We cannot do anything BUT believe.

• Kim wrote, “I don't believe when I have something "right"… because I know that it is never fully complete knowledge.”

• Allison said, “All the things I can say about sexual abuse – about rape—none of them are reasons. The words do not explain. Explanation almost drove me crazy, other people’s explanations and my own. Explanations, justifications, and theories.”

• Doug asked, “What shapes our identification with a given narrative, and how does believability emerge from such identification?”

I have to admit, I struggle writing on Allison’s piece. How can I do her story justice? My rhetorical analysis seems pointless in the face of ongoing sexual violence; my passionate advocacy side is ramped up. It’s hard to deconstruct a piece of text that, while I am analyzing it, continues to provoke empathy, outrage, and reveal a meaning greater than words.  Although I doubt any amount of analyzation could hinder her voice.

Allison’s identity emerges as she avoids concrete explanations and theoretical reasoning. She shrugs off the “fidelity comes from rational thinking” line of thought, and establishes her narrative with an alternative reasoning that would drive Aristotle mad. There are no facts and figures, not even a strict line of argument. Her narrative fidelity is established as she reveals experiences and emotions so raw, so awful, so poignant, that the reader is brought to their knees and cut to the heart. The reader cannot do anything but hang on her every word; truth like this is hard to make up.

Her knowledge does not need to be “complete” for it to be true. In fact, the believability of the piece comes from its fragmented perspective, not its facts. It offers no objective recount, no historical timeline of her childhood. It is a collection of dark sweaty nights, moments full of fear and ecstasy, interspersed with an exigency that can only be understood as the need to live. Moving through trauma, she recognizes that the “truth” is not one objectified story. Truth is not a psychological explanation for an act. Truth is not whether or not the legal system found him guilty. Truth is not every minute she remembers being shoved or hiding. Truth is the story she tells herself, the personal knowledge of who she will be. The narrative is believable, because her life is at stake.

There is little separation between audience and text, and the relatability is another driver of believability. Rarely does the narrative leave ground into the non-physical realm. Hedging every statement of reflection or revelation or epiphany is a concrete story or scene. We are constantly placed back into her scenes, living her reality, and the experience is hard to discount as non-believable. She’s telling herself the story as she tells it to us, and we desperately want her to believe herself, as she writes, “I will not wear that coat.”

The fidelity of the piece to “truth” also comes from its highly specialized nature. As the reader, we are alright with vagueness or unanswered questions, because Allison is not appealing to some higher understanding fueled by logic or reasoning. She is making her own truth—personal knowledge. The narrative is most true and relevant to her own self and life. We listen almost as bystanders, and the relative truth of the piece is based on how much its contents free her soul.

For a narrative to be powerful, see above. For a narrative to be speakable, we must tell ourselves the story enough that we believe it, breathe it, and live it, so that telling others is not a risk to its existence. We must have the ability to transfer a multi-dimensional story into language, and somehow preserve its depth and character.  For a narrative to be spoken: courage.