In preschool I took karate. Karate was a part of, not separate from, the preschool experience, which also included tee-ball, swinging while singing "Achy Breaky Heart," and learning to tell time on an analog clock. Those are the main things that I remember about preschool, but those main memories involve secondaries. I remember, for example, feeling embarrassed after swinging the plastic bat and completely missing the plastic ball sitting easily atop the plastic tee, and I remember getting a "gold" trophy for kicking a wooden board in half during a karate performance. I have no memory of being prepped for kicking the board before the performance. What I remember is watching the other karate kids ahead of me go onto the stage and kick the board in half and panicking as I awaited my turn, because I knew I never had kicked, and furthermore was incapable of kicking, a wooden board in half. But when my turn came, I did kick it in half, but only because the board was actually already in two pieces: it was just being held by the karate instructor in a way that made it look like one piece. So I got a trophy, for basically nothing. But I thought it was a fabulous trophy … until a few days later when the faux-gold coating started to chip, revealing lackluster plastic underneath. If my emotions lately were an image, that is the image they'd start off being. And then they would turn into the image of me deliberately and defiantly, and feeling full of disappointment, flaking away the fake gold dishonestly coating the trophy-figure's masculine, plastic and milky white body. And what I'm doing now, talking about what I'm about to talk about, amounts to an effort to shed my initial sorrow over the disappointing trophy that, once desquamated, looks more like a ghost than a prize. I want to pay tribute to the ugly ghost.
I might be mixing metaphors here, but I have to warn you that this is an atrocious ghost I'm dealing with. The story I'm working on telling is about sexual assault and might, for that reason, be triggering. It's essentially a very upsetting story I have to tell, so, again, if you feel inclined to stop reading, please obey that inclination.
When I was in ninth grade my mom went out of town, and I was supposed to stay at a friend's house while she was gone. Instead, I stayed home and threw a Christmas party, for which I had sent out invitations about a week in advance. At the party I chugged a beer, the first beer of my life, and soon after chugging the beer I went to my bedroom with a boy I had kissed a few times before. The boy and I started kissing in my bedroom, and he wanted to lie down with me. I figured that he wanted to have sex, and I knew I didn't want to have sex, so I refused to lie down with him, which made him angry. My very last memory from that night is seeing this boy leave my room, upset that I wouldn't lie down with him, and the last feeling I remember having that night is relief. I didn't care that this boy was mad at me, and I was glad at his leaving, because suddenly I felt exhausted and wanted nothing but to sleep. I woke up the next morning with blood in my underwear, and the tops of my legs and in between my legs felt bruised and tender, a feeling that lasted a few days.
I think I told this story for the first time soon (I don't know how soon) after it happened. I think I told my best friend at the time. And then I didn't tell this story again for nine years. It would periodically occur to me that this thing had happened, but I remember thinking in the shower the day after the party that I could never tell anyone. Whenever it has since occurred to me, I've had an immediate emotional response that goes like this: that's the thing you never think about, and you can never tell anyone. Sometimes I would verbally instruct myself, saying, "That's the thing no one can ever know," and I never wanted to even think about what that "thing" was.
And then all of the sudden, this last Saturday, I was in the shower, and the memory hit me, and I couldn't keep it away. I've been incapable of fighting the memory away before, most notably four years after it happened when I saw the boy while I was at one of those Bank of Americas inside Kroger, where I was depositing a paycheck. But even on days I couldn't quite keep the memory away, I always knew that I couldn't tell anyone. It was a pact I had with myself. The idea of telling anyone made the memory considerably more painful, unbearable even. But on Saturday, when the memory hit me, I thought, "You have to tell Aron." And after I told Aron, I told some others, whom I'm not going to name, because I don't want their identities associated with this next, extremely distressing revelation: of the six people I've told, three reported something similar happening to them. And two of those three reported feeling a shame so strong that for years they kept what happened to them a secret.
Revealing in such a public way what happened to me is less about the event itself and more about the senseless shame that surrounds events of this kind. For so long I felt so ashamed, and when I admit what happened to me, I feel like it amounts to announcing that I'm done being ashamed of this thing that I didn't want, control or invite. I in no way want to suggest that women with similar experiences should reveal what happened to them. For almost ten years I would've preferred dying over anyone knowing. But now, suddenly, it feels so important to me that people who have had experiences like the one I had know that they're not alone and that they shouldn't feel any shame over what happened to them. It took me almost a decade to realize that I shouldn't feel ashamed, and I certainly wish I hadn't felt ashamed for so long. My voice is tiny, but I want to use it here, in my little bitty blog, to say that I now realize what should have been obvious all along: there's nothing to be ashamed of. I didn't have to be disappointed in myself for so long. I didn't have to be disappointed in myself at all.
It's not uncommon to hear a woman be accused of fabricating a story of sexual assault. People presume that, if she were telling the truth, she would've come forward to tell that truth earlier than she did. I can't really convey how painful it is for me to look back on the times I've heard people doubt the veracity of rape claims: I feel like my decade-long failure to admit what happened to me has contributed to the suspicion ("Is she lying?" and/or "Was she asking for it?") that pervades the sexual assault dialogue. This sort of suspicion has always pissed me off, and lately, because I feel complicit, it has also been breaking my heart. So I'm working on fixing myself and atoning for my silence.
I have an amazing friend who sent me this after I told him what happened, and I want to share it because I think it's so kind and beautiful:
Oranges. I just finished eating frozen oranges. The oranges themselves are so fresh that they literally came off a tree in my backyard only a few hours ago and then were promptly stored in my freezer so that they would freeze. They make quite the delicious and refreshing treat and are a critical element of my quest to finally stop drinking soda.
When you messaged me last night and told me about what you had told Aron I did not know how to react. What is different than the time in which friends, mostly female, in fact – all female explained a history of sexual abuse or misconduct is that there was always a title attached to it. You however simply told a story.
When I go outside to pick the oranges I have to cross into the gate for my orchard. It’s a rusty gate and the chain that locks it is much more oxidized. In reality, it’s pretty gross to touch. If I weren’t such an addict to soda pop I might have it in me to pour some Coca Cola on the chain to see some of the rust fall off.
One of the things I have always liked about you is your matter of speaking. You are concise without rushing yourself and honest without being blunt and you may in fact be the single most polite person I’ve ever met. Rarely have I ever heard you speak spitefully of someone you knew personally.
As I enter the orchard of trees I can grab the picking stick and cross through a shed of useless mechanical parts. Surely, if I found it in me to not drink so much soda and do commit myself to any worthwhile projects I could make something. Maybe art or something functional, I feel like there are so many things I could do, if only I could convince myself to stop drinking soda.
So of course when you share a story as intimate and as personal as yours I find myself poised to listen and beyond that reflect. Oddly enough my first instinct is to want to hug you and tell you that the world is okay and it’s still an overall good place and that not all people are selfish monsters worth of disdain.
In trying to get the oranges I have found it best to simply bring down a branch and grab one or two or three or four. To be fair to the trees I try to rotate which one I’ll grab oranges from each trip. They are not for sale. They are only for me and my friends, and sometimes my neighbors, who frequently make delicious orange juice.
As I slept and pondered what I could say, well, really, there is nothing I can say to make it go away, or I presume even make you feel better and even then, I’m not sure if that would be the goal. What I am trying to say is that as your friend it disturbs me that this happened and if you would like to talk about it then I am here for you. If you would like to never bring it up again or on a whim or solely on even numbered days or whenever either of us wears plaid, then I am also here for you.
I said this on CourseKit, but it just occurred to me I should say it here, too. Bravo, Amelia. This was tremendously brave of you and I hope it helps in your healing. <3
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