Exposure

1979. I am bare-bunned and squatting at the top of the driveway in front of my childhood home. I'm curiously watching the space between my soft folds of my baby thighs waiting. My moms say that I thought it was funny to poop at the top of the driveway and watch the little turds roll down its steep grade. I was exposed and curious.

Creative nonfiction works in a similar way, I reveal something about myself that others may not reveal. No because I think it's "shocking" and I want your attention, but because I'm not ashamed about what it might say about my character at the time of the incident or the event. I expose myself because I've changed; I reveal myself because I know there are others who do not feel comfortable with such a reveal, but they quietly nod because they've done the same or have felt the same. They don't want to feel alone with their experience. Neither do I.
I may not see their nods, but I have felt what my readers have felt. The first time I read an essay by a woman who had two moms I was enamored. The first time I read a book of essays by children with LGBTQ parents, I knew I had a community. I finally knew I wasn't alone.

I sat with a young woman last night who told me about her graphic rape. I told her about the time I was raped and included that I was promiscuous when I was young, and that I am now so thankful for that time. Just because I was promiscuous does not mean I should've been raped, just because I loved the intimacy of sex does not mean that anyone had the right to abuse me. We ate ice cream and talked about church and boyfriends and writing, and an hour or so later she also admitted that she was promiscuous. My exposure allowed her to open up and reveal something personal about herself because she wasn't alone, and perhaps she, like I once did, felt that she deserved what happened to her because she also enjoyed sex.

I'm not afraid to admit what I've done and how its changed me.
I believe in exposure.

Saturday morning, 2014. Sitting down to a bowl of oatmeal in my breakfast nook, I asked my partner which essay I should read at the Holter Museum tonight. There will be an author showcase and I have choice: read the essay that recently won a Notable Best American or read a forthcoming essay that will be published in 2015.
"Your kidnapping essay is kind of graphic," my partner said, "and a bit depressing for an audience at an art museum."
I guess it is. Having rewritten the kidnapping on paper and in my brain so many times it's become old hat. I only wince at the moment I tell the reader about how my police record says my assailant bit my nipples, and that I didn't remember that moment. An uncomfortable warmth seizes my shoulders as a write this, but that's only a fraction of a second in the whole narrative.
"Well, it's not like my journey with cancer and my post-surgery body is any less graphic and depressing..." I say.
"True."
We decide that I will read the newer essay, not because it exposes so much of me, all essays expose so much about their writer's character and place in the world, but because it's new, it's resolution is one that is a little more optimistic. It's argument is one that is pertinent right now as so many states change their stance on marriage equality.

Exposure is necessary for community building. I am not just a teacher in a classroom, I am human. My body is marred by living boldly, by engaging with a sometimes dangerous world. My character has changed, my body will change, my beliefs will change, but I will not be afraid of exposure on the page or on the nude beach. Though I may not always be fully comfortable with my body, my stories, my history, I will always believe in exposure.