I was 11, still mostly pre-pubescent but tall for my age, with breast buds that I proudly strapped into a training bra despite not really needing it. I was browsing for souvenirs in a crowded museum gift shop. He was gray and balding and followed me around the store. The first touch felt like a brush near the middle of my bottom, but I didn't see who did it and figured it was an accident, despite the uncomfortable feeling that it gave me. A few minutes later, when he grabbed my crotch, I spun around in time to see his face before he pushed away from me through the crowd. My body went cold. I left the store and waited outside for my family as my brain reeled, trying to make sense of what had happened. I decided he must have been trying to figure out if I was a girl or a boy. I felt overwhelmed with shame, believing it was my fault for wearing my "short" shorts, for not telling him no or crying out before he got away. I told no one.
I've fantasized about how I wish I'd reacted: grabbing onto his hand, loudly yelling, making sure everyone knew exactly what he had done. I wonder if there were other children that he touched. I fear I know the answer.
Twenty years later, I still haven't told my family. I'm don't particularly want to, and I'm crossing my fingers that this post won't somehow make it back to them. Yet I feel this effort to increase the visibility of sexual abuse in our society takes precedence over my personal preference, and so here I am, sharing my story. I have long since absolved myself of any belief that I carry responsibility for his actions, and leave blame squarely at the feet of the man who decided to touch me. While that conclusion may sound obvious in retrospect, it took years for me to sort it out in my head, and I do not want my family to go on a similar journey.
When it comes to the spectrum of assault and harassment that women have experienced, my own story barely rates as a flesh wound. There are other, even lighter scars, so universally experienced by women it almost feels cliché to mention them: the catcalls and honks that I tried to take as compliments even while they made my skin crawl; the high school "hijinks" that included repeatedly grabbing my ass; and a particularly mortifying encounter with a man who was masturbating openly by a back entrance to the Music building on campus, who repeatedly yelled at my retreating back, "You wanna suck my cock??" These incidences pale in comparison to many, MANY of my fellow women's experiences, and for that I feel guiltily grateful. At the same time, there is a part of me that feels self-conscious and ashamed at my audacity, to count myself among the ranks of women who have been harassed and abused. When there is so much hurt waiting to be recognized and remedied, it feels greedy to raise my hand as one of the wounded. For better or for worse, I tend to think of myself as someone who's been lucky.
Last night I realized I haven't thought about either my own experiences or those of my friends since before the birth of my daughter. I've certainly railed against rape culture, and felt disgusted, outraged, and appalled by its high-profile examples (and rage is never far away with a Grade-A sexual predator occupying the Oval Office). Yesterday, as I scrolled past "Me too" after "Me too" after "Me too," I was surprised to find that I had unconsciously placed these closer-to-home experiences far, far from my mind. They come to close, they are too real. They remind me just how prevalent this shit is. I haven't wanted to think about a world where it could happen to her. I don't want to think about such a world - but witnessing this mantra of an ugly reality repeated by so many of my friends makes it impossible for me to continue to pretend that my daughter is even remotely safe.
I want to honor, thank, and celebrate every single person who has been willing to speak up about their experiences, whether they have survived near-unspeakable evil, or, like me, they tend to count themselves among "the lucky ones." It has been heartbreaking to see so many whose lives have been impacted by sexual abuse, but the courage and strength each person has shown in speaking out remains hugely inspiring. Thank you for telling your stories. I'm sorry that it happened to you, too.
My daughter is currently tucked into her bed, napping after a morning spent reading books, smashing Play-doh, and pretending to be a monster in our backyard (this involves lots of roaring, accompanied by the assurance that she's "just a little monster"). She is nearly three years old, approximately eight years away from being the same age as I was one summer in a museum gift shop. We frequently discuss how monsters only exist in our imaginations. I hate that one day, probably one day soon, I'm going to have to tell her that's a lie.
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