Prey Tell

Why We Silence Women Who Tell the Truth and How Everyone Can Speak Up

Tiffany Bluhm

• Publisher: Brazos Press
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781587434785
• eBook ISBN: 9781493429660
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Religion

"A welcome book offering an important wake-up call to the Christian community and beyond."--Gail Eubanks, Library Journal

Tiffany Bluhm wishes this wasn't her story to tell. Yet like many women today who are taking action against sexual harassment and sexual assault, it is. Bluhm explores the complex dynamics of power and abuse in systems we all find ourselves in. With honesty and strength, she tells stories of how women have overcome silence to expose the truth about their ministry and professional leaders--and the backlash they so often face. In so doing, she empowers others to speak up against abuses of power.

Addressing men and women in all work settings--within the church and beyond--popular author and podcast host Tiffany Bluhm sets out to understand the cultural and spiritual narratives that silence women and to illuminate the devastating emotional, financial, and social impact of silence in the face of injustice.

As readers journey with Bluhm, they will be moved to find their own way, their own voice, and their own conviction for standing with women. They'll emerge more ready than ever to advocate for justice, healing, and resurrection.

Part 1: Why We Silence Women Who Tell the Truth

1
Everything Is Just Fine

There he was, ten feet in front of me in broad daylight. There was no mistaking him for someone else. To my advantage, I spotted him from behind the tinted windows of my car, where he couldn’t see me, yet I could watch him. Of course, I knew the day would come when our paths would cross, but I never guessed it would happen without him ever knowing.

Truth be told, up to that point I feared his presence so severely that I avoided his local haunts and had been successful in maintaining my distance. Yet there he was. With a pounding heart and shaking hands, I held my breath and clenched the steering wheel as he crossed the street in front of me. As he passed, one step in front of the other, the most remarkable thing happened—I survived. Time froze so I could be afforded a moment to realize that his hold over me was gone. Before he vanished from sight, I whispered, “I won’t give you power over me. Not anymore.”

I found it terribly odd that, the very same day I saw that man walking down the street when I sat crouched in my car, I had read a lengthy piece about a publicly beloved man’s untoward actions behind closed doors. Women who had previously worked for the well-known icon disclosed stories that painted him in an unfavorable light in the country’s most distinguished newspaper. Their stories reminded me that my own story was not to be despised but rather to be honored for how it had given me a deep commitment to justice, truth telling, and accountability. Yet for me, the penny was still in the air. That man on the street, by the looks of it, was going to get away with all he had done with zero ramifications or consequences. It seemed as though he had won—and I had lost more than I would have ever dreamed. He held the power; I did not.

You see, for the majority of my life I had made it my mission to keep men who held power in my life pleased with me, to stay on their good side, and to do as I was told. I played by their rules and hardly questioned their authority. Every boss I’ve ever had, except for one (thank you to the beautiful Korean woman who managed the Quiksilver outlet), has been a well-resourced white man. Every pastor I’ve ever had, including my grandfather, has been a white man. On top of that, in nearly every setting I grew up in, I was the only minority, the token brown girl in a sea of snow white. My nickname in high school, printed on the back of my cheer sweatshirt and cat-called through the halls, I kid you not, was “brown girl.” As an agreeable, conflict-avoidant woman of color, rather than voice any concern when I spotted discrepancies or experienced othering, I mastered silencing my own voice in order to be of value to the world around me, especially to the men who employed or pastored me. This is what postcolonial theorist and Columbia University professor Gayatri Spivak describes when minorities, in an effort to have power, contort themselves to manifest it in a way that is recognizable and acceptable to those who ultimately hold it.1 I could fit your definition of acceptable to ensure you felt comfortable with my presence.

As an adopted girl from East India raised in a rural white community with white parents and male siblings, I never thought to question the hierarchy, as I was conditioned to believe that the world was ordered for men of means to hold power and for people like me, those who didn’t fit the order, to fall in line and take whatever scraps were given to us. This implicit belief was reinforced in textbooks, in movies, by the government, at hourly wage jobs, from the pulpit, and even on notoriously racist billboards along the highway. Women were second to men, and minority women sat at the end of the line. Men set the rules, defined their meaning, and enforced said rules. Growing up, I wish I’d known of the strides women had made worldwide to be recognized as equals, to be seen as dignified and worthy of respect—how women marched, lobbied, and fought against patriarchal practices in the halls of power that demeaned, silenced, and slandered them. I wonder if I would have gleaned from their strength and stories, believing that another way was possible: one where women, even marginalized, minority women, have a place that is not inferior but necessary.

Even if I did learn of Toni Morrison, bell hooks, Savitribai Phule, the Grimké sisters, or Sojourner Truth, it was hard to believe that equality was possible when one of my earliest, most terrifying memories was playing in the yard of the neighbor girl’s house when her dad, with a shotgun in tow, screamed at me to get off of his lawn and “go back to where you came from.” I heard him loud and clear and ran as quickly as my little legs could carry me through their field, across the street, and up my driveway, straight into my house, where I hid in my room. I was seven. The very next day at school, my friend said nothing of the encounter between her dad and me. She never spoke of it, and neither did I. I, as a young brown girl, was inferior, and that white man, forty years my senior, with his shiny black gun, was superior. I would not be convinced otherwise.

After I graduated from high school, my understanding of a woman’s place in the world expanded as my grip on justice tightened, but I still held to this conscious, and subconscious, belief that if I held even a shred of power, it was because someone with privilege (in my case, white male privilege) had given it me. Many of my pastors, bosses, teachers, and mentors, to their credit, were outrageously gracious, kind, and generous. To them I owe so much. They believed in women, married strong women, and gave me opportunities I would have never had otherwise; however, they still remained in charge of women. Many of them treated that power with the utmost respect; others abused it beyond what I could have ever imagined.

Like many other women, I’ve made excuses for the men in my world. He didn’t mean it like that. That wasn’t his intent. He’s a good guy. I’m sure he has my best interest at heart. He is the one God chose to lead me. He sees the whole picture. He knows change takes time. He means well, but boys will be boys. I made excuses until I couldn’t. Until my convictions outweighed my loyalty.

Faux Egalitarianism

From the first moment we meet him, we know he is different. We can’t help instantly liking him as he comes in for a tight handshake, one hand in ours and the other nestling our elbow. A smile spans ear to ear. In a world where women are ushered to the back seat, ignored, or hired as a token of inclusivity, it’s a surprise to meet someone who enthusiastically welcomes women as equals. His presence is refreshing, and his charm, palpable. Even better, we never went looking for a boss/coach/mentor/pastor like him. He found us. He tells us how humbled he is that we would entertain the opportunity of serving him.

As we get to know him, he asks questions about our personal story. He’s caring and fascinated about how we have collected the life experience we have. He might ask about our family or if we are dating anyone. You know, normal get-to-know-you stuff, we tell ourselves. Even though he probes into our personal life, he makes us feel like he cares about knowing us beyond our skill sets, gifts, connections, and references. With everything he says, every question and comment, we feel more and more at ease. Free to be our honest self: not a woman attempting to fill a man’s place in the world, but a woman with skills, passions, and knowledge to excel. He doesn’t seem aloof or out of touch with how the world treats women in the workplace, in politics, in sports, in entertainment, in education, or in the church. He condemns those who do not treat women as equals, and he’s the kind of man with power and privilege we dream of, one who will use it to advance the place of women—or so we think.

Right out of the gate, he makes it clear to those around him that we are capable, worthy of respect. A force for good and a welcomed asset in his life. He gives us opportunities that we are shocked to receive and take ever so seriously. If he ever receives pushback from others over our place in his orbit, he defends us. His commitment to a woman’s place in the system is more than theory. He knows what we are capable of and pushes us to be the best version of ourselves. He makes time for conversations that always crescendo with encouragement of the woman we are becoming. He does everything in his power to advance our trajectory in the world. We are in a perpetual state of fangirl joy as his personal warmth relentlessly matches his public praise of us.

Perhaps another perk of serving, working, or partnering with him: he regularly asks for our opinion on what could be different. It isn’t unusual for him to ask for feedback, and together we collaborate on improving the system we are in. There are only a handful who are privileged enough to be asked what they think, and we are honored to be among them.

Referring to the men in his world, he mentions that they don’t get him like we do. They’ve been around forever and are set in their ways. He needs us to get where he wants to go, and we understand what it takes. He convinces us that we have a special connection with him that is unlike other connections with the men and women in his life. He tells us that together we can move the needle; we know how to do it, and we have what it takes.

Truthfully, we admit, he is everything we want to be. Relentlessly creative, sharp, successful, a visionary, and appearing to dignify the existence of everyone he meets. He doesn’t present himself as untouchable but comes across as a man interested in the well-being of others. His approach becomes the gold standard for us. He seems to care for everyone he meets—he memorizes names, recalls complex details of someone’s personal story, and checks in on a regular basis. He positions himself as not only a boss, coach, professor, or spiritual leader, but also a mentor and promoter. He introduces us to people with power as if we are their equal and praises our accomplishments in front of strangers. Anytime we are around him, we feel proud to be associated with him. Everyone’s ways are antiquated, but not his. He understands the power of a smart woman, and by his own admittance, he lets her run free. He is the champion that every woman pursuing equality hopes for.

We hardly question his investment in us. We give him the benefit of the doubt and feel no inkling to question his motives. We, along with the others he’s convinced of his persona, believe in him, his upright character, and his rapidly growing vision for us.

Even if some of his comments make us feel sick to our stomach. Like when he says,

• “We really need a female perspective to round things out here.”
• “No one would listen to you if you weren’t so beautiful.”
• “You’re my proud diversity hire.”
• “Wow, you look stunning in that dress.”
• “Girlie, you get it. I know you hear me.”
• “Teach these old guys something new, sis.”
• “I love the way you wear your hair like that.”
• “Maybe we could talk about your promotion over lunch.”
• “We need to see you on the stage more. Everyone likes it.”
• “We don’t want her leading the prayer meeting, they need eye candy. Ask someone skinnier.”
• “Well, I think women have their place and voice, certainly, but we still know at the end of the day someone has to make the hard decisions and not everyone is going to agree.”
• “No one ever complained about this before—are you sure this isn’t just a personal issue or vendetta? Give us facts, not emotions.”
• “We aren’t trying to silence anyone, just appear as a united front.”
• “Of course you’re allowed to speak up, but, personally, I’ve never seen what you’re mentioning happen.”

He never makes these remarks in front of a crowd, mind you, only behind closed doors, where the one subject to his insensitive comments feels too indebted to him to speak up.

His comments pile up in the recesses of our mind. We sometimes ride the wave of his compliments just as others do. He makes us feel noticed and highly esteemed, even if, at times, it is for our looks, but of course we don’t always feel esteemed. We feel degraded. If he makes a low blow, others might clap back with a snappy comment about how hard they have worked to be heard, how diligently they have labored to be taken seriously, but we don’t respond this way. We don’t want to lose our opportunities. We don’t want to lose his favor. We don’t want to lose everything we have worked so hard to build. We weigh the odds, and it doesn’t seem worth it to question his comments. We receive it for what it is, because, like so many others, he is not only a mentor to us but also a promoter. We feel as though if we are going to advance in the world, it will be because of him. Faux egalitarianism at its finest.

Trapped in a Broken System

Women weigh the odds and count the costs of speaking out. They choose to remain silent in...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Endorsements
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction
• Part 1: Why We Silence Women Who Tell the Truth
• Part 2: How We Silence Women
• Part 3: How Everyone Can Speak Up
• Notes
• About the Author
• Back Cover