WESTMINSTER WEST — Like most women, I've had my share of sexual harassment and assault. It's as old as the hills, and it gets old fast.
I didn't think I would be adding my voice to the recent dialogue our country is having on this issue, but I do have something to say through my own story, or at least part of it.
Here goes.
My entry point was as a young teenager. I was 13, maybe just 14. A golfing buddy of my father's asked if I would like to babysit his kids on a Saturday night. I said sure. I was saving up for contact lenses and always looking for ways to make some money.
The kids were great. When the couple got home, it was obvious that the man was drunk, but he insisted on driving me home.
Sure enough, he started squeezing my upper thigh. I moved his hand off of my thigh, and a few minutes later back he came, only his squeezes were a little harder and closer to my crotch. I slapped his hand and told him to stop it.
I didn't say anything to my parents. The next day, Mr. Creep called and asked me to babysit again the following Saturday. I declined.
My father overheard the conversation and was angry with me. He wanted to know why I refused his friend's offer.
I sure wasn't going to tell my father the real nature of the offer. I remembered too well how months earlier at the dinner table my father threw down his newspaper in disgust and announced that there was no such thing as an unwanted sexual advance. If a woman got attention, it was because she asked for it.
My mother told him not to talk about “that” in front of the girls. My sister, who was in high school at the time, just rolled her eyes - her usual reaction to my father's caveman-esque pronouncements.
I didn't even tell my mother or sister about my father's buddy. I kept silent to protect all of us.
* * *
During my first year in college, I worked the early shift at a doughnut shop. One morning, I bent over and felt someone grab my butt. I turned around and saw it was the shop owner.
He told me to never bend over in front of a Greek. I slapped him across the face as hard as I could - a mistake, because he liked it.
I switched gears and told him if he ever touched me again or talked to me in that manner I would quit on the spot. That got him, since he had a lot of trouble retaining employees. (Gee, I wonder why.)
It was a chess game, since I really needed the work. But I won that match.
Later in college, I modeled for an art class one semester. An older man from the community was attending the class. He started leaving drawings of me around campus and calling me at home, telling me where I had been that day and when. To this day, I don't know how he got my number.
I called the phone company, and a nice woman told me they couldn't take any legal action. But she gave me a script and told me to use it the next time he called.
I took her advice and told him the phone company was tracing his call and they would report him to the police. He never called again but he escalated his stalking. He'd get right behind me, and when I turned around to face him he would quickly walk the other way.
It was starting to get to me, so I called the police. They couldn't help me unless he actually did something to me - not exactly comforting.
My friends were wonderful. While walking me home at night after work or class, one friend yelled at him to knock it off but he wasn't fazed. A guy friend even offered to beat him up, but I didn't want to go there - yet.
I decided to take things into my own hands and turn the tables on him. The next time he stalked me I turned around, ran after him, grabbed his arm, and held on tight. I told him in a very quiet voice that if he ever left drawings of me around campus, called me, or followed me I would murder him. I told him that I knew where he lived, I knew his schedule, I knew exactly how I was going to murder him, and I was confident that I wouldn't get caught.
I ended my little monologue by asking if he understood me.
He shook his ashen face. I let go of him, he scurried away like a rat, and I never saw or heard from him again.
Of course, it was all b.s., and I'm not recommending that tactic. It could have backfired on me badly, but it didn't, and I felt very empowered. Perhaps too much so.
* * *
In my twenties, I walked everywhere in the big city, day or night. I was very fit and strong, I carried mace, and I always scoped out a neighborhood before walking there at night.
I wasn't dumb enough to think I was invincible, but I felt that I was smart and savvy enough to walk about in most of the areas I frequented without worry.
I was feeling pretty darn sure of myself, until I got raped.
It was October. I was walking on the sidewalk next to one of those city parks that are sandwiched in between busy streets. I figured that I was safe. It was only around 7 p.m., there was lots of commuter traffic just feet away, and I had my mace in hand.
What doomed me was something that didn't even register until it was too late - my backpack. It was a part of my daily garb, and I never gave it a thought.
The rapist just grabbed me from behind and, with one twist, pinned my arms and threw me to the ground. I was helpless. I never even saw his face.
The only thing he said to me was a warning not to scream or call for help. If I did, he'd kill me, he said.
I heeded his warning and didn't make a sound because I so wanted to live, but inside my head I was screaming over and over.
When he was done, he kicked me and walked away.
I will never forget the sound of my pounding heart and gasps. At first I was afraid to get up - what if he was waiting to shoot me as I tried to run away?
Eventually, I went for it and ran as fast as my shaking legs could carry me. I was so horrified by what had just happened and at the same time so relieved to be alive and able to run!
My first instinct was to run to the ER or a police station but I recalled a woman's recounting of her awful experience when following that course echoed in my head. She said the abuse and insinuations she received after her rape were worse than the rape itself.
I just couldn't go there, so I ran home. And like so many women, I took a very long shower, wept late into the night, and didn't tell a soul.
I told myself that I would report the attack the next day. I didn't want him to rape another woman, so I would need to just suck it up and do it.
I didn't. I called in sick to work, called my lover to cancel our weekend plans, and spent that day and most of the weekend in bed.
That Monday was tough, but each day got a little easier, except for my guilt about not reporting the rape. My inaction haunted me. How many more women were going to be raped by that man?
By the end of the week, I called my lover and told him what happened. Ours was a rocky relationship destined to last only a few years, but he came through for me big time. His tone and counsel were pitch perfect, and I will always be grateful to him for his support.
Did the rape change me? Yes. I was paranoid that I'd contracted AIDS and got tested for years. I became frightened when a man approached me when I was alone on the street, especially at night, but I worked through it because I refused to be imprisoned by my own fear. The fear is still with me decades later, albeit less intense. It is my unwanted companion.
I also became fearful for other women. Many a time I have warned women not to wear backpacks when walking alone, or I have given them mace.
Did I take these steps out of concern or for atonement? Probably both.
* * *
A few years ago, I awoke to the screams of a woman being raped. I jumped out of bed and was halfway down the stairs before the fog of sleep cleared and I realized that I didn't hear a rape, I heard the death cry of some poor creature in the woods surrounding our home.
My heart and mind were racing so fast I knew there would be no more sleep for me that night. I realized, again, how bone-deep my rape wound was even after all these years.
I vowed that I would never run away from a scream in the night. I hope my vow is never put to the test.
It was a clear night, so I sought out the moon. That beautiful beam always calmed me and gave me a sense of peace and perspective.
I knew, as bad as my rape experience was, it could have been a lot worse. And the proverbial silver lining of my rape was it gave me more compassion toward others.
It was time to start exercising more self-compassion and be more understanding about my reasons for not reporting my rape. That was the lesson of that night.
* * *
The last few months have been hard. The ugliness and pervasiveness of sexual harassment and assault are filling the airwaves, internet, print, and conversations.
I'm not surprised that men of a certain ilk question the women who come forward years later to tell their own horror stories or those they witnessed. It is part of a long-used tactic from the old boys' network. It is as predictable as it is disgusting.
Some of most egregious cases come from the highest ranks of our own government. Just do some research on the Anita Hill hearings if you want to give your stomach a churn. The judiciary committee of the U.S. Senate refused to hear the testimonies of four brave women who came forward to prove that the base behavior and attitude Clarence Thomas lorded over Anita Hill was his life pattern at work.
How did they know it? Because they lived it.
Instead of letting the truth be the judge, those men dragged Professor Hill through a cesspool of insinuations and downright lies, giving that predator a pass and allowing him to sit on the highest court in the land.
And don't get me started about the Creep-in-Chief, Trump. I still can't believe that he was elected president of the United States after so many women came forward with their Trump assault stories and the Access Hollywood tape exposed his extreme misogyny.
And we may well have a pedophile join the infested ranks of the U.S. Senate. It doesn't get much lower.
Don't get me wrong; I am not a man hater. If my experience is any indicator, for every misogynist there are thousands of good, decent, and sensitive men. Yet I will go to my grave not understanding my own species or why the worst among us have the most power.
* * *
I have been dismayed and disappointed by the number of women who judge and tarnish their sisters for not coming forward sooner to tell their stories or for remaining silent as they witnessed other women being harassed.
Are there women who will lie and use this moment for their own gain? Of course.
Are there women who long ago passed the pinnacle of their ambitions and enjoy great wealth yet still remained silent witnesses or even led women to the lions' dens? Of course.
However, I think most women's responses and timing are totally understandable if they are given the opportunity to tell their stories.
Sisters, this is not the time to turn on one another. This is a time to put yourself in other shoes and try to understand the complexity of the issue. This is the time for compassion, not judgment.
Bottom line: If a woman has a story to tell, she should be free to determine the time and place to tell her tale without fear of judgment or condemnation. We need to have one another's back, period.
Greg Brown's exquisite song, “Every Street in Town” has been running through my head. It is such a poignant song and, in some ways, speaks to the issue of sexual assault. Here is a portion of the lyrics:
“An' I wonder when the day will ever come/when we won't be so sad and dumb/An' when a woman could walk out free in the day and night/Without havin' to worry if she's gonna be all right on/Every street in town/Every street in town/In the cool summer evenings/or when the snow was falling down. We'd go walkin' on every street in town.”
Someday, sisters, someday.