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…
I could have written this piece (Forty Years Later…), except I would have had to change the title to “Seventy Years Later…” when “the teenage boys from the apartment complex” lured me into the basement, picked me up and set me on the washing machine, handing me a powder compact and mirror, “like all the big ladies use.” We were interrupted (or I was saved) by my mother coming down into the basement and seeing what was going on. I was sure I did something wrong, my mother was so mad. Four Years old! I’ve often wondered if they remembered.
Or, I could have used the title, “Fifty Five Years Later,” when my father unexpectedly died, my mother tried to kill herself, and I finally found a job to help support us, my boss asked me to come behind his desk because he wanted to “show me something” and stuck his hand up my dress, grabbing my genitals. He knew I couldn’t say a thing and risk losing that job. Just laugh like nothing was wrong and dance away from his desk. I wondered all that time if he remembered anything about it. It has only been in the last few months, “thanks” to the public disclosures around Trump, that I have been able to talk to my husband about that one.
You wrote it better.