It is time. I have always meant to share this, because it needs to be talked about. How it can happen. What it feels like. Because I Am a Woman received almost as many page views as the posting about Adam Lanza. Though I think the Page View counting is probably imprecise, the postings about the incest in my family only received 3 viewings each. Ironically, those were the two postings that were the most difficult for me to write. It's uncomfortable, it's dirty, it hurts. It exists. It happened to me. It happened to both my sisters. It has been attempted or completed with one out of every 6 American Women.
Rape. In light of the highly publicized, highly discussed and emotionally charged rape of a 16 y.o. in Steubenville, Ohio, I have decided to share my story.
It was 1979. I was 20, a virgin and a Senior in College. I was attending College in a Border town and my best friend was a teacher in the Rio Grande Valley and lived in El Paso, TX. Her boyfriend lived in Juarez, and she and I and friends would often cross the border to go drink in the bars and dance in the clubs. Because her boyfriend lived in Juarez, we were often across the border, off the beaten path, not only at night, but in the day. Visiting, shopping, picnicking. Her boyfriend was a big, sweet, gallant, handsome man.
It was spring. We were all restless. So close to Graduation. Terminally shy, I avoided dancing in public, until my Senior Year in High School when my May Pole Escort talked me onto the dance floor during my Senior Prom. I had always loved music, and as a child LOVED to dance, until I was laughed at by my friends in Second Grade. I never danced in public after that. But once I discovered what it felt like to move, set myself free, become other than myself and outside of my skin with the music, you couldn't keep me off the dance floor.
That warm, spring evening, there was myself, my roommate who was a Psychology Major and Leader/Choreographer for the College Marching Band Dance Troupe, and another good friend who was an Education Major with me. We all were escorted across the border to a Discotheque by my best friend, the teacher, and her handsome boyfriend. We danced, with partners, with each other. I don't think any of us were uninhibited enough to brave the dance floor by ourselves. It was a different scene in 1979, at least in Texas.
Meeting us at the Disco were a couple of friends/acquaintances of my best friend's boyfriend, Jorge. Arturo, a friend of Jorge's and my roommate Selene, had met, danced and hooked up before. In the area of men, my roommate was experienced and uninhibited. Arturo had a friend, Javier (his real name was Jesus, pronounced hay-zoos, but I shall call him Javier, so people don't get caught up in the name) Javier and I danced a couple of times, but he was too pushy, too fresh. He touched me in places I didn't want to be touched, held too tight, kissed too hard. After those two dances with Javier, I turned down his offers to dance. I avoided him. I made sure I went with friends to the bathroom. I moved if he sat down beside me. Because, he wouldn't listen when I told him to back off. He couldn't just enjoy the dance. He made me supremely uncomfortable. Not that it should matter, but Javier was quite handsome. But his manner was creepy.
We danced. We drank. We got tipsy. The evening progressed. Selene wanted to "hook up" with Arturo. She wanted to go with him to his place, further into Juarez. That was fine with me. But for some reason, she wanted me to come along too. I didn't want to. What would I do? I wanted to dance. She begged, and begged and guilt-tripped me. She assures me that everything will be fine, I will be safe. Nothing is going to happen. I am a good friend. I reluctantly went. Selene, Arturo and I got into a Taxi? his car? I can't remember. I turn, Jesus is getting into the back seat with me. Too late. The door is shut. The car is moving. Selene and Arturo are oblivious. They are necking. I take deep breaths. I scoot away from Javier. My Heart is beating fast.
We arrive at our destination. My head is spinning with scenarios, possibilities. What now? What's going to happen? Unfortunately, I know EXACTLY what Arturo and Selena are going to do. They disembark from the vehicle and quickly vanish into a bedroom. No good-byes, no last-minute reassurances, no visual nods. I am alone with Jesus in the barely lit Living Room. My stomach has a hole the size of Texas in it. I try to remain calm. I will be okay, I reassure myself. I am strong, I am intelligent, well-spoken. I'm 20, almost a college graduate, I have fought off unwanted advances before....this very evening in fact, with this very person.
But somehow, we are in the bedroom. I am forced to the bed. I start talking. I know how to use my words, my voice. I try to physically resist him. He pushes me down. I try to push him away, pull out of his grasp, twist, turn. He is too strong. I talk more. Faster, more graphically. I call him bad hurtful names. I tell him I don't want this. My painter pants are forced down. Though I am talking, I can't yell or scream. I am utterly ashamed that I am in this situation. I feel so stupid, so weak, so helpless. Even though I have a leotard on, he forces himself inside me. I'm fighting harder, I'm crying. I'm telling him he is raping me....but I still can't raise my voice. can't I speak, why can't I scream? My roommate is only doors away. Why can't she hear me? I'm sobbing. You can't knee somebody in the balls when they are fucking you.
He stops. He clothes himself. He's done. I'm crying. Lying on the bed. I slowly get up. Pull up my painter pants. Maybe I'm crying, I don't know. Maybe he leaves the room. I don't know. I am no longer a virgin. I don't know what I am. I leave the room. My eyes lowered. I bump into my roommate. She's happy, oblivious. She kisses Arturo good-bye. She gets into the taxi. I slide onto the seat beside her. I say nothing. It is too late to say anything meaningful. I am empty. I am ashamed. I am gone.
The taxi deposits us on the sidewalk. My good friend is outside anxiously waiting for us with her boyfriend. She knows immediately something is wrong. She sends her boyfriend inside to get our other friend. I stay outside on the sidewalk, my face turned to the wall. I'm leaking tears. I must have told my good friend. I don't know the words I use. But she knows...that I have been raped. We go back into our country. I think, but cannot tell you with any certainty, that I told my roommate sometime later. I was angry, felt betrayed into that situation. I had avoided a dangerous person. But in the end, friendship had betrayed me
I was ashamed. How had this happened? I'm not stupid. I really thought I could talk myself out of anything. But I couldn't yell. I couldn't fight him and I couldn't save myself. Why couldn't I use my voice?
I remember when I was in High School. We were talking about rape. Would we tell? I remember thinking that I wouldn't tell, because then EVERYONE would know that I was no longer a virgin. That I had had sex. I didn't think at all about the rapist. I thought only of the shame of the victim....who was me.
Why was it so important that I remain a virgin, sex-free, that I couldn't let someone who knew me, know what was happening? Why are we taught that it is the burden of the woman? I absolutely blame religion. I went to church with friends during those tumultuous college years when I was dating, and saying no and kissing, and saying no. But, for even kissing, we were shamed and chastised. How much more sinful is the sex act? How much more of a burden? I never liked those churches that made me feel unclean, dirty, sinful. They were not my churches, not my God. My God was a forgiving God of love, of light, who could hold me tight, make me strong, save me. Why then, did somebody else's God get into my head and whisper of shame and sin. Be quiet. Don't let them know.
I never even thought about pressing charges. We were in Mexico for God's sake. Get out. Go home. Forget.
But you never forget. You are ashamed. Ashamed of the rape, ashamed of the shame, ashamed of your silence.
But I can speak now. I can say. WE ALL MUST SPEAK. WE ALL MUST TELL OUR STORIES! PUT THE SHAME WHERE IT BELONGS. PUT IT ON THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE SEX MORE UGLY THAN IT SHOULD BE. WHO MAKE VIRGINITY SOMETHING THAT IS HELD ONLY BY THE FEMALES. SO THAT LOSING THEIR VIRGINITY IS SO SHAMEFUL THAT YOU ALLOW YOURSELF TO BE RAPED.
Shame on us as a culture. Shame on the parents who raise their boys that sex is their right. Shame on the pastors who make something that is a gift from God into something ugly and shameful and feeds right into the Rape Culture.
Speak Now! Please share this. With your daughters, sisters, brothers, sons. Speak for them, to them. Tell them to trust their instincts. They should never assume that their friends have their back, especially when alcohol is involved. So they will either never have to speak, or when it is time; that they can raise their voice to High Heaven and say, "NO! GET OFF OF ME! HELP!" I have said my piece. It is time for crying.
Kismet
No More Steubenvilles: How to Raise Boys to Be Kind Men
The Day I Taught How Not to Rape
Rape. In light of the highly publicized, highly discussed and emotionally charged rape of a 16 y.o. in Steubenville, Ohio, I have decided to share my story.
It was 1979. I was 20, a virgin and a Senior in College. I was attending College in a Border town and my best friend was a teacher in the Rio Grande Valley and lived in El Paso, TX. Her boyfriend lived in Juarez, and she and I and friends would often cross the border to go drink in the bars and dance in the clubs. Because her boyfriend lived in Juarez, we were often across the border, off the beaten path, not only at night, but in the day. Visiting, shopping, picnicking. Her boyfriend was a big, sweet, gallant, handsome man.
It was spring. We were all restless. So close to Graduation. Terminally shy, I avoided dancing in public, until my Senior Year in High School when my May Pole Escort talked me onto the dance floor during my Senior Prom. I had always loved music, and as a child LOVED to dance, until I was laughed at by my friends in Second Grade. I never danced in public after that. But once I discovered what it felt like to move, set myself free, become other than myself and outside of my skin with the music, you couldn't keep me off the dance floor.
That warm, spring evening, there was myself, my roommate who was a Psychology Major and Leader/Choreographer for the College Marching Band Dance Troupe, and another good friend who was an Education Major with me. We all were escorted across the border to a Discotheque by my best friend, the teacher, and her handsome boyfriend. We danced, with partners, with each other. I don't think any of us were uninhibited enough to brave the dance floor by ourselves. It was a different scene in 1979, at least in Texas.
Meeting us at the Disco were a couple of friends/acquaintances of my best friend's boyfriend, Jorge. Arturo, a friend of Jorge's and my roommate Selene, had met, danced and hooked up before. In the area of men, my roommate was experienced and uninhibited. Arturo had a friend, Javier (his real name was Jesus, pronounced hay-zoos, but I shall call him Javier, so people don't get caught up in the name) Javier and I danced a couple of times, but he was too pushy, too fresh. He touched me in places I didn't want to be touched, held too tight, kissed too hard. After those two dances with Javier, I turned down his offers to dance. I avoided him. I made sure I went with friends to the bathroom. I moved if he sat down beside me. Because, he wouldn't listen when I told him to back off. He couldn't just enjoy the dance. He made me supremely uncomfortable. Not that it should matter, but Javier was quite handsome. But his manner was creepy.
We danced. We drank. We got tipsy. The evening progressed. Selene wanted to "hook up" with Arturo. She wanted to go with him to his place, further into Juarez. That was fine with me. But for some reason, she wanted me to come along too. I didn't want to. What would I do? I wanted to dance. She begged, and begged and guilt-tripped me. She assures me that everything will be fine, I will be safe. Nothing is going to happen. I am a good friend. I reluctantly went. Selene, Arturo and I got into a Taxi? his car? I can't remember. I turn, Jesus is getting into the back seat with me. Too late. The door is shut. The car is moving. Selene and Arturo are oblivious. They are necking. I take deep breaths. I scoot away from Javier. My Heart is beating fast.
We arrive at our destination. My head is spinning with scenarios, possibilities. What now? What's going to happen? Unfortunately, I know EXACTLY what Arturo and Selena are going to do. They disembark from the vehicle and quickly vanish into a bedroom. No good-byes, no last-minute reassurances, no visual nods. I am alone with Jesus in the barely lit Living Room. My stomach has a hole the size of Texas in it. I try to remain calm. I will be okay, I reassure myself. I am strong, I am intelligent, well-spoken. I'm 20, almost a college graduate, I have fought off unwanted advances before....this very evening in fact, with this very person.
But somehow, we are in the bedroom. I am forced to the bed. I start talking. I know how to use my words, my voice. I try to physically resist him. He pushes me down. I try to push him away, pull out of his grasp, twist, turn. He is too strong. I talk more. Faster, more graphically. I call him bad hurtful names. I tell him I don't want this. My painter pants are forced down. Though I am talking, I can't yell or scream. I am utterly ashamed that I am in this situation. I feel so stupid, so weak, so helpless. Even though I have a leotard on, he forces himself inside me. I'm fighting harder, I'm crying. I'm telling him he is raping me....but I still can't raise my voice. can't I speak, why can't I scream? My roommate is only doors away. Why can't she hear me? I'm sobbing. You can't knee somebody in the balls when they are fucking you.
He stops. He clothes himself. He's done. I'm crying. Lying on the bed. I slowly get up. Pull up my painter pants. Maybe I'm crying, I don't know. Maybe he leaves the room. I don't know. I am no longer a virgin. I don't know what I am. I leave the room. My eyes lowered. I bump into my roommate. She's happy, oblivious. She kisses Arturo good-bye. She gets into the taxi. I slide onto the seat beside her. I say nothing. It is too late to say anything meaningful. I am empty. I am ashamed. I am gone.
The taxi deposits us on the sidewalk. My good friend is outside anxiously waiting for us with her boyfriend. She knows immediately something is wrong. She sends her boyfriend inside to get our other friend. I stay outside on the sidewalk, my face turned to the wall. I'm leaking tears. I must have told my good friend. I don't know the words I use. But she knows...that I have been raped. We go back into our country. I think, but cannot tell you with any certainty, that I told my roommate sometime later. I was angry, felt betrayed into that situation. I had avoided a dangerous person. But in the end, friendship had betrayed me
I was ashamed. How had this happened? I'm not stupid. I really thought I could talk myself out of anything. But I couldn't yell. I couldn't fight him and I couldn't save myself. Why couldn't I use my voice?
I remember when I was in High School. We were talking about rape. Would we tell? I remember thinking that I wouldn't tell, because then EVERYONE would know that I was no longer a virgin. That I had had sex. I didn't think at all about the rapist. I thought only of the shame of the victim....who was me.
Why was it so important that I remain a virgin, sex-free, that I couldn't let someone who knew me, know what was happening? Why are we taught that it is the burden of the woman? I absolutely blame religion. I went to church with friends during those tumultuous college years when I was dating, and saying no and kissing, and saying no. But, for even kissing, we were shamed and chastised. How much more sinful is the sex act? How much more of a burden? I never liked those churches that made me feel unclean, dirty, sinful. They were not my churches, not my God. My God was a forgiving God of love, of light, who could hold me tight, make me strong, save me. Why then, did somebody else's God get into my head and whisper of shame and sin. Be quiet. Don't let them know.
I never even thought about pressing charges. We were in Mexico for God's sake. Get out. Go home. Forget.
But you never forget. You are ashamed. Ashamed of the rape, ashamed of the shame, ashamed of your silence.
But I can speak now. I can say. WE ALL MUST SPEAK. WE ALL MUST TELL OUR STORIES! PUT THE SHAME WHERE IT BELONGS. PUT IT ON THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE SEX MORE UGLY THAN IT SHOULD BE. WHO MAKE VIRGINITY SOMETHING THAT IS HELD ONLY BY THE FEMALES. SO THAT LOSING THEIR VIRGINITY IS SO SHAMEFUL THAT YOU ALLOW YOURSELF TO BE RAPED.
Shame on us as a culture. Shame on the parents who raise their boys that sex is their right. Shame on the pastors who make something that is a gift from God into something ugly and shameful and feeds right into the Rape Culture.
Speak Now! Please share this. With your daughters, sisters, brothers, sons. Speak for them, to them. Tell them to trust their instincts. They should never assume that their friends have their back, especially when alcohol is involved. So they will either never have to speak, or when it is time; that they can raise their voice to High Heaven and say, "NO! GET OFF OF ME! HELP!" I have said my piece. It is time for crying.
Kismet
No More Steubenvilles: How to Raise Boys to Be Kind Men
The Day I Taught How Not to Rape
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