The Price of Staying: Why I Left America

Violence isn’t just for the violent in the USA

At twenty-one, I had a museum show. I was highlighted as a rising star in fine arts, had just won a major commission in my city, and my hands could shape beauty from raw materials in ways that made people stop and stare. I was living the artist’s dream. Until I wasn’t.

Violence has a way of reshaping not just your body, but your entire world. First came the armed assault, the robbery, the maiming. Armed robbers shattered my arm, bruised my skull, and took my 7$. $65k in medical bills. Oh and this happened 3 blocks away from my mother’s home in an upscale neighborhood.

Four months later, in another city, the stalking and sexual assault. I was told “Sex is just sex.” Even though my rapist told me this wasn’t the first time someone went to the police. The police reports gathered dust and a cop in Brooklyn told me: It’s your word against his. This isn’t going anywhere.

My arm required multiple reconstructive surgeries, and with each one, my career as a sculptor slipped further away. I lost joy in just about everything that year.

The physical scars were only the beginning. PTSD rewrote the rules of my existence: no working with men unless their wives were present, no cities on bad days when leaving the house became an…