GUEST COLUMN
Learning to Write Naked ByChavron Barry
Naked. Do you remember being a child in the swimming pool change room? When wrinkled women with saggy bottoms and less-than-perky breasts walked free as daisies. They showered and chatted about their daily routines, unashamed. Comfortable in their skin. Me? I wrapped my towel around my body and slid each piece of my bathing suit off and pulled every layer of clothing on. Not even the tiniest sliver of pink flesh would be exposed. I didn’t want anyone to see me. And in many ways, that fear permeated the rest of my life. “Does she know how to talk?” an adult visitor whispered to my aunt. In public the answer was, “Not really.” I became a professional at avoidance, silence and fading into the background. I even convinced myself that it was good, godly, humble. A friend’s mother told her daughter, as we sat side by side at the dinner table, “Why can’t you be more polite, like Chavon.” And to be honest, I kind of lived for moments like that. I was so good at hiding she noticed. Maybe this is the story of many writers, artists and actors who find their voice on the page, the canvas or the stage. Their observations of the world need a path out. My high school English teacher gave me one. He invited a close-lipped teen to read her stories to the class. Words sprang out of my mouth and, for once, 18
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I was seen and it didn’t scare me. Talking in a crowd off-script was still messy though. Too easy to make a mistake, to accidentally expose some flesh. Carefully chosen habits die hard.
I kept the peace? Am I invisible yet? Is God pleased?
In university, I wrote and wrote and wrote but never spoke in class. I lost 20% of my mark again and again because I couldn’t participate in group discussions. I couldn’t. I’d have to write perfectly and earn the other eighty. One professor pulled me aside. She said, “Chavon, you’re a sleepy student. Your writing; however, it’s quite good.” I listened not sure if I was being lectured or complimented. She seemed uncertain too.
And then my childhood nightmares became a reality that silence couldn’t fix. When you’re running for help the scream needs to be heard.
I thought time would be the magic cure. I’d suddenly grow up and drop the towel. The anxiety would disappear and I’d be free. In some ways it did, I married the boy. I studied to be a teacher (Go figure). I got a bit braver. I birthed three boys naked. But negative thoughts swirled in my head. And I remained passive and silent in too many areas of my life. I stopped writing. My circle of friends remained small. And work left me isolated. The towel that once felt safe became so tight I couldn’t move. I blamed my faith and, in some ways, rightly so. It encouraged me to be humble, to choose the quiet path, to promote another’s needs above my own and to be perfect as Christ was perfect. It’s confusing when every effort to follow the rules leads you further down a lonely road. Where you look left and right and there is no one but you and your constructed pedestal. Did I win the humble race? Have
I didn’t realize the deep, raw anger that slowly rooted itself inside me.
I know now that the urge to go to a Bible study, the letter I typed outlining every way the Christian faith didn’t work for me, and the new friends who leaned in to pray were all the Holy Spirit whispering, “Wake up, Chavon. It’s time to wake up.” And to be frank, it wasn’t a television roll-out-of-bed, hair styled, face-powdered wake-up. It was messy. It was me sobbing in the middle of a stunned group of strangers. Determined to skip the jargon, I let the words spill out as honestly as I could. I wrestled with God. My weapon was my pen and I invited others to read my jumbled thoughts. There were many sleepless nights tossing and turning. The words didn’t fall out ‘just right’ and I relived every awkward prayer after awkward prayer. I was an addict and silent perfection was my substance. It seems trite to say but the withdrawal was real and my desperation to escape the pain overwhelming. But once the words were out I couldn’t take them back. To drop the towel hurt more than I could ever have imagined. To say, “Here’s me naked and broken and my life isn’t all edited, pretty and perfect. It’s sad and hard” was one of the toughest things I have ever done.
to change what I thought could never be changed. To see that my body came with lungs, a diaphragm, a tongue, lips and a voice box for a reason. To know that my humanity, my story, and my limits—pink flesh and all—don’t scare God. He walked in a body that would experience brokenness too. I was the one afraid to look at myself. God never turned his eyes away. The path is long and I will probably continue to be awkward. But like those women in the swimming pool change room, there is beauty in the imperfection. A hint of wholeness. God hears our flawed prayers and answers.
Chavon Barry Chavon Barry is a wife, a mother to three boys, and a teacher. In her spare time, she writes and edits, most often for Collected Magazine (a passion project she began with three friends) and for her own blog www.chavonbarry. weebly.com. She writes in the middle of the mess and explores how faith pulls us through even our darkest seasons. Vancouver Island (British Columbia, Canada) is the only place she’s ever called home.
But in this place, God grew me up. Showed me how
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