‘Sharing your stories is optional…,” I tell my writing class participants and watch their shoulders relax, “…but here’s why I encourage it.”
I launch into a spiel about the release that comes with expressing our authentic voices, the validation we give others who may otherwise feel alone in their experiences, and the gift of perspective we give to those who are open to seeing things in a new light. But at the end of the day, I know the choice is always with the one who holds the story.
I understand what it is like to be vulnerable. I know that it’s scary and intimidating. The first time I experienced this in my writing career was exactly four years ago when I wrote an open letter to my fellow Canadians for The Huffington Post in response to the shooting on Parliament Hill.
In it, I detailed my reaction to the sad news I received while standing outside my son’s preschool, flashbacked to the moment I learned about the 9-11 attacks and asked Canadians to remain true to our values of acceptance and pluralism.
I didn’t know how far this letter would reach, but the editors were smart: they changed my working title to include the word ‘Muslim,’ which is a sure-fire way to make a post go viral.
Each time I refreshed the article on my screen, more comments showed up. I read them with my heart in my throat.
Some were kind and encouraging; most were venomous. At regular intervals throughout the day, The Huffington Post tweeted the article and tagged me – and each time I’d feel a new wave of nausea. I’ve never been called the things I was called over the days that followed. My kids learned the reality of cyberbullying and what it can do to an actual person on the other side of the screen. And every time I looked at them, I wondered if I had made a grave mistake.
I could have kept quiet and just gone on with my life. Instead, I’d opened myself up to being a target of judgment and hate, and dragged my kids into it at the same time.
I told myself that it would blow over. Isn’t that the way the world works? We become obsessed with one story and then get distracted by another?
I waited for someone else to write an article that would pull the spotlight off mine.
But a note in my inbox from CBC Radio told me that this was a conversation that needed to be had. And from that radio interview, I was approached by two different churches to speak to their congregation over the next six months. More sharing, more vulnerability.
From those talks, I was invited to speak at a multi-faith women’s symposium the following year about my belief that we can come together on common ground to build safer, healthier communities for our children. More opportunities to make a positive impact.
Now when I look back on that article I wrote on a whim, I see it for what it truly was: a catalyst for many incredible interfaith conversations and bridge-building opportunities (like this column).
So, when I tell my workshop participants – whether we are studying memoir or practising the art of expressive writing – that sharing is optional, I hold my breath. It is their choice and I respect the need to protect oneself from potential heartache and distress.
But I hope that when they, and when you, look at stories from your life, you see the nuggets of wisdom unearthed, that when shared can do a world of good for someone else and for your community.
Messages of acceptance, pluralism, integrity, honesty and love are sorely needed today. I would love to hear and read more of those.
Columnist Taslim Jaffer writes monthly on multicultural connections.