When I was 8, I lived with my parents in South Miami, attended a Catholic school and played with the kids in my neighborhood. I wasn't exactly a modest kid despite the nun's brainwashing grme into covering. I think I could have been a happy nudist at that age. I hadn't yet learned that my larger bones made me look fat and become slightly ashamed of my body type. But Mom did impress upon me that no one should try to force me to undress nor should they touch me in my ladyparts or hold me captive. If it happened I should fight and scream as loud as I could.
We were playing Cowboys and Indians ( my apologies to Native Americans; I was 8, it was 1957, and that's what we called it), and I got captured. My friend had a tree house, and after my "capture" I was taken to.the treehouse, which was a small one room structure on stilts, with window openings. She also had a trampoline, and you could jump from the door onto the trampoline --lots of fun.
This time wasn't fun.
My "captor" was G, an older boy who lived next door, an eleven or twelve year-old kid who was big for his age, and played roughly. I didn't like him very much. He managed to get me up the ladder and into the treehouse, where he proceeded to tie me up with a noose around my neck and attached to my hands. I was standing so it wasn't quite hog-tying, but it had the same effect: If I struggled, the noose tightened. I couldn't climb down the ladder without use of my hands, though I could have jumped onto the trampoline, but he was blocking my way and he was big and strong. The end of the rope went out a window, the end held by my friend's six year-old brother who was on the ground.
Then G tried to untie the little bows that held up my yellow romper. When I told him not to, and to let me go, I didn't like this game, he laughed and continued tugging the straps. I kicked him in the shins and tried to fight. Since the bows wouldn't give, he started to grope me through the romper. At that point, I began to scream as loud as I could because Mom had told me to do so.
The yards were tiny and the houses close together, so it wasn't long before somebody's mother came out to investigate. Bobby, the small boy, told her I was a prisoner. She said to let me go. G complied after giving my romper a final tug, and pulling on the bow one last time, forcing it to give way. He got a look at my childish chest and grinned. I jumped out the door and bounced on the the trampoline. And I never played with G again.
I never told my parents about it.
It was only years later as an adult that I realized that G had sexually assaulted me. This wasn't a "recovered memory" like the ones in the McMartin daycare case. I never forgot it. I just did not recognize it for what it was. I just knew at the time that what he had done was wrong.
Looking back from an adult perspective, I wondered if he had done this to other girls and if he had done even worse things. Had he gone on to fulfill his preteen potential to become a rapist? He was certainly furious with me when I had kicked him, but he had had enough sense not to want to leave bruises. He had looked triumphant when he tugged my bow free and got a peek at my childish chest. I strongly suspect that he probably did go on to become a man who sexually assaulted women, and most likely a date rapist. He had already planned out his assault of me. He had stowed the rope in the treehouse before I got captured.
This didn't ruin my life. I wasn't emotionally scarred. I talked it over with a therapist in college. I didn't have a problem with sex, was easily orgasmic, never became promiscuous or developed other sexual issues or did drugs to self-medicate. I think I came out okay because of my mother encouraging me to fight back and because I was able to do so. I did, however, learn to avoid a certain type of male: the pushy ones who wanted to hold meetings outside of a professional setting, suggesting a bar instead. They creeped me out.
I also knew that being careful wouldn't deter a man intent on raping me, so I carried a small stainless steel key chain ornament in the shape of a cat's face. Your fingers went through the round eyes and the pointed ears became thrusting weapons. I also had a small container of pepper spray that looked like a lighter . My library jobs required me to work at night. Since I took buses and trains, i was very aware of my surroundings. Later, when I remarried after the death of my first husband, Mr. Witch was Navy and he was gone for months at a time. That was scary at times. When I worked nights,I made sure the staff left together. I was cautious.
Why am I talking about this now?
Not long ago, on this very site, I engaged in an exchange with a person who demanded women here tell him what it would take for us to put a man in jail for rape or other forms of sexual assault. He accused us of assuming the man was guilty simply because some woman said she was raped without any proof. I explained in some detail what a woman experiences when she reports: her treatment by police who often start with the premise that she is lying, the invasiveness of a rape kit exam, the many times she will be forced to retell her story and not just in the immediate aftermath, facing a prosecutor who will likely regard her story as dubious and who probably won't prosecute even if he believes her because rape trials seldom end with a guilty verdict and prosecutors want to win. I tried to answer his questions ( he kept moving the goal post and trying to make it black and white when a truthful answer is complex) honestly until I realized this was a misogynistic game to him. He didn't want honesty. He wanted to attack women because he believes we lie. I stopped responding.
Yes, even here in this bastion of progressive politics, there are those who start with the idea that women falsely accuse, that a lot of men suffer because of scheming, angry women who lie for revenge for bad sex or who feel guilty. You can quote statistics at them. You can tell your stories, but they won't believe you. I was a volunteer at a rape crisis center. I held two young girls while they cried in my arms. I dealt with carelessly cruel prosecutors who were Doubting Thomases with a twelve year-old. I escorted women who chose not to report past the screeching protesters at Planned Parenthood so they could get STD testing and the primitive version of Plan B. I know whereof I speak.
Today it all came flooding back: my own experience at 8, getting therapy as an adult and surprising my counselor by being fairly well-adjusted in spite of it, sexual harassment by a boss who trapped me in a stockroom and did to me what Trump said on the Access Hollywood tape under circumstances similar to those under which my 8 year-old self was assaulted ( I and the other young clerks reported him to HR, which did nothing).
I read a story today on rape by a survivor on CNN. The prose was heartbreaking. She also illustrated with photos she has taken, and they bring home the pain and horror she endured in the aftermath. Photography became her lifeline. She used it to express herself on her journey to healing. I wish the person I argued with here would read it with an open mind and try to understand why women like E. Jean Carroll don't report immediately, but will share their stories until days, weeks, or even years later. It can take that long to heal.
I cannot cut and paste text or a link using my tablet,but I will tell you that you can access the piece by going to CNN, scrolling down to the section labeled "Opinion". There is an article with the headline," I Was Raped and Broken. " There is a photo of her gazing out a window that brought me to tears.
We must change. We must. Too many men, women and children suffer abuse, then are revictimized when they report. I If they knew their attacker even casually, they are often not believed. If there is a trial, their entire life is on display, and they MUST testify while their rapist smirks or looks blankly or stares angrily at them -- and he doesn't have to testify. Our country seems to have lost its sense of basic decency. We sit on our hands while children are locked in cages and are molested by staff. We confine men in conditions so horrendous they resemble deathcamps. We believe women lie about assault. We put a confessed rapist in the White House. He has been accused by 25 women. One of his old pals was pimping out girls as young as 12.
How much lower can we sink? Where is our sense of outrage? Where is our compassion? Have we no decency?
I cried for the woman in the article. I cried for the father and child whose bodies were found, drowned. I cried for the families separated at the border, for women and girls raped by coyotes and prison camp staff. I cried for sexually abused children even younger than I was when G tried to grope me. I cried for my country.
I have run out of tears but not of anger.