He's sexually assaulted women; and we've all experienced it.
It’s happened to me many, many times. It’s happened to you many, many times — and Donald Trump’s vile and disgusting admission of sexual assault has brought the memories roaring back into my awareness. It feels like being dragged down into a vortex of the shame, embarrassment, disgust, fear, and utter helplessness women experience when men have treated us like sexual meat.
The gross middle-aged man who stopped me and some friends (junior high age) while we were walking home. He opened his door and we could clearly see that he was masturbating. We were scared. We wondered what about US had given him the impression that he could stop US and do this. We ran. We never told our parents.
The manager of the KFC where I worked my first job who constantly made disgusting, sexual comments to all the female workers. It was a horrible day when you realized you were scheduled to close the restaurant with him as you knew it would be awful. I was 15. This was my very first job; one that I had to get parental permission for. He was probably in his early thirties. I never defended myself to him, but I lived in fear of those nights when it would be just me and him closing. I worked there for six months. I never told my parents.
My high-school boyfriend laughing and sharing with me and a group of friends that his father had asked him if he was getting any “stinky finger” from me. I laughed along with the rest of them, but I was dying inside. I continued to date him. I never told my parents.
The 30-something-year-old manager of the pizza restaurant where I worked for 3 days at age 17 (still in high school) who kept me after work, after the restaurant was closed, ostensibly to “talk to me”. I assumed I was in trouble for something work-related and felt fear and dread to get a “talking to” from the manager. What I got was unwanted touching and a blatant come-on to have sex with him. The deep fear I had walking through the parking lot that night, alone, that he would follow me. I quit. I never told my parents.
Walking through every bar/club I ever went in during my undergraduate and graduate school years, knowing and dreading the automatic groping, grabbing, lewd comments to come as we pushed our way through crowds of college students. Sometimes, I turned around and slapped the hand that had grabbed my ass or breasts and yes, my “pussy.” Most of the time I just gritted my teeth and endured it.
The defensive coordinator of my college’s football team who asked me to “bring my typewriter to his office” (I worked in the football office, first as a work-study job, then part-time for three years of my time in undergrad ). I sat there at my little, portable typing table, typing defensive playbooks while he ogled me, made suggestive comments, and touched my arms, shoulders and back when walking by. It never, ever occurred to me to get up and leave. He was my “boss”. I never told the head coach. I never told my parents.
The guy who worked as a mechanic at the company I did bookkeeping for during a summer in undergrad. I’m even now embarrassed to write this because somewhere in my heart of hearts I KNOW it was my fault that this happened. I barely knew this guy but after a company picnic invited him to join me and some friends for some bar-hopping. I was being “nice.” He seemed a bit lonely. After a couple of hours of beer drinking, he offered to take me home and “nice” young me invited him to come in for another beer. Within minutes of sitting down he started trying to kiss me. I was trying to laugh it off, pushing him away, trying to thwart his advances without hurting his feelings. Suddenly, he picks me up in his arms, carries me back to my bedroom and throws me on my bed. The fury and fear came fast and thick. I still do not know how I found the strength in my 100lb, 5’1” frame to physically push him out of my apartment. Then came the scary and lewd phone calls from him later that night. The shame and embarrassment I felt every single day for the rest of the summer is still real, still palpable. I never said another word to him but had to see him every day and endure his stares. I never told my boss. I never told my parents.
The guy from my high school, a few years older, who I dated a few times in college. He said to me “I’ve taken you out six times now. When are you going to fuck me?” I tried to laugh it off, and, I went out with him several more times. At the time it felt like I was doing something wrong; somehow taking advantage of this guy who deigned to “date” me and that I somehow owed him a “fuck”. (just for record no fucking occurred)
Working one summer for the city, cleaning park shelters and bathrooms (it was actually kinda fun) and the guy who followed us from park to park, idling his car near where we worked; opening his passenger side door so we could get a good look at him masturbating. We were scared. We felt helpless to escape this pervert. We never called the police.
Watching the Anita Hill/Clarence Thomas hearings and wondering why she continued to work for him, all the while KNOWING EXACTLY WHY SHE CONTINUED TO WORK WITH HIM. Feeling ashamed and embarrassed for her, myself, and all women who grit their teeth and put up with vile, disgusting behavior.
The time I served as an expert witness in a rape trial where the young woman was raped in an abandoned parking lot. She ran naked through a corn field to bang on the door of the closest house. The fear and disgust I felt as I was cross-examined by the defense attorney who refused to use my professional title when addressing me. The incredulity I felt when the female prosecutor told me NOT to correct him and ask him to address me as Dr. because if I did, the jury would see me as arrogant. The disbelief when a female colleague stated “she was asking for it by going to a bar with fake ID.” He was acquitted. It was “consensual sex.”
I’ll stop now as this little trip down memory lane is upsetting and nauseating. I’m now a 59-year-old professional with a great 22-year marriage and 3 mostly-adult children. You can be damn sure my kids were taught to respect others. I’m very nervous about publishing this. I’m an old Kossack but haven’t been active for several years and to speak out invites criticism and shaming. But it all happened to me. And it’s happened to you too.
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