In elementary school there was a boy in my class that didn’t fit in. He smelled funny and everyone knew that he didn’t come from a “good home.” I was taught to be nice to kids who don’t fit in. This kid who I kind of felt sorry for, he liked to grab me me in places he wasn’t supposed to. Every chance he got, waiting in line for lunch, on the playground and in the hallway when no one was looking. He made lewd gestures towards me that I didn’t understand (yet) in order to get my attention. It was easier to just let him touch me and then push him away than protest or tell him no. It actually never occurred to me to tell him to stop.
Because I didn’t know I could.
I never told anyone because nice girls are supposed to be, well… nice. I think if I had told a teacher or my parents, they would have sighed and told me to stop being so dramatic. I knew, even in elementary school that it was my fault he wanted to grab me. Last year he tried to friend me on Facebook. I declined his invitation because I’m not so nice anymore.
In middle and high school I was supposed to be nice too. It was my job to be clear about the boundaries of my body, it was the boys’ job to try to push those boundaries. It was important that boys’ feelings couldn’t be hurt so I was supposed to, “let him down easy.” Above all else, it was my responsibility to keep myself safe and it was my fault if things got, “out of control.”
When I got to college, all of the freshman girls were given whistles the first week of school. It was made clear that we needed these whistles because bad people may jump out of bushes and rape us. Every female on campus that I saw had one on her key chain and we all called them rape whistles. We made sure that when we went to parties we ALWAYS watched each others backs. We ALWAYS made sure that if we were drinking we would stay together, even going into the bathroom. We never walked home alone in the dark from parties or from the library. Because it was on us. It was our responsibility to stay safe. It was our responsibility to dress as neutral as possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. When I went out with my friends we found it easier to pretend that we were lesbian couples so that guys wouldn’t harass us. It usually worked unless they asked us if they could come home and watch us.
One night my roommates and I had a party at our apartment. This wasn’t a super large party, in fact, we only had people we knew. I went down the hall to the laundry room and was followed by a guy I’d known since high school. I was drunk but I thought I was safe because it was my apartment and I was hosting and because I knew everyone. I thought I was safe because I’ve known him forever and everyone knows that the rapists are hiding in the bushes and people you know can’t possibly hurt you.
I was not raped that night but I was assaulted. Somehow I convinced him to let me go.
I told my boyfriend and my roommates. We talked about calling the campus police but we didn’t because I wasn’t raped and I was drunk and he DID let me go…. He was in ROTC, his future was bright. Who was I to ruin it by getting a little too hysterical over what may or may not have happened at a drunken party? But my roommates and I agreed we should tell his girlfriend. Surely she should know what a creep he was. I told her in great detail exactly what was said and what he did. She didn’t believe me (or didn’t care). A few years later she married him.
If I found out today that he was being nominated for a position of power I don’t know if I would speak up. People didn’t believe me the next day, why would they believe me over 20 years later?
Because, after all, it was my fault.
*This is my #metoo story. Few people in my life know these stories not because I am ashamed but because I know they are not unique. My oldest boys have heard them because I’m raising the next generation of men. If you have a story, please know that you are not alone.
