Showing posts with label Sarah Browder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sarah Browder. Show all posts

Thursday, September 27, 2018

Letter to Sarah

Dear Sarah,

I wish you were still here. There's a lot going on these days. Women are speaking up for themselves. Finally. They are calling out their former abusers. A whole movement has been created of women coming forward and speaking of their experiences and holding their abusers accountable. There's quite a backlash against this movement. But as Ruth Bader Ginsberg says, "I think it will have staying power because people, and not only women, men as well as women, realize how wrong the behavior was and how it subordinated women." I wish you were here to see it. You could tell your stories, too. I, for one, would like to hear them.

You were beautiful. Inside as well as out. But as we know, beautiful women carry a particular curse in our society. You become objectified immediately. You become an object of desire, an object to possess and control. This was your curse. It wasn't your fault. It's just the way things operate. But women are pushing hard to change this.

When I learned your husband shot you, I wailed. Sally and Keith were living in the apartment next to me and I thought they probably were worried that I'd lost my mind due to the noise I made. But pretty soon, the word spread. And everyone shared my grief.

I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry I never came to Leon's to let you cut or color my hair. That would have been fun. I'm sorry I was not more proactive about staying in touch with you after you married Kirk. I'm sorry I assumed the attitude of sit back and let things run their course. Because I had a feeling about him. I had a feeling he was not a good match for you. I had a feeling that he did not have your highest good in mind. I'm sorry I said nothing about this. But knowing you, you would have defended him. Because you saw the good in absolutely everyone. Even a controlling, troubled and violent marine with a drug problem who liked to carry his gun around with him.

He never should have been allowed to carry a gun.

I hate that he died immediately after he shot himself while you had to lay in a hospital bed, paralyzed and unable to speak for four days before you died. I hate that he could not witness firsthand, the consequences of his actions. He was a coward for taking his own life rather than facing what he had done to you. I know you loved him and I'm sorry to say these things. But I withheld my opinion for so long. I think it's time to come clean.

I hate that you laid in the grass of a house in a gated community in the wee hours of the morning, your blood mingling with the dew. Were you even conscious when the neighbor found you? Were you crying? Were you scared? Were you in great pain? I wonder what you must have been feeling after the person who swore to love and protect you had mortally wounded you with a gun.

I'm sorry to write these things. But I need to get them off my chest.

This is a horrible thing to wonder, but I wonder if your face was affected by the gunshot to your throat that shattered your larynx. I wonder if your family had to gaze upon this shattered face while they sat with you in the ICU for four days. Trying to comfort you. Trying to ease your pain.

I hate that the marines had to show up and tell you of Kirk's passing while you were dying in the ICU. I mean, I guess you needed to know. Because you were his wife, after all. Still, I hate that they showed up. This makes me really angry.

I hate that your beautiful, loving family had to watch you perish. Not in an hour. Not in a day. But in four. Four days. And for what? For the sake of an unstable marine with a drug problem and a gun who did not have your highest good at heart.

Your organs were given to people who needed them to live. You saved the lives of other people, Sarah. I don't know if that brings you any comfort to know. But I think you would have been happy for them.

I don't ever go visit your grave. I'll be in Winston-Salem tomorrow so maybe I can stop by and say "hi."

You had a way of bringing joy and laughter into the world unlike any other person I've known. Your crazy love of all people was nothing short of divine. My heart swells with love when I think of your generous spirit. I miss that. I miss your laughter. I miss your silliness. And I miss your hugs.

Kirk Harris was a fine example of what the patriarchy does to men. He needed to die. As do all other adherers of a system that does everything in its power to silence women, to take away our power, to reduce us to a subhuman category.

I was in the hospital the other day visiting my son. A neurologist came in and began talking to my son's father, looking always at him, never at me. My blood boiled. Sexism shows itself in the subtlest ways. I wasn't having it. I interjected questions and comments. I made certain I was seen and heard. You would have done the same thing, I feel certain.

Oh yeah, my son's been in the hospital for almost a week now. For the first several days, he wasn't able to talk. It has been so surreal having this happen during the anniversary of your injuries, your hospital stay, your death. My sorrow has been great. But my son will live and most likely will regain his use of language. So don't feel bad for me. I am grateful he will be well again. I just wish...well, you know. I wish you were here.

During the four days that you were in the hospital, I made a painting to help me process my grief for what had happened to you. But also, it helped me process what had happened to me when my husband hurt me. I will never understand how I ended up alive and you ended up dead.

Anyway, here's the painting I made:

Yes. It's a giant vagina. Giver of life. Source of creation. Object of desire. But our own property.

Here, too, is a painting that Meghan Thompson made after your death. She and Callum came to see me after your death and Callum, sweet thing, told me that you are with the stars now.



I draped the purple scarf around it in homage to you. To honor your life. And the lives of all women who are plagued by remnants of the patriarchy that manifest as domestic violence. Women like me.

Your life is celebrated constantly. There is a memorial fund in your name with Family Services to benefit victims of domestic violence. Team Sassy raised so much money through the Walk a Mile in Her Shoes and the Black and Bling events over the past several years. You would be so proud of your mom and dad and your sister. They have become champions of the quest to end gun violence and institute common sense gun laws. They are actively involved in Mom's Demand Action and Everytown for Gun Safety which takes them all over the place, speaking about their experience and their mission. They are fantastic. They love you so much. I know they miss you greatly. But they have decided to channel their grief into direct action. I admire them for this so much. It takes great fortitude to do what they do.

I guess I'll wrap this up now before I'm late for work. 😀

Oh, before I go, I just want you to know that I call on you from time to time when I need help. When I need to remember the value of my body, my mind, my spirit. I call on your help when I feel stuck by a challenge that a man presents. I ask for your guidance. And let me tell you, I have felt it. So thank-you for that.

I love you forever.

Until we meet again,
Kathy


Tuesday, September 27, 2016

In Honor Of Sarah and Beautiful Women Everywhere

Today is Sarah Browder's death day. In commemorating her existence and her untimely passage,
I have some thoughts that I 'd like to peck out.

People who knew her will say Sarah was a free spirit. She was loving and generous. She was creative and funny. I saw Sarah's fragility. She tried so hard to cover it up with her raucous laughter, her flirtatiousness, her drinking. I worried about her. Rather than embrace her tender heart and guard it carefully, she held her heart wide open, embracing everyone equally. And when you do this, your heart inevitably gets trampled on the ground. Like a tiny bug under a bully's foot. Like a flower in a cow pasture. Sarah got stomped on.

She was resilient, though. It broke my heart to watch her weep in a pile of despondency at night and get up the next morning, laughing, getting ready to do it all over again: to set herself up for more heart stomp by loving fully and passionately regardless of the way others treated her.

I did not like being surprised by the news that she had married. It seemed to have happened in secrecy and this put me on alert. This was trouble, I felt. It was nearly impossible to talk Sarah into doing anything she didn't want to do or out of doing something she wanted to do. Any way, it was too late. I hoped that she would realize soon enough that she'd made a mistake and dissolve this marriage. I didn't even know the guy. I just had a feeling.

I never told Sarah that.

I rarely saw Sarah after she married. And I never met her husband. Kirk. Kirk Harris.  A marine. Son of a doctor in Winston-Salem.

The night that Kirk shot her, she had been at the Silver Moon Saloon where a mutual friend worked. He had seen Sarah and Kirk that night. He said Sarah seemed the same as always. And Kirk seemed the same as always: a dick. My friend the bartender had met Kirk, so he could say that.

There are things I wonder about. I can't help it. Kirk shot Sarah in the throat and the shoulder as she was running away from him. His bullets severed Sarah's spinal chord. Had she lived, she would have been paralyzed from the neck down. Her larynx was damaged. She could not speak. She laid in the cool damp grass of predawn before anyone noticed her. Alone and wounded in the grass for what must have seemed like eternity to her. Where was her mind? What was she thinking after this traumatic event? After the man who swore to love and protect her shot her? And after he shot himself and died in the driveway across the street? Did she realize he had shot himself?

How did she look in the hospital, without her usual purple eye shadow and eyeliner? Was her face injured from the bullets? How much did her body hurt?  How was her emotional state when the marines came in to tell her that her husband had died of a self inflicted gunshot wound? Was she comforted by her parents, by her sister and brother?

Kirk got off easy. Sarah lingered in the ICU for four days before she died. It was all so unfair. So wrong.

I wish I could have seen her one last time to tell her I loved her. I wish I could say that I'm sorry I never came to get that haircut from her when she was in cosmetology school. I wish she hadn't died at all. I wish she hadn't married. I wish I'd kept her under my wing and protected her.

Wishing is a form of magical thinking that we believe does some good. It really doesn't. All wishing does is torment the wisher.

I write these words with fondness, sorrow, love and gratitude. Women everywhere: you are smart. You are beautiful. You are well loved. You have a unique reason for being here. Treasure your heart. Do not allow any mistreatment of your body or emotions to transpire. Stand up for your beauty, for your wisdom, for your strength. Be everything all at once. Be free. Be happy.

I love you.


Monday, March 25, 2013

Demanding the Return of Sarah Browder's Page

Sarah Browder (Harris) was murdered by her husband Kirk Harris in September of 2012.  The Davie County Sheriff, the Marines, the NCIS and the insurance company all agree that the evidence points to this likelihood.  It is an unpleasant reality.  But it is the reality with which all of Sarah's family and friends must grapple.

Sarah had a facebook page which her father took charge of after her death.  He posted albums of photos of Sarah for those of us mourning her loss to view.  He posted quotes of Love and Inspiration.  And whenever he made a post, anyone who was friends with Sarah on facebook would be notified of these posts.  Sandy Browder kept his daughter's page a living, breathing testament of  Love for Sarah.  In this era of social networking, visiting a facebook page is the equivalent of visiting the grave of a deceased loved one. One could argue that it is better, because we can all share our memories and sadness collectively as we attempt to heal.  

Some person in cyberspace has hijacked Sarah's facebook page.  They have done so by having "memorialized" Sarah's page.  This means that Sandy, Sarah's father, can no longer log into this page and change it.  At present, Sarah's friends and family can still post messages and photos to her timeline.  But the fact remains that some person changed this page without the family's knowledge or permission. 

Who would do such a thing?  And why?

Kirk Harris killed Sarah Browder.  The person who hijacked her facebook page is attempting to kill her memory. 

Kirk Harris was the son of Dr. Dean Harris and Mrs. Vicky Harris of Bermuda Run.  His sisters are Leslie Brooks and Cary Floyd.  His brothers are Cpt. Jacob Harris and David Harris.  I gathered this information by reading Harris' obituary online where I also found this: "Kirk leaves behind his wife, Sarah Browder Harris of Greensboro."  He leaves her behind?  As if she's still alive?  Granted, this obituary was posted in the Winston-Salem Journal the day that Sarah died: September 27, 2012.  Still, it has never been corrected.  This could be an oversight.  If so, it is an inconsiderate one.  

Sarah is dead.  She is dead at the hands of Kirk Harris.  We, the friends and family of Sarah, love her.  And we want her facebook page back.