ME TOO, Part Two

The recent news stories about women coming forward with information about Judge Kavanaugh, a nominee for the Supreme Court, jarred a memory from almost 50 years ago. A long-forgotten memory arose and felt like a direct hit from lightning when I awakened from a nap today. Clouds hung over me throughout the day.

My first job was as a clerk in a bait shop/small grocery store near Lake Meredith. I was 16 years old and commuted 15 miles to a position that paid no more than $.75 an hour. I didn't care, as I needed the money. The other female clerk, my age, warned me about the business manager. He was around age 50 when I started working there. Not much time had passed when he began getting "friendly" and touching me in places where his hands didn't belong. I finally told him to keep his hands off of me. I didn't work there again after summer was over.

I started heavily drinking that same summer. My drinking was often limited to driving around town with Suzy while mixing soft drinks with hard liquor. We sometimes attended "prairie parties" out in the boondocks where all the underage drinkers in the city gathered. Suzy and I participated in these events without boyfriends. Many shenanigans occurred during these events, but we were there only to drink, not to engage. 

Despite all the alcohol I consumed, I remained a virgin until college. Until today, I actually believed I was a virgin until age 21. That's how your mind can trick you for 50 years into forgetting the trauma you experienced at a young age.

My second job was working at a soda shop during my first year of college. Again, the hourly rate was likely under $1.00, but I needed money for tuition, books, and gas. My boss, John, was the owner's son. He was married to a girl that had graduated from my high school the year before I graduated.

One night, when Suzy was home from college, we met John and his cousin in the middle of nowhere to celebrate my birthday. We had all been drinking when I decided it would be fun to race John in his Grand Prix on dirt roads winding around storage tanks dotting the countryside. Suzy and I were in my parents' Volkswagen Beetle, proving once again that drinking can impair your judgment. I didn't make one of the curves and rolled the Beetle. My father asked the Sheriff's Department to arrest me for drunken driving, but they declined because the accident occurred on private property. My dad separated the smashed-in car roof from the top of the car's seats and painted the exterior lime green. The Beetle looked like a putrid green, crumpled tin can. I drove that car for two more years. Driving a vehicle with doors ajar and windows that didn't quite roll up in the middle of winter when it was freezing and snowing was almost unbearable, but not in the scheme of the things that I had already experienced in my young life. The shame I felt with every mile driven was palpable. I served my punishment with whatever dignity I could muster while at the same time realizing I was fortunate to have a car to drive.

Shortly after the wreck, I spent the night with my recently married friend, Fiona. We had attended school together for 12 years. She helped me land a job at the soda shop, where she had worked for a couple of years. On that particular night, Fiona and her husband invited John to join us at their house for a party. The liquor was flowing, and we were having a good time. The next thing I knew, I looked up to see John on top of me as he was raping me. Fiona's husband sexually assaulted me while she was shouting at him from their bedroom. We all pretended it didn't happen and never mentioned it again, although I now remember worrying about being pregnant. Luckily, that didn't happen, and I went on to live my life. As I recall that scene, I understand now that the beatings I endured as a child and being raped contributed to the difficulty I have had in maintaining relationships.

So today, I cried when the memory of the party at Fiona's house crept back into my consciousness.  

I cried for the one thing I didn't think anyone could take from me--my virginity.  

I cried for all the years I kept the nightmare in my mind's dark recesses.  

I cried for all the women who've had similar experiences and shoved it down deep inside them.  

I cried for the reason I must have suppressed the memory.  

I cried for the times I felt shame for drinking.  

I cried for thinking the beatings and rape were my fault.

Those two men raped an innocent young woman because it was too tempting not to do it. They raped me. I wonder if they ever thought about that night, but I doubt it. They probably told themselves that I asked for it. After all, boys will be boys, and I was intoxicated.

Shame on those two men and all the "boys" and men like them. When they take advantage of a woman too impaired to give consent, it is rape. Oh, "they" will say the woman asked for it, but would they judge their female child the same way? If a male doesn't know the difference between a woman interested in being intimate and a woman who is only flirting but not ready for sexual intercourse or impaired, perhaps they should refrain from being around the opposite sex altogether.

There are millions of women just like me. We've endured assault, then felt shame and disgust directed at ourselves rather than the perpetrators. Now is the time for blame to be placed squarely on the person(s) responsible for the trauma we've endured, even if it's been recent, 10, 20, 30, or even 50 years ago. I no longer carry that burden and will support others who have suffered needlessly. 

If a man took advantage of a woman or girl when he was younger, he's still responsible for his actions and does not need to be in any position of authority. He doesn't remember? Maybe that's because it was a regular occurrence. The time for allowing "boys to be boys" at the expense of females is over. The millions who have been victims of this behavior will no longer be silent. It's not okay. It's not our fault. I will also speak out on behalf of children who have been victims of physical, sexual, and mental abuse. It's not for me to decide who is telling the truth or who is not telling the truth. All I know is that if it happened to me, it would be repeated over and over to countless other males and females in vulnerable positions.

Enough is enough.

                                                  Despicable Kavanaugh