I was eighteen when I was sexually assaulted. I was walking to my place of work on a summer evening when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned just in time to be grabbed by my breasts and taken to the ground. I began to kick and scream. I didn’t have time to really think, but somehow I just knew that I wouldn’t be raped without a fight. As quickly as he ran up behind me, he gave up and ran away. I guess he didn’t want a victim who would try to fight him off. I was always kind of proud of myself for that. I wasn’t meek, I didn't freeze. I was pretty badass in my own defense.
It was light outside and I was in a nice neighborhood not far from my home. A lady and her daughter drove up and asked if I needed help because they had heard me screaming and saw him running away. I accepted a ride to work and never said anything to my dad or stepmom about the attack. I kind of just told myself it hadn’t happened. I remember later, I took a shower, and threw away the top I was wearing because it had dirt marks all over it and even though I knew I could probably wash them away, I knew I’d never want to wear it again.
Two days later, there was a knock at my front door, and the police were there to talk to me about the attack. Apparently the women who had stopped to help me had called the police and reported the incident. They had searched through school yearbooks to find a picture of me so the police could identify me. The police at my door were upset with me and asked why I hadn’t called them. I remember lowering my head and shamefully saying I didn’t know. They followed up by asking if I wanted this to happen to other people too. I meekly shook my head and told them of course not.
I actually do know why I didn’t call the police, but I didn’t want to say why in front of my dad. About two weeks earlier I had been getting on my bike in a parking lot near my home when an older teenage boy ran up and grabbed my breast. I had ridden straight home and told my dad. Instead of asking if I was okay, my dad had shamed me by saying I shouldn’t have been wearing the new halter top I had made and saying that’s why I got grabbed. He said it was all my fault and I had been asking for it by dressing that way. I never wore that new halter top again. I had been so proud of the cute top I had sewn by hand, but I threw it away that day.
So the night I was assaulted I didn’t want to call the police, or tell my dad, or tell anybody else. So instead my dad found out from the police. After the police left my house, my dad was again upset with me because he was embarrassed to hear of my attack from the police. My dad was really a good guy, but I think he didn’t know how to handle either of these two situations.
Anyway, so I had to go to the police station to file a report. When I got there, they asked me all sorts of questions, including—you guessed it—what were you wearing? Did you say anything to him? Did you look at him, smile, or encourage him in any way? It was in a way just as bad as being attacked. Again, they shamed me for not coming forward on my own to help them catch somebody that apparently had some sort of pattern of this type of behavior. I remember thinking I wouldn’t be able to identify him because the whole attack was such a blur, but as soon as I saw a picture of him in a book of a bunch of other people, I recognized him immediately. Being questioned by the police was nearly as traumatic as being grabbed. It made me feel defenseless. At least I had defended myself from the attacker.
I had to go to a grand jury and testify. Again, all the same questions about what I was wearing, what I had said or did, if I had encouraged him in some way. I was happy that at least my attacker wasn’t in the room. I never really heard, but I assume he went to jail and other young girls in the neighborhood were now finally safe, at least from his attacks. But I learned from those experiences that if you get attacked, it’s probably your own fault for not dressing appropriately, or for accidentally smiling at somebody, or apparently for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I remember feeling violated by the questions and wondering why what I was wearing mattered to my dad, to the police, to the grand jury. I remember thinking that if I had been wearing something suggestive and smiling and flirting it still wouldn’t give him the right to run up and grab me. The whole experience and its aftermath left me shaken. If it happened again, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have come forward.
So yeah, I get it when women say they didn’t come forward. I get it when they’d rather just pretend it never happened. The women coming forward now are a lot braver than I ever was.