The first time a boy sexually assaulted me, I was four years old. It is one of my earliest, clearest childhood memories.
I remember how the rumpled chenille bedspread on the twin bed in my brothers’ darkened bedroom felt against my skin. I noticed my attacker’s nervous eyes, which continually darted to the door. This boy, who lived in the neighborhood and attended the same church I did, promised to deliver a bag of candy if I’d cooperate. “Shut your eyes,” he said sternly. “No peeking!” I felt him tug down my shorts and panties. Something rubbed vigorously against the place where my pee came out. He tried to poke something in. (Where? I wondered. Why?)
I don’t remember his age, but he was old enough to know it was wrong. Hence, the promise of candy in exchange for cooperation and silence. I loved candy.
I peeked anyway. I had brothers. I knew what a penis was (though I didn’t know what it was called.) That’s what he rubbed against me. In that moment, I was so curious. Why was he doing this? Why was it worth a bag of candy? Why did it have to be a secret? After a time, he told me to pull up my shorts. He grabbed my shoulders and looked at me intently. “Remember,” he said. “You can’t tell anybody.”
His big mistake, looking back, was not delivering on the promised candy. I was mad about that, so I told my oldest brother. He told my parents. Only in their questioning of me did it become clear that something Very Bad had happened. There were no witnesses. They did not call the police. I remember a bunch of adults huddled in my living room, and later, my father talking to this boy in the garage. I discovered years later that he had assaulted at least one other of my childhood friends, who lived in the neighborhood and went to the same church. I don’t know if her parents called the police. I doubt they did. Eventually, I learned his name.
I didn’t feel traumatized at the time. I am outraged now. My parents, who were very loving, are dead. I wish I could ask them why they didn’t report, but I am pretty sure I already know the answer. It just wasn’t done back then.
I did feel traumatized by what happen to me when I was 13 or 14. Details are vague except for this: A bunch of us were gathered at a pool without adult supervision. Two boys, friends of mine, undid the hook on my bathing suit top — it was lime green with little white flowers on it. They began tugging, trying to pull it off. I can’t give you the names of everyone who was in attendance, but the hooting and laughter and encouragement from others is seared into my brain. I desperately clung to the side of the pool with my stronger right hand, as my left hand clutched my bathing suit top. I screamed for them to stop. Eventually they did.
The sting of helplessness, humiliation, and shame I felt during that assault is vivid. But I’d bet big money those boys, whom I still know, have no memory of it. I didn’t tell anyone because when you’re in the throes of adolescence, who wants to be the crybaby, the spoil sport, the girl who can’t take a joke? Those boys grew into men. From everything I can see, they’re good men. When I go to high school reunions, I hug them. They have daughters, and granddaughters. Lately, I’ve wished I could summon up the courage to ask, not with judgment but with true curiosity: “How would you feel today if that happened to your daughter?”
Because of the inescapable public discourse this week, these memories and so many others have been swirling in my mind. So many stories. Unbidden memories stream on-again, off-again on my mental movie screen. Some memories are fairly mild, hardly worth watching. Others are outrageous and full of pain. Some incidents were fueled by alcohol and partying (I’ve seen plenty of drunk church goers in my day, myself included.) Others happened when I was stone cold sober. Things sometimes happened under the cover of dark. At least one incident happened on a public street in broad daylight when I was in my 30s. A man approached me. I thought he was going to ask directions. Instead, he boldly ran his hand up my thigh and grabbed that part of me that the president has bragged — on tape — about grabbing. (Grab. Brag. Funny how similar those words are.) It was over in an instant, but I still remember the leering grin he flashed at me as he walked away. And how exposed and vulnerable I felt.
The common thread that weaves these disparate memories is this: A man felt entitled to help himself to various parts of my body without my permission. Why didn’t I report? Why would I? Like millions of my sisters, I just chalked it up to the price of being female.
I’ve had continuous arguments between me and myself over whether to share these stories publicly. My stories are like the millions of other stories being told. How could my voice add anything new or unique? And while these incidents have certainly colored my world view and influenced my behavior, they do not define me. They are by no means the worst thing that ever happened to me.
Yet I feel compelled to share. Maybe because I have grandchildren — one of my granddaughters just turned 4. I don’t want them to grow up in a world where too many men see female bodies as some sort of free sexual buffet to which they’re entitled. I want them to live in a culture where everyone — men and women — is respected as a whole complex human being, no matter who they are or where they come from.
Here is what I know:
I am strong and smart, capable and confident. I am loved. I have a truly rich life, for which I am grateful every single day. I also know that everybody has a story, and everybody’s experience is true, and that many things can be true at the same time. Excavating the Real Truth, if that even exists, can sometimes be impossible. There may even be times when the truth is irrelevant, (though I am less sure about this.)
Here is something else I know:
We are all, men and women, human and flawed. People make mistakes. People need forgiveness and redemption. And in the experience of my fairly long life, that only comes with awareness, accountability, contrition and change.
It is important to me to remember, and for you to understand, that the things that happened to me did not ruin my life. Not even close. But they happened. And I didn’t deserve any of them. I am not to be blamed. And they matter, even if no police reports were filed.