Forty years later, do sexual assaulters remember me?

More than 40 years have passed since two neighborhood boys sexually assaulted me, but lately I have been reliving the incident like it happened yesterday. After hearing Donald Trump boast about forcing himself on women, I’m suddenly an ashamed 12-year-old girl who doesn’t understand what happened to me.

For the first time, I think about the men these boys turned into, and wonder if they know, or care, what they did to me.

Do they remember dragging me into the dark corner of a neighbor’s yard, throwing me on the ground and taking turns sticking their hands down my pants and up my shirt? Do they recall how I fought? Do they ever wonder what they might have done if I didn’t bite the hand that was covering my mouth, allowing me to escape? Read more…


Oh sh*t, I have to take my blog live


Photo by Amit Lahav

I just learned that, a social network with about 37 million subscribers, is going to publish my commentary about sexual assault. They offered to link back to my website. Great news, right?

The only problem is that I’ve been tinkering with this blog for a while now and the only other person who has seen it is my husband. I have about 24 hours to turn into something moderately respectable. I work best when I’m on deadline, and I know I’ll get it done, but please know that this is not the final product. Please enjoy some of my previously published work in the meantime. And please come back and visit me! I promise to be more appropriately dressed.