you open your eyes again, staring helplessly into the face of the person you love. Begging with your eyes, you pray this contact is enough to bring them back to you. So many beautiful memories reside in those eyes. But now, they are blank—lifeless. At this moment, you know what’s ahead. Some people will quickly pry your stiff fingers from their grip and let you fall. However, the weak ones walk away, leaving you to let go. From this point on, your person is just a person, existing only in distant memories. Once your free fall is over, you will hurt–badly. However, the day you pick yourself up off the ground, your road to recovery begins. It won’t be easy, but I assure you, one day you’ll wake up and be grateful for who you are—someone who prevailed after devastation. After all, our most traumatic moments are often our most transformative.

The thing about falling and staying in love with someone is that you learn how to make excuses for their behavior. If they lash out at you suddenly, you have enough knowledge of them as a person to construct a reason why–validating their actions undeservedly. Oh, they were only rude today because their parents got divorced when they were six, or they have trouble communicating because once they got lost in Walmart, or they’re always with their ex-girlfriend because their cousin’s dog ran away last year and they need their support system right now. This is what happens when you love someone; you validate their behavior, preserving their spotless image in your mind. Post-breakup, you cannot, under any circumstances, make excuses for their actions. Use your untempered fury as fuel in your journey of getting over them. 

Right now, I want you to gather every piece of them from your memory and heart and shove it all into a box in your mind. Got it? Now, take your favorite Sharpie and label this box “HATE” in big, thick letters. The purpose of this sophisticated and well-researched exercise is the simplification of your emotions. You must go from love to hate, and eventually, from hate to indifference. There’s merely a fine line between love and hate, and crossing it becomes easy after a breakup; the person becomes some giant, vengeful, yet thoughtless monster, but we all have our moments of weakness. Maybe the beast had a bad day at work or stubbed his toe. No. Do not validate them. The monster is a monster, and we shall treat them as such. 

Another advantage of the mental box is the prevention of rumination and self-blame. After a breakup with someone you loved, reliving your relationship and blaming yourself for its end comes easy. The monster is not there; it cannot accept blame nor elucidate its actions. So, in searching for explanations, your thoughts spiral into things like maybe I wasn’t pretty enough or perhaps I was too clingy. Although tempting, this rationale is devastating to your journey. The breakup process is like training a dog; always rehearse good behavior. When one of these thoughts arises, shut it down immediately. Don’t let your mind wander into any self-deprecating territory. And while the box may not seem like the most empathetic thing, it is no longer about them. Thanks to your box, the only emotion you feel towards the monster is a hopefully dwindling hatred. 

Once all the memories safely reside in the box, swiftly move on to their only other source of existence: social media. It is imperative to your mental health that you remember your ex knows you see what they post. My recommendation is that you block them immediately on every conceivable platform: Snapchat, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, naturally, but also Spotify and Venmo. You’ll be surprised by the amount of pain and anxiety stalking your ex’s Venmo transaction history can cause. If this blocking feels too sudden and harsh at first–that’s okay. You can always remove them gradually. However, if you do stumble across a particularly happy Instagram post from them, remind yourself that social media isn’t real life. They are acting as if everything is okay, to prove to themselves and you that things are actually okay. Don’t fall for it. The monster is hurting as well. 

My last concrete piece of breakup advice is the creation of distance. When you date someone, they become a part of your routine. When they are no longer there, this absence can be a source of wallowing and sadness. I recommend forcing distance between your time with them and now, by transforming your daily routine–so their absence is no longer the sole distinction between past and present. Make some change that will define your time now. A classic example of this is breakup hair. Traditionally, right after a breakup, a person might make a drastic change to their hair, giving them a sense of control over their lives. And although this is valid, I believe its more effective result is creating distance. So, dye your hair red or give yourself bangs (bonus points if your new look is something they hated), but whatever it is, make sure you’re truly pleased with it. If you’re apprehensive about your impulsive decision-making skills, you have other options. Maybe buy a new perfume and use its scent as a marker of this glorious and dynamic time in your life. Or, paint a room in your house or get a new shower curtain. I believe the most beneficial change you can make in your life is exercise. Not only does working out improve you physically, but it releases happy chemicals like dopamine and endorphins. Whatever it is, your change should create a healthy distance between your time with them, and your time now.

Although following my steps above will help you triumph against heartbreak, the most crucial step is giving yourself time. Healing is not linear. You might have two months of tangible progress, and then one day, you wake up and it hurts just as much as the second you hit the ground. But I promise, there will come a time where you pass by their favorite restaurant, hear their favorite song, watch a show they loved, see their favorite sports team win, or even smell their perfume on another body, and you will not think of them. They will be merely a person of your past. Once your initial hatred has dissipated into a sweet indifference, I implore you: think fondly upon your memories with them. Learn from your mistakes. Relationships put us in positions we would never be otherwise; they teach us invaluable lessons about ourselves: how we love, how we receive love, what makes us cry, what makes us angry, what brings us joy, and everything that we value in a person.

Lastly, I will leave you with my theory for life: I call it The Theory of Balance. In each relationship of our lives, we will have good moments and bad. Take your sibling, for example; growing up they might have been your enemy. You constantly bickered and felt a dull annoyance around them. After you both mature, your sibling becomes a sort of friend as you go your separate ways. The concentration of dreadful fighting while growing up and the longer-term friendliness found in adulthood always evens out–The Theory of Balance. The same goes for a romantic relationship. When you get incredibly close to someone in a short amount of time, it breeds a beautiful but fleeting connection. The intensity of the love-fueled stupor of the relationship must balance out with an agonizing breakup. However, remember what your journey through the pain taught you, as well as the love. I hope after you slowly crawl towards a peaceful indifference that you will agree with the old cliché, “it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Eventually, a new person will waltz into your life; when you reach the beginning of the hike with them, hand in hand, do not fear the familiar cliff. Because now you know, it’s all worth it—the pain, the love, and everything in between. 

Morgan Settle

My fingers gripped the handle of the infamously stubborn door and ripped it open. Inside, the radiators greeted me with a warm, comforting buzz. To my disdain, I was the first student there, and that meant I faced Mrs. Anderson alone. My head down, avoiding any eye contact, I shuffled to my seat. The tall, metal stool creaked in disapproval as I mounted it. After the embarrassing outburst of my chair, only a crushing silence filled the art room. 

“Morgan,” Mrs. Anderson started, “Can you please fix that painting over there? It’s off center and I am so OCD about these things”.

Oh really? Was she so OCD about these things? My soul burned with annoyance. Obsessive-compulsive disorder is not an adjective nor a quirky personality trait; it is a lifelong, debilitating illness. An educated grown woman should not perpetuate those harmful stereotypes. 

I hopped off the stool and trudged to the corner of the room where she gestured. The picture was one of her own, a beautiful orange sunset over a foamy blue ocean. I spotted the flaw: the painting hung slightly tilted to the left. I reached out and perfectly centered the stiff paper, now capable of satiating even the most observant critics. A fierce battle erupted in my mind the second she made that comment about OCD. I must inform her of her ignorance; even though she taught me, that didn’t make her immune to correction. The cautious side of my brain fought back. What if she really had obsessive-compulsive disorder and liked joking about it? Was appeasing my conscience worth a potentially awkward conversation? I decided it was. By the time the combat in my brain eased, more students had entered the room. Now I had an audience. I marched through the trench formed by my chattering classmates and over to her desk. Bracing myself for the worst, I took a deep breath.

“Mrs. Anderson, before when you were talking about the painting you said that you ‘were so OCD’. My grandmother suffers from OCD and I don’t think it’s a great idea to say things like that if you don’t really suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder,” my voice trailed off slightly at the look on her face. 

“You’re right Morgan,” she softened, “I shouldn’t have said that and I am sorry your grandmother has to deal with that,” she admitted. My heart pounded in my throat as I walked away. I knew I did the right thing.

For centuries, ignorance and fear have obscured understanding of mental illnesses. With the rise of social media, however, those afflicted with these illnesses finally have a broader platform to educate others about their experiences. An estimated “26% of Americans 18 and older suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year”, yet vicious misunderstanding still surrounds mental health. Education on anxiety and depression is more widespread because more people suffer from those particular illnesses. 18% of Americans will have an anxiety disorder in a given year, and 9.5% will have a depressive disorder (“Mental”). The percentage of those affected by OCD is significantly lower, only 1% of the US population (“Facts & Statistics”). The increased ignorance surrounding OCD compared to other mental illnesses stems from two main factors: the smaller percentage of those affected and the nature of OCD symptoms. The smaller percentage of those with OCD means their voices are not as prominent. In this era of technology, information spreads through the internet and social media. If a celebrity or public figure suffers from a more common mental illness like anxiety, they can spread awareness about it on their social media platforms. OCD’s rarity inhibits it from this advantage. People are ignorant about OCD and therefore make generalizations about its manifestations. Secondly, the common symptoms of OCD are particularly susceptible to appropriation. When the majority of people think of OCD, they imagine someone who suffers from chronic neatness, an observant eye, and maybe a particular love for color coding and organization. Those don’t seem like such harmful afflictions. So, people like Mrs. Anderson, consciously or not, steal the term for themselves. OCD means quirky and neat to them; they don’t understand the actual burden of obsessive-compulsive disorder. OCD symptoms come in two parts: obsessions and compulsions. “Obsessions are thoughts, images, or impulses” that occur in an endless cycle in the mind, and the OCD sufferer feels no control over them. The compulsions of OCD are intended neutralizers of these obsessive thoughts; compulsions come in a wide variety of actions. A person may repeat a particular activity until it feels correct, check something multiple times, avoid specific triggering situations, excessively clean oneself, repeatedly asking others for reassurance, or put things in order or arrange things until it feels right (“What is OCD”). However, these actions are only a temporary escape from the obsessions.

My grandmother, or Lola, as we call her, suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder. From a very young age, even without knowing the exact condition, I felt the toll it took on her and our family. I never knew exactly why she performed her little rituals; I even found them entertaining at times. Her disorder became a part of her personality. Once, Lola and I decided to play Jenga. I picked up the worn box and spilled the pieces onto the large wooden table. Lola stood in the kitchen, hunched over the marble sink, carefully cutting uniform shards of basil into a glass bowl. Large, bright yellow gloves hid her hands whenever she stepped foot in the kitchen. One eye still fixed on her rubber monstrosities, I stacked the Jenga blocks, three pieces vertical and three horizontal, until the tower formed. Whenever I played Jenga, I insisted the tower stand unsteady from the start, increasing the challenge. 

“Lola I finished building it. Can we play now?” I pleaded.

“Yes dear, but first go into the foyer and put your shoes in your bedroom, please.”

I nodded and left. When I returned, Lola had rebuilt the tower, placing the final piece on top when I sat down. Her newly formed tower stood perfectly straight, not a single block out of line.

“What was wrong with my tower,” I questioned. 

“Nothing honey, it just didn’t look right,” she offered vaguely. 

Small, peculiar moments like these coat the majority of my memories with her. Initially, I viewed her cautious nature as a beneficial thing, like a superpower. To me, it felt as though she could see the future and sense things I could not. However, as I grew older, I paid closer attention. As I watched her nervously pull on her earlobe precisely four times on the left side and three on the right, I realized her OCD was far from beneficial. Her thoughts and mind were against her; they imprisoned her in a world of worry that she could never escape. 

To outsiders, the most elusive aspect of OCD is the obsessions. The relentless flow of disturbing thoughts come in a wide variety. Obsessions can occur about almost anything: germs, diseases, body fluids, dirt, stealing, harming others, making mistakes, forbidden sexual impulses, superstition surrounding numbers and colors, losing control over one’s actions, forgetting important information, perverse sexual thoughts, fires, harming oneself, blasphemy, morality, or blurting out obscenities (“What is OCD”). No matter the subject, these thoughts deeply disturb and ruthlessly bombard the sufferer. 

Imagine you are driving to the airport on a crowded highway during rush hour. You know, deep down, that everything is fine and you are well prepared for your journey. Then, the panic-inducing thoughts flood your brain. Is the stove still on? You checked twice, but what if you made a mistake? What if you started a fire that killed your neighbors? They just had a baby. What if their baby died? Did you lock the door? What if someone breaks in and steals your stuff? Your eyes focus on the stretch of highway beyond, then slowly shift to the wheel. What if you jerked the wheel right now? You could do it. What if you killed the people beside you? You could turn the wheel hard right now. Nothing is stopping you. Your hands are right there. Panic floods your body again as the horrors of that action flash in your mind. You smother that thought, but it comes back stronger this time. Angrier. You could hurt them. You have the power. Look at your hands on the wheel. The thoughts keep scratching and clawing, demanding control of your brain, your actions. You glance left into your rearview mirror and spot the flashing blue lights. It’s the police. What if they pull you over? What if you have illegal drugs in your car or a gun? Did someone put drugs in your car? What if you say the wrong thing and they arrest you? What if you hurt them? What if they hurt you? What if they shoot you? Is there a secret gun in your car? The worry shifts back towards your apartment. Did you lock your door? Did you remember that special gift for your friend, or did you leave it sitting on your bed? You check your seatbelt twice and tap the wheel three times because it usually calms your mind. Wrong. That felt wrong. Do it again. Finally, The thoughts win. You find yourself at the next exit, driving back towards your apartment because you definitely left the stove on. 

The raw, unfiltered nature of obsessive-compulsive disorder is horrific. The illness takes over the sufferer’s thoughts, attacking them with an endless cycle of disturbing images. These obsessions hoard valuable time and mental energy. The compulsions of OCD, what the general public is more familiar with, manifest in countless ways. Cleanliness and organization are factors of some people’s compulsions, often used as neutralizers for obsessions about contamination and perfection. However, the public does not experience the thoughts behind the compulsions; all they view is a person who is chronically organized and clean. To the ignorant, these symptoms don’t seem negative. What’s wrong with being organized? Therefore, the public appropriated the term OCD for themselves. It became a synonym for a neat freak. In reality, however, these compulsions are devastating time consumers. The person with OCD has no desire to perform these rituals, but it is their only release. That is why I walked up to Mrs. Anderson, for the people who genuinely suffer from this illness. Those in constant battles with their mind do not deserve the severity of their experiences diminished by those who can’t find a different term for neat. 

Works Cited

“Mental Health Disorder Statistics.” Johns Hopkins Medicine, 21 October. 2020, http://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/health/wellness-and-prevention/mental-health-disorder-statistics.

“Facts & Statistics.” Anxiety and Depression Association of America, ADAA, 21 October 2020, adaa.org/about-adaa/press-room/facts-statistics

“What Is OCD?” International OCD Foundation, 7 Oct. 2020, iocdf.org/about-ocd/. 

Works Consulted

Veale, David, and Alison Roberts. “Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.” BMJ: British Medical Journal, vol. 348, 2014. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/26513796. Accessed 18 October 2020.

Morgan Settle

The beams of sunlight behind my back hide the contents of the small screen. I lifted the phone closer: 7:58, January 14, 2018. I had two minutes until my first day of eighth grade in a new town, country, and continent. Just five months before, my family, against all reason and warning, abandoned our home in the United States and began traveling worldwide for a year. Four days ago, we finally reached South Africa. My finger searched the side of my phone for the familiar ridge. I clicked it on again. The screen lacked both notifications and reassurance, but I feigned popularity with my thumbs’ movement. Now they’d think I was too busy for their conversations and that I had hoards of people desperately awaiting a text from me. I surveyed them again; the children across the garden giggled and gossiped knowingly with each other. They were familiar with this place; they had attended this school for years, their entire lives maybe. I was the black sheep, a pale, freckled American who arrived four days earlier from the Philippines. Although, they hadn’t even bothered asking that. Just as I gave up hope for a friendly face, an introduction, acknowledgment, anything, her figure broke into view. She strutted towards me, slender and tall. Her long braided hair spilled down her back in huge twisted mounds. This was one of the most beautiful people I had ever laid eyes upon. She wore a neat cotton blouse and a stiff navy skirt. Dust covered her shoes and the edges of the sole separated revealing the entrails of glue and cardboard. The girl lowered herself onto my lonely bench. 

“Hi, my name is Siziphiwe Ntlaningeshe, but you can call me Sizi or Phiwe. It’s nice to meet you.” She blurted.

“Oh hi, my name is Morgan. It’s my first day here. I’m new,” I confessed shamefully. 

“I am also new,” Sizi revealed. 

I blushed, comforted by her wide smile. Her teeth, white and perfect, resembled porcelain. Before we could continue our clumsy conversation, a wide-eyed twenty-something teacher poked his head out of the main door. 

“Alright guys, it’s 8:00. Come on in.”

Sizi and I exchanged nervous glances and slowly shuffled towards the door together. 

Together. After our brief introduction, Siziphiwe and I spent all our time together. Attached at the hip. I needed only her. I quickly discovered the reason for Sizi’s newness at this private school; she had enrolled on a scholarship. When a teacher asked a question, Sizi knew the answer. She responded eloquently to simple mathematical equations or complex dilemmas, like rationing water during droughts. I admired her intellect, but the person I became in her presence is what truly gravitated me towards her. She made me fearless. 

I stared down into icy Atlantic water; the jagged stones and slippery moss not far beneath triggered anxiety within me. Salty air filled my lungs as I gazed at Sizi’s face beside me. She nodded. 

“We have to do it, Morgan,” she explained.

The warm January breeze brushed my back; it was summertime in the Southern Hemisphere. Summer, however, did not mean the water welcomed us with warmth. The bravest souls still wore wetsuits when they explored her icy abyss. Yet here we stood, on the edge of a lagoon, bracing ourselves for the frigid water with nothing more than jeans and t-shirts. I looked beyond the stone confines of the lagoon. The ocean was angrier on the horizon: spitting and spinning in turbulent surges. Did we dare test her? Sizi extended her hand, and I took it. 

“One, two THREE!” she shouted.

Together, we thrust ourselves forward into the freezing depths. Our bodies collided with the surface at the same moment. The second I submerged, my muscles rejected this environment, convulsing in the cold. I emerged from the water, laughing and screaming, even though I could barely breathe. I glanced at Sizi; she smiled broadly. 

“We did it,” she smirked.

“Yes we did and now let’s get out,” I sputtered. 

That was the person I became around Siziphiwe: the girl who impulsively jumped into sixty-three degree water in her jeans. But I loved that girl; she felt alive. Siziphiwe existed not only as my friend, but as my protector. 

It seemed that for everyone at that school, except Sizi, I represented an object of ridicule and mockery: the loud, ignorant American who couldn’t even tell the difference between Xhosa and Afrikaans. Imagine that. My naivety intrigued the other children at school. Testing my knowledge of typical South African slang quickly transformed into their favorite game.

“Okay Morgan, what about this one, braai?” Kyle Saville asked me teasingly. 

“What the heck is a brye?” I responded. 

The sound of my thick American accent embarrassed me deeply, with its stark contrast to the voices around me. I did not know what a braai was, or biltong, or bru, or any of these probably made-up words they chucked at me for amusement. I felt utterly clueless and ignorant of the culture, history, and norms of this mysterious land. I knew only Siziphiwe. 

“Morgan,” she coaxed after the other children’s interest in my humiliation finally subsided for the day, “the difference between Xhosa and Afrikaans is easy; Xhosa has the clicks.”

The clicks. They immediately entranced me with their brightness and distinction, refusing to be lost in sloppy pronunciation. The second Sizi explained Xhosa, my notions of language structure shattered. 

“Xhosa has 3 clicks. The c, the x and the q.” She demonstrated, her mouth producing three distinct noises. The c possessed a certain subtlety; her tongue connected with the back of her teeth and retracted in soft tsk, sounding almost disappointed. The simplicity of the x soothed me. It formed as her tongue swept the roof of her mouth and fell away in a loud clack. The production of the last one, the q, eluded me. It sounded like someone took their hand and rapped on wood. Generated from a mouth, however, it held undeniable power. Siziphiwe successfully taught me the pronunciation of the first two, but the last, no matter how hard I tried, I never produced.

“Xhosa is my language; it is for the black people. I do not speak Afrikaans because I am not white or colored and was never taught it.”

Her analysis of race shocked and discomforted me. In America, no one spoke so blatantly about this divide between humans. Languages never exclusively depended on race, maybe some correlation existed, but people never discussed it openly. In demonstrating Xhosa, Sizi did more than showcase her beautiful language. She ripped away the flowery exterior of this country and exposed its twisted roots. South African society existed as a hierarchy of color, and she resided on the bottom. Race penetrated through everything: the hatred of Apartheid looming just behind the curtain. The white people were the luckiest, she explained, they obtained higher-paying jobs and extravagant homes. They remained on the far side of town, with the bustling square and fine-dining restaurants. In between the black and white existed the colored people. The government provided them identical modest housing just outside of town. The black people also applied for government housing, but it never came. Thousands of names populated the waiting list. Siziphiwe, a young black woman, lived in a township named Zwelihle: a place carefully hidden away from oblivious tourists. 

 I leaned on the passenger side of our small, bright red rental car, waiting for my father. The spotless blue mass above soothed my soul. Our small thatch-roof home stood in front of me. Twists of vine and moss marked their territory on our precious space. The massive iron gate of the garden creaked open as my father emerged. 

“Lets GO! We are late. I told her we would be there at 6,” I urged.

He continued strolling towards the car, clicking it open, and I slid inside. 

“She didn’t give me an address. All she told me was to go to Zwehlihle and wait by this store,” I explained. My father and I drove silently as I admired our beautiful town; it reminded me of classic suburban America, cloaked in green manicured lawns, white mothers with their toddlers, and golden retrievers. Abruptly, we took a sharp left into a community hidden by fat, concrete slabs. We entered another world: a congested mass of tiny, decaying, corrugated steel homes. Adults, infants, and boney, wild-eyed hounds packed the grimy streets. On every corner huddled small crowds around a man grilling something on a fire. Our bright red rental stood out like a black sheep. As we traversed this land, people gawked at my pale face and wondered why I dared come here. 

We approached the modest shop Sizi mentioned, and I saw her standing there waving aggressively at me. 

“Hi, I am so sorry but I cannot come to dinner tonight. My mother needs me to take care of my sister.” 

“Oh. That’s fine,” I uttered, clearly frustrated with her actions. 

“I am sorry. My phone was broken. Can I see you Sunday in the afternoon,” she requested softly. 

I agreed to reschedule, reassuring myself that tomorrow would be fine. 

Tomorrow never arrived. The tension within Siziphiwe’s township erupted into horrific violence, holding her hostage there. Our white neighbors dismissed the rioters as rebellious blacks ungrateful for their lives. Until my father and I decided we must see things for ourselves, the danger for Sizi remained unknown. We turned onto the highway and gazed into Zwelihle; policemen in extensive riot gear jammed every inch of the road leading inside. Beyond them existed a mass of black bodies, shrieking and moving in unity towards the town. I texted Siziphiwe frantically, begging her to stay with us. Each time she responded with horrifying news: I can’t leave. If I try to get a taxi, they will kill me. I can’t stay at home. I have to join the riot, or they will set my house on fire. 

I did not see Sizi for weeks. Updates on her safety came through sporadic photographs. She showed me the police’s discarded weapons: shotgun shells, empty tear gas cans, and rubber bullets. In punishment for their disturbances, the town shut off their water. The communal spout produced only a viscous brown sludge. She also captured what happened when someone attempted to escape; the protestors burned their cars. The police and protestors trapped her inside the township. I felt utterly helpless and terrified for her. Siziphiwe assured me her safety as long as she appeased the protestors. 

Finally, after weeks of constant violence, a golden opportunity arose. Sizi could finally escape. I stood outside my home, barefoot on the grass, nervously awaiting her taxi. The second it broke into view I sprinted forward. The door opened gently, and she stepped out with the same wide smile. We embraced, and I told her how much I missed her. I had set up the garden flawlessly for her arrival. Heaps of blankets covered the damp grass, decorated with large pillows. I made a fruit salad with luscious mango and the sweet, tangy kiwi I knew she enjoyed. We rested on the blankets spilling out summaries of our weeks apart, anticipating our entertainment for the night: the stars. Darkness finally came, flooding into every corner of the garden. Sizi and I lay flat on our backs on top of the tall, damp grass. I felt the water seep up through the thin cotton blankets, uniting with my skin. Siziphiwe sat up suddenly, half her face illuminated by the moonlight. A single tear ran down her cheek and vanished into the earth. 

“Sizi what’s wrong? Are you okay.”

“Last night, when I was trying to sleep, I heard cries on the street. There was a woman. She was screaming. She kept pleading ‘please don’t kill him, please do not’ and I couldn’t sleep I just…” she said, her voice trailing into silence. 

My heart sank, and I began sobbing with her. Siziphiwe deserved a safe and protected life. A life where she slept peacefully, not haunted with the cries of humans pleading for their lives. She deserved the same stability I had. 

Siziphiwe Ntlaningeshe is the bravest person I have ever met. I think of her often, especially in my moments of discomfort. I try to face challenges like she did, with poise and strength. Her kindness taught me that our environment does not limit or shape our personalities. Life is not fair; it will steal from you until you have nothing left. The only thing you can control is your reaction. You can choose anger and bitterness, or you can live like Sizi. Every morning she wakes in her tiny corrugated steel home and chooses compassion and love, even though the world does not offer her the same in return. 

Carter Anderson

Women finally can hold men accountable for the crimes that they commit. The wake of the #MeToo movement has helped many women, feeling empowered by their fellow survivors, to accuse men of rape, domestic abuse, sexual assault, and other gender-based violence. Women have accused men in power, including numerous political figures, of such crimes. However, in history, such action rarely occurred. William Shakespeare’s Othello gives readers a glance into Elizabethan society, especially how it treated women. Men in power abuse the three main female characters in the play, and each of them offers a unique window into how men treated women. Seen in both the current #MeToo movement and in the story of Othello, people prioritize the struggles of rich white women over those of low-income women of color. Desdemona, Bianca, and Emilia all face abuse at the hands of men in their lives. Many people defend Desdemona, a white woman, against the abuse and accusations of Othello. However, Bianca and Emilia face oppression and abuse, yet no one seems to care. These two characters give special insight into the domestic abuse faced by lower-class women and women of color. In Othello, Desdemona, Bianca, and Emilia highlight the differences between the treatment of rich, white women who face abuse and low-income women of color who face abuse, both in Shakespearean times and in the movements in society right now.

Domestic abuse disproportionately affects women of color and lower-class women. Many researchers have concluded that “minority and economically disadvantaged women are disproportionately represented among those most affected [by Intimate Partner Violence (IPV)]” (Schmidt). Bianca and Emilia provide good examples of the way that society treats lower-class women and women of color. In the play, men disregard them, treat them as objects, call them derogatory names, and overall abuse them. 

Shakespeare never gives Bianca a physical description, though people commonly interpret Bianca as a woman of color, and black women have played this part. Shakespeare also never fully discloses Bianca’s relationship with Cassio, but they do have a relationship of some sort. Cassio led Bianca on, and then he disappeared without telling her where he went. He returned, told her that he does not love her, and then publicly embarrassed her in front of the other soldiers by calling her a whore and making jokes about her love for him. When people think of domestic abuse, physical violence typically comes to the mind first. However, women also experience another form of domestic abuse: psychological abuse. Some examples of psychological abuse are “threats of physical violence, degrading comments meant to humiliate, and threatening to withhold financial support…” (Kramer). When together, he treats her with love and respect, and he calls her names such as “…my most fair Bianca” and “…sweet love…” (3.4.193-194). However, when with his friends, he calls her a prostitute and laughs at the mention of him marrying her. This is a form of domestic abuse: an example of psychological abuse in which he humiliates her in public. 

Similar to Bianca, Emilia also experiences domestic abuse in Othello. As Desdemona’s servant, Emilia belongs to a lower class. Iago, the main villain of the story and Emilia’s husband, repeatedly shows that he does not respect women. Early in the play, he speaks of Desdemona as property when he tells Desdemona’s father that she was stolen: “Thieves, thieves! Look to your house, your daughter and your bags” (1.1.80). He insinuates that Desdemona belongs to her father and that Othello took his property. He continues throughout the play to say incredibly sexist things and boils women down to either smart or dumb and either pretty or ugly. This disrespect and abuse extend to his own wife. Throughout the play, he calls her “a foolish wife,” “a villainous whore,” and “filth” (3.3.308, 5.2.273, 5.2.276). Because of Emilia’s class, she is “… more vulnerable to negative psychological sequelae as a result of IPV” (Schmidt). She will more likely face long-term effects from the abuse that she endures from Iago. Oftentimes, surviving domestic abuse results in PTSD, but the symptoms manifest themselves in women of a lower class more commonly than in upper-class women and with different and harder-to-treat effects. Because low-income women and women of color have unique experiences and barriers as a result of IPV, many researchers agree that “there is a need for an intervention model for treating PTSD and other mental health issues tailored specifically to the needs of low-income women of color” (Schmidt). 

The way that IPV and domestic abuse disproportionately affect low-income women of color shines a light on the media coverage of the #MeToo movement. Despite the higher rates of domestic abuse amongst low-income women of color, rich and influential white women make up almost all of the cases that the media covers. People seem to hear the cries of the white women, but silence the voices of the women of color that experience the same problems at a higher rate. 

A woman of color herself, Tarana Burke coined the #MeToo movement. She originally started the movement to “provide an outlet for women of color…” (Issitt). However, the media began to only cover white women and left women of color behind. In an interview, Burke explained that the #MeToo movement silenced the voices of black women, and she created a new group to “… come up with new practices that will help get Black survivors ‘believed, heard, and supported’” (Congleton). The new group, called “We, As Ourselves,” aims to include those who felt that the #MeToo movement left them out. The media needs more representation of low-income survivors and survivors of color because all women deserve to tell their story and all women’s struggles with domestic abuse and sexual assault are valid and worth discussing.

Just as the #MeToo movement focuses on the abuse of rich white women, Othello focuses on the abuse of Desdemona. The abuse faced by Desdemona follows more traditional signs of abuse than the other two women in Othello. At the beginning of the play, she and Othello seem deep in love, and they profess their love for each other regularly. However, as Iago begins to poison Othello’s mind with doubt, Othello begins to question his wife. He starts by saying quick remarks to her about what he believes that she has done, but it quickly escalates from there. While all three women faced abuse in many forms, Desdemona endures the clearest. Her husband hits her, publicly calls her derogatory terms, and treats her as no more than his possession. At the end of the play, Othello smothers Desdemona, killing her. All of this occurs without Desdemona standing up for herself, blinded by the love that she has for Othello. However, at least she has other people who stand up for her. Othello horrifies Lodovico when he strikes Desdemona, and he tells Othello to “make her amends. She weeps” (94.1.274). He sees Desdemona’s innocence and fragility and stands up for her to Othello. He also attempts to persuade Othello of Desdemona’s goodness and maintains that he should apologize to her. Also, throughout the story, whenever Othello mentions something about his wife’s presumed unfaithfulness, Emilia always quickly defends Desdemona in front of Othello. Emilia, when questioned about Desdemona’s loyalty, tells Othello that “if she be not honest, chaste, and true, / There’s no man happy” (4.2.19). Even though she experiences a similar problem with Iago and no one stood up for her, she still stands up for Desdemona and does what she can to help.

By no means should anyone invalidate Desdemona’s struggles because of her privileged race or class, but the way that others treat Desdemona differs clearly from the way that people treat Bianca and Emilia surrounding their struggles with abuse. From the beginning of the play, Shakespeare highlights Desdemona’s whiteness as a key part of her identity, and the idea of whiteness, pureness, and innocence follow her throughout the play. Iago gives the very first description of Desdemona in the play by calling her a “white ewe” (1.1.108). This whiteness differentiates the treatment of Desdemona and the treatment of the other women. When Othello kills Desdemona, Emilia displays clear pity for Desdemona because of her race: “O, the more angel she, and you the blacker devil!” (5.2.161). While everyone seems to want justice for Desdemona, with the exception of Iago, no one seems to care when Iago abuses Emilia or when Cassio abuses Bianca. Desdemona’s status and whiteness cause others to feel sympathy for her and want to help her, but no one helps the lower-class women or women of color, just as in the #MeToo movement. And, just as Burke explains in the context of the #MeToo movement, “[poor and black women’s] voices and [their] needs are continually sidelined and ignored” (Congleton).

Although the #MeToo movement began by trying to combat domestic abuse against all women, it quickly became a very mainstream movement. Once this happened, the majority of women who saw justice for the abuse that they experienced were wealthy, white women. Of course, these women have every right to seek justice. However, when women of color and lower-class women experience abuse, fewer people seem to care. The media rarely covers the story of a woman of color who faced abuse because that is not what the public wants to see. Many cases of abuse against women of color and low-income women go unreported because the justice system does not treat those women equally. And, the same goes for Othello. While Shakespeare shines a light on the abuse suffered by Desdemona, he marginalizes the abuse suffered by Bianca and Emilia.

Works Cited

Congleton, Nathan. “Left out of MeToo: New Initiative Focuses on Black Survivors.” NBC News, NBC Universal, 25 feb 2021, http://www.nbcnews.com/news/nbcblk/left-out-metoo-new-initiative-focuses-black-survivors-n1258846. Accessed 14 Apr. 2021.

Galano, Maria M., et al. “Dyadic Profiles of Posttraumatic Stress Symptoms in Mothers and Children Experiencing Intimate Partner Violence.” Child Psychiatry & Human Development, vol. 51, no. 6, Dec. 2020, pp. 943–955. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1007/s10578-020-00973-y.

Hardwick, Julie. “Early Modern Perspectives on the Long History of Domestic Violence: The Case of Seventeenth‐Century France.” The Journal of Modern History, vol. 78, no. 1, 2006, pp. 1–36. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/499793. Accessed 26 Mar. 2021.

Ioana Dana Schmidt. “Addressing PTSD in Low-Income Victims of Intimate Partner Violence: Moving toward a Comprehensive Intervention.” Social Work, vol. 59, no. 3, July 2014, pp. 253–260. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=edsjsr&AN=edsjsr.24881574&site=eds-live.

Issitt, Micah L. “Me Too Sexual Misconduct Movement.” Salem Press Encyclopedia, 2020. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=ers&AN=132204393&site=eds-live.

Kramer, Liz, and Laura Finley. “Domestic Violence: An Overview.” Salem Press Encyclopedia, 2019. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=ers&AN=89158162&site=eds-live.

Piotrowski, Nancy A., PhD, and Lillian M. Range PhD. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.” Magill’s Medical Guide (Online Edition), 2020. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=ers&AN=86194496&site=eds-live.

Shakespeare, William, et al. The Tragedy of Othello, the Moor of Venice. Updated edition. ed., New York, Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2017.