equation. Because composing about trauma is undeniably personal and risky, we’re often not comfortable with “self-disclosure.” Nonetheless, the most human of all kinds of communication demands other humans. A small, prepared response group anchors our writing about trauma, demonstrating for us that we are not alone, that whatever worries or misgivings or confusions beset us can be understood by others—others who can help in abundantly different ways. This is the core principle of small response groups: the individual internalizes the behaviors of group members, thereby widening her repertoire of how to write, how to think, how to behave.
Getting started is simple: gather a handful of like-minded spirits who can meet on a regular basis to share their pieces—their ideas, plans, drafts, revisions, images, and even responses to common readings. Each group figures out what’s needed to communicate effectively. It takes time for people to build rapport and trust each other, so they should begin with non-threatening tasks, such as sharing why they’re interested in composing and trauma, what led them here, or discussing influential and relevant readings.
There are no rules for the register or level of formality in which anyone can speak; the only rule is that writers somehow communicate with their group members by responding as a human being, not as a grammar cop. About the worst feedback they can give to someone who’s just written about her terminal disease is, “In line two of paragraph one, you need a comma after that subordinate clause.” Far down the line, the writer may choose to revise for a wider audience and a specific purpose, such as publication. If and when that time comes, then that comma comment may be appropriate. But even before looking at grammar and mechanics, other useful responses include some basic principles of general semantics: Are some words too general and vague? Does the writer present ideas only in black and white terms, leaving out any middle ground? Does the writer make blanket judgments instead of qualifying what she says? What is the ratio of words with positive meanings and connotations to those that are negative? Most of the time, though, we have to respond with empathy, as one human to another. Nothing less.
In small groups, everyone has to be prepared to accept anything. What is offered to our peers depends upon us, upon how much we want to disclose at any given time. It’s natural to disclose more detail as our level of trust grows. Initially, some group members may fear that such writing will re-open old wounds, as they interrogate and excavate an unspeakable moment. This discomfort is not unusual. However, I’ve learned from others and my own experience that such discomfort is short-lived. In the long run, most people find that it was worth it.
Another concern that can surface early on (or fester, if unspoken) is our awareness that popular culture is drenched in confessional dramas, from the television program, “Cheaters,” in which wayward spouses confront each other, to YouTube confessions, to the politician or evangelist “coming clean” for past transgressions. This backdrop of popular culture can trivialize the serious efforts of sincere people trying to help themselves by composing about trauma. This is a hard obstacle to deal with, but it’s worth putting on the table for groups to explore and discard. We need to keep in mind that there are clear differences between public confessions for ratings, profit, and instant fame, on the one hand, and for personal, contextualized disclosure for personal growth, on the other hand.
Not just popular culture can influence our composing about trauma. Larger cultural forces, of course, can play a role, too. These are issues that can definitely help writers see that “they are not alone,” that such forces exert a kind of gravitational pull on all of us. I firmly believe that learning about such forces—biological, environmental, and cultural—should be integrated into our composing about trauma, but not until the trauma’s specific events, places, people, and feelings have been well developed and processed. At this point, it’s time to “enlarge the context” by researching relevant facts and issues, and then integrating them into our narratives.
One writer, for example, wrote about her adoption when she was an infant. After she’d thoroughly explored this issue, I suggested that she investigate the entire adoption issue for the population in the state and region where she was adopted, as well as the same timeframe as her own placement: What were the requirements for adoption, on both sides? What were the most common reasons, circa the late 1950’s, for babies to be put up for adoption? What was the social and economic context during this period of her new family? This look into outside sources positioned the writer in a place and time, clarifying and broadening her issues. Mainly, this enlarged context weakened or diluted her anxieties.
Another writer focused on the shame and ostracism suffered by his family when his younger brother was arrested for using marijuana. They lived in a small, conservative town in the Midwest. This situation needed to be enlarged, so that the writer could understand that, in many other areas of the country, and with different groups of people, a pot-bust would not be considered a huge deal, for many reasons.
Claire, who, as a child, was repeatedly molested by her brother, gained a wider context and more understanding when her writing explored the possibility that her parents suspected what was going on, but did nothing to stop it. After all, she reasoned, they were a very successful and religious family, well respected within their urban community; their mother avoided conflicts and did not want to upset their family’s life; and Kent, her brother, had reason to feel that his father loved Claire and her two younger sisters more than him, as he did not receive a new bicycle when they did, even though he had long wanted one.
Claire also explored her trauma’s larger context when she described a midnight conversation with her sisters, Darla and Trish, which happened four years after Kent first raped her. The whole family had returned late from a Pentecostal church service in a neighboring state. Since it was summer, the girls were allowed to stay up even later, as their parents went to bed. They agreed to watch a television program featuring a real judge and courtroom—“reality TV.” In this program, a ten-year-old girl was suing her sixteen-year-old brother for rape. Claire sits in the dark, fearful of showing her tears of embarrassment.
I lay on my belly on the side of the brown and white flowered velvet armchair, hoping that it was too dark for Trish and Darla to see my depressed countenance. Neither of them knew what had happened between Kent and me. I had been keeping it a secret. I knew that Darla wouldn’t understand, and I thought that if I told Trish, out of concern, she would tell Mamma and Daddy. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk adding to the pile of dirty laundry our family had developed. Darla was sitting in the loveseat diagonally to my left, by herself, and Trish was seated on the couch in the back of the room. The dim light cast shadows on their faces. I watched them from the shadows of the armchair as they watched the program. It almost seemed as if they were in deep thought of their own. . . . I was actually trying to hold my breath to prevent the need to cry from setting in. A few tears came out, but I was too hidden for Darla and Trish to see.
The TV judge gently coaxes the young girl to admit that her brother had raped her, as Claire continues her narrative:
The atmosphere in the living room changed. Darla began coughing. I could tell she was faking. She couldn’t handle the intensity of the silence either. Trish was in the back of the room leaning on her left elbow and rubbing her temples. She always did this when she was nervous or about to cry. . . . The show went off and all of us were still attempting to mask our embarrassment. Finally, Trish broke the silence.
“Did Kent do anything to y’all?” she asked softly with a slight smile on her face.
She wasn’t smiling because she was amused, but because that was the only way she could hide her humiliation. We all smile when we get in trouble, from Daddy on down. She didn’t have to clarify. We all knew what she was talking about.
“Yeah,” I whispered. I knew Mamma and Daddy were asleep, but I still had to whisper. I was scared to hear myself admit to it aloud. I imagined sirens and bells going off soon as the words left my lips.
“Did he for real?” she asked, relieved to know that she wasn’t the only one.
“Uh-huh.”
“How many times?” she asked softly, now smiling with excitement.
I don’t know if my boldness to talk about this came from being so relieved that someone had been through the