#Me Too

According to the CDC, 1 in 3 women and 1 in 6 men experience sexual assault. About 60% of those persons do not report the assault for many reasons, including guilt, shame, certainty of not being believed, fear of retribution from the assaulter, fear that their assaulter will not be punished, and brutal treatment at the hands of family, law personnel, and judicial personnel. When women talk about these things, nearly everyone has a story about assault, attempted rape, rape, abuse, and incest. When victims do come forward, they are told that they were in the wrong place, that the person they are blaming couldn’t do such things, that they dressed wrong, that they “wanted” it, that they have responsibility to keep men in check, that men can’t help themselves – the excuses are nearly numberless.

These experiences are part of what fostered the #MeToo movement. They most often involve an accused who is an employer, someone in power, with authority, in control of the victim’s career, future, and sometimes, safety. This further propelled the inception of the #MeToo movement. Famous people came forward and told their stories, much as women and men may have done to those close to them, if they had the nerve, as they may have done to their therapists, doctors, and counselors, if they had the ability to take that step. Stop for a moment to review those CDC statistics. Women, if you are with others or in a crowd, count two other women. Then digest this: one of the three of you has experienced some form of sexual assault. Men, do the same: choose five other men and add yourself to the group. One of you has been assaulted. Mind boggling, isn’t it?

When I was young, my father always advised me to dress modestly and not visit untoward places. He railed at my mother if she wore what he considered low neckline sweaters. When we had the “birds and bees” talk, he told me that it was a wife’s duty to provide sex for her husband. She could not say “no.” Even at my young age – around 7th grade, after I’d begun menses and looked up human sexuality myself, I knew what he said was crap. But it stemmed from his religious beliefs, and there was no arguing with him. My parents were divorced by this time. When I began dating, he cautioned me that I should repel assaults by kneeing the man in the crotch. Taking his advice on my senior prom did, indeed, fend off a possible date rape, but it also got me a black eye. He offered me a deal: if I were a virgin when I was married, he’d give me $100. The whole idea horrified me. My dad was a good father, as fathers of that era go, but the views that he had about men and women and sex have not died, despite advances in women’s rights, awareness of human sexuality, and the idea that men and women are equal.

I won’t talk about workplace harassment or harassment I encountered at the university level, mostly as a student, but also as an employee. I won’t talk about other women’s experiences that I know about, even though I know about several. This is just me, saying “me too.”

My first experience with sexual assault occurred when I was in grade school. Like many young girls, I loved horses, and there was a riding stable just outside of town that was owned by a classmate’s family. I started going there, to rent a horse to ride for an hour, when I was in 7th grade. I always went with my sister, and often we went with or met a friend of mine there. My classmate and his brother were responsible for mucking out the stables (they also boarded horses), feeding horses, fetching horses from far pastures, and other chores. In Tom Sawyer fashion, they offered us a deal (with their father’s blessing) that if we helped them with their chores, we could ride for free all day, if we wished. We enjoyed learning about caring for horses and became familiar with the several barns and pastures on the property. We most often worked in barns that were used by the family’s horses and riding business. There was another barn where boarded horses were kept, and we rarely worked there. My dad drove us to the ranch each Saturday morning, mostly during the following summer, as long as it was good weather for riding. We stayed most of the day, working in the morning and riding in the afternoon. I got to know the ranch hands and some of the boarded horses’ owners. One older man owned a big, red Tennessee Walker. Everyone oohed and ahhed about his horse, but the horse had some skin problems, seemed a bit too thin to me, and I didn’t like it. His granddaughter – about my age – often came to the stables to ride his horse.

One day, about midday when we were eating our lunches after chores, waiting for the boys to finish so we could ride, I wandered to my favorite barn where an old paint horse that was blind in one eye was stabled. I like to visit him and often brought carrots in my lunch to treat him. The Tennessee Walker’s owner strolled in and said hello. I’d spoken briefly to him in the past, so I said hello and went back to fussing over the old horse. He asked me what was in the overhead, and I was surprised at his ignorance, but then thought perhaps he really didn’t know, since I worked there, and he just came to visit his horse. “It’s a hay loft,” I said. “What’s up there?” he asked. The expression “duh” had not been invented yet, but with the same attitude, I replied, “Hay!” He asked me if I’d show him the hay loft. I shrugged and said, “Sure.” We climbed the ladder to the loft, with him behind me, and when he cleared the ladder, I pointed out to all the bales of hay stacked around the walls of the loft and said something like, “See? Hay!” Suddenly, he pushed me up against a stack of bales that were taller than I was and started to savagely grope my breasts. I tried to wriggle away, laughing nervously, and then abandoning my bruised breast, he grabbed my hand and placed it on his flaccid penis, which he had freed from his pants. At the same time, he kissed me, sticking his tongue in my mouth. I didn’t really know what he was doing, but it disgusted me. I gathered all my strength and shoved at him, declaring scornfully, “You’re a pig!” I don’t know where that came from or why I said those words, but it so shocked him that he released me, and I scrambled down the ladder and out of the barn. I found a bathroom where I could lock myself in and cried. It wasn’t time for my dad to pick us up yet. I wanted to ride horses, but I also wanted to get as far away from this disgusting old man as possible. My still-developing breast was bruised, and I had whisker burns around my mouth. I made myself quit crying, splashed my face with cold water, and spit and drank water over and over, trying to wash the taste of him out of my mouth and mind. Eventually, I sneaked out of the bathroom, dreading that I would see him again. To my relief, his car was gone, so I found my friends and lost myself in riding in the pastures and doing what I loved.

I had nightmares about it and could not get the memory of the feel of his tongue or penis out of my mind. I was disgusted with myself for falling for such a stupid ploy. Of course, he knew it was a hay loft! Why didn’t I see that he was just luring me up there? I hated myself for being so gullible. The occurrence overshadowed all my visits to the ranch. When I saw the old man, I’d break out in a cold sweat and run away. I never let myself be alone when I was there – no more visits to see my old blind horse friend. I told no one. I was ashamed, but I didn’t know why. In the jargon of the times, I’d “asked for it.”

It couldn’t have been too much longer after this that my sister confided to me that this man had done something to her, and to our friend. I was horrified, but I told her that we couldn’t tell anyone. No one would believe us. This man had money. We shouldn’t have been where we were when we were molested. Then a bit later, my friend confessed to me what had happened to her. She further confided that he molested his own granddaughter, who spent weekends at his house, just a couple miles from the riding stables. I knew his granddaughter and liked her. I was horrified that she might be subjected to that treatment regularly and often. I spent most days feeling as if I was sick to my stomach.

As it turns out, my sister can’t keep a secret, and she confided to one of my parents what had happened to all of us. My father and mother were outraged, and my father announced that he was going to the police. I celebrated a little. If we told the police, the man’s granddaughter would be safe. I wouldn’t have to play “hide and seek” at the stables any longer. But my mother was horrified. We couldn’t go to the police! Her daughters’ reputations would be ruined! They argued about it for a couple of days. Finally, my mother won. My father would not report it to the police. I was shattered. I quit going to the stables as often. The day I graduated from 8^th grade, my classmate from the stables said that my favorite horse that I always rode had been killed in a lightning strike. I never went back to the stables again. So, one hears that “boys will be boys,” but what about elderly men with granddaughters? I started to be suspect of older men. I finished high school and went to university for two years. Other than the “usual” successful fending off unwanted advances, nothing much happened. I dated. It was the 70s, so I had sex. They were usually enjoyable experiences. My past events of assault and harassment had not unduly affected me, except to make me wary in public and mistrusting of older men.

I felt as if I had no direction at university, so, after two years, I enlisted in the U.S. Navy. After unbounded freedom of campus life, I enjoyed the structure, even not having to decide what to wear every day. I was lucky enough to gain the one seat available to the Defense Information School, a journalism/broadcasting school for all the armed forces. I liked the classes and the people there. What was disturbing was living in an open bay with tens of other women. When I grew up, I’d had a bedroom to myself. At university, I started with roommates and ended up in a private room. I was a very private person. I decided to escape the chaos of the WAC Detachment (the school was on an Army base at the time and has since moved) and get a room for the weekend at a local motel. I didn’t have the experience to be able to determine what a “nice” motel was and what wasn’t. I chose one close to the base, as I didn’t have a pass or leave – they generally were not required, but I wasn’t sure what would happen if I was gone for the whole weekend. No one knew where I was. I checked in to my room, moved in my small bag and decided to get some supper. I don’t recall what restaurant I went to. I didn’t want fast food. That would be too much like the mess hall. I wanted a sit-down dinner where someone waited on me. I didn’t have a lot of money, so it wasn’t a fancy restaurant, just some family restaurant or café near the base.

As I finished my supper, a young man came over and introduced himself. He had stringy, longish blond hair and was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. He was thin, and not very attractive. I replied curtly that I was having a quiet dinner and planned to spend the evening alone, so if he was trying to pick me up, I wasn’t interested. He halfheartedly tried to talk me out of it. I felt sorry for him and said we could talk while I ate my dessert and asked him if he wanted anything. He didn’t. We made small talk, and when my dessert was finished, he asked me to go somewhere else with him. I again explained that I wanted to have a quiet, early evening, and said no. He seemed a little angry. I apologized, and he got up and left. I drove back to the motel, looking forward to lying in bed and watching TV, something I hadn’t been able to do in a long time. I had a book of crossword puzzles, and in those days, you could still smoke in the room. Not long after I returned to the room, there was a knock on the door. I figured it was the manager, so I opened the door, and it was the young man from the restaurant. He said he thought I would change my mind. I didn’t know how he found me; he must have followed me back to the room. Now I was getting angry. I told him to “just go away” and tried to close the door. But he barged in and tried to grab me. I tried to think of any excuse. I told him I was engaged. I told him I was gay. He grabbed me and tried to kiss me, backing me into the room. He kept trying to kiss and grope me, trying to get my clothes off. I tried to scream, but he grabbed me by the throat. I could see that I would eventually end up against the far wall of the room and be trapped, just as I’d been trapped against those hay bales so many years ago, so I tried to whirl around and ended up falling to the floor. He leaned down and tried to grab my legs, but I got one foot free and started to crawl to the door. The carpet burned my knees and elbows, but all I could think of was to get outside where I could scream for help.

I crawled over toward the door as he tried to grab the waistband of my jeans, tried to lay on me. I pulled myself across the cheap carpet, kicking and crying, when I finally reached the screen door – as the storm door was still open. Thinking I could push open the screen and free myself from my attacker and escape, I reached for the handle and pushed. I lunged toward the door, but he lunged, too, and grabbed my legs to pull me back. The screen door slammed into my head as it closed. For a moment, I saw stars. But I thought, I can’t pass out, I can’t pass out. So, I lunged for the door again, and this time I caught him off guard, stood up, and escaped. I ran down the sidewalk a few yards and reached for the after-hours button at the motel office. As my finger neared the button, my attacker stood there a few feet away from me and begged, “Please don’t do that.” I told him to go to hell and pressed the button repeatedly. He ran down the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner of the motel.

Finally, the manager opened the office door and he looked me up and down. I had no idea what I might look like. I was just thankful that I had escaped and there was someone who would help me. I was sobbing and told the manager that I’d just been attacked. The manager looked at me again and asked, “Is this a friend of yours?” I was astounded. “No!” I yelled. “This isn’t a date gone bad?” he asked again. I staggered. I thought I might pass out. “No, no, I don’t know him!” He offered to take me back to my room and make sure I was okay. I thanked him, although I was angry that he thought someone I knew would do that to me, that I would go to a motel with someone to have sex. I didn’t dare tell him that I’d talk to the young man at dinner. There’s me “asking for it” again. I started to hurt all over as I followed him to my room. The manager looked through the room and bathroom and advised me to lock the door and not let anyone in. I agreed and thanked him again. He left, and I locked the door. I turned and saw my reflection in the dresser mirror and began to cry again. There was a trickle of blood down my face from my scalp. I had red marks around my neck. My shirt was torn, and I had bruises on my arms, carpet burns on my elbows. Because my legs hurt, I dropped my jeans to my ankles and saw burns on my knees and the tops of my feet. I put on another shirt, pulled up and buttoned my jeans and thought I would just go to sleep.

I couldn’t take off my clothes. I didn’t want to be under the covers. The thought of turning out the lights horrified me. I closed my eyes and began to relive the whole thing. So, I popped up and turned on the TV. But I was a wreck. I walked to the dresser to get my cigarettes and lighter. But I had only one cigarette left in the pack. I knew I had a carton of cigarettes in my car, but that meant going outside. The manager had said I should stay in the room, but I couldn’t go all night with no cigarettes. My car was not immediately outside my door, but I figured I could get the carton out of my car quickly, then lock myself back in my room. To allow myself quick re-entry, I left the storm door open. I ran to my car and retrieved the carton from the floor of the backseat. I locked the car and ran back to the room. I was about to close the door when I saw that my one-cigarette pack and lighter that I’d left on the dresser was gone. I heard something in the bathroom, so I ran out of the door and rang the manager’s bell once again.

The manager was not happy. I told him I thought someone was hiding in my bathroom. “I thought I told you to stay in your room?” he said. Getting angry now, I replied, “I just went to my car for cigarettes!” So, he stalked down the sidewalk and turned into my room. I stayed outside. I heard the manager pull the shower curtain aside and yell, and the next thing I knew, the manager was standing in front of me with my attacker, holding him by the back of his shirt collar. “You want me to call the police?” the manager asked. I wanted to say ‘yes’ but what about being gone from base. Wouldn’t the police, too, think that this was a ‘date gone bad’? They would find out I talked to him at the restaurant. Besides, I didn’t want to see him anymore, ever again. I shook my head. “I just want him to go away.” The manager told him to “get out” and warned him that if I awakened him again he’d call the police himself. I stood there with the manager while my attacker ran across the parking lot, crossed the street, and disappeared.

I don’t know how I got through that night. The lights stayed on, as did the television. As soon as it was light, I packed up and went back to the safety of the base. I tried to resume my life and met my boyfriend and friends at the club on base that evening. I flinched every time he touched me. After about an hour, after a casual hand on my thigh, I burst into tears and ran outside. A girlfriend followed me out. I couldn’t give her the details, but I asked her to tell my boyfriend that I’d been attacked the night before, didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t mean to alienate him. He was willing to abide by my wishes, and I eventually resumed at least the superficial appearances of my life. The guilt over not calling the police haunted me. But my mother’s worries from grade school also resonated in my mind. No one will believe you. It’s your word against his. Your reputation will be ruined. I learned to shoot and bought a gun.

Winter approached, and we were ordered to get a flu shot. I went to the clinic on base and sat down to wait my turn. I looked up from the magazine I was reading, and across the room was my attacker, sitting calmly with who I assumed to be his mother. He turned and caught my eye and immediately turned away. I broke out in a cold sweat and my heart raced. Because I didn’t call the police, because I didn’t report my attack, this person was on base, a military dependent, preying on my uniformed sisters, not paying for what he’d done to me, and probably others. I thought I would vomit. I walked to the desk and told them I was ill. The corpsman told me I couldn’t have a flu shot if I was ill and I should come back another day. He said I should go to sick call if I continued to feel unwell. I tried to walk to the door casually, and when I finally exited, after what seemed like hours, I found a bathroom and vomited as I cried. I hated myself, particularly because I still could not make myself go to the military police or the civil authorities. After that day, I thought I saw him everywhere. Of course, I didn’t. A military dependent wouldn’t be wandering about an Army base. But I was haunted by the guilt that he was preying on other women.

My dad had a serious heart attack; I finished school; I was posted to Key West, Florida. I got on with my life. I’ve told very few people about my two sexual assault experiences. I’ve told no one all the details until today. Maybe this will be cathartic. But despite the #MeToo movement, attackers are still getting away with their heinous crimes, especially if they are white and wealthy. Women are still treated as if they are hysterical, lying, misandrist, simpletons with agendas. They must be scorned women (asked of Anita Hill). They must be mistaken. Women are irrational, emotional, broken creatures who can be controlled, ignored, and used. I tell you this today, for every one of you who asks, “Why don’t they report their assaults?” This is why. #MeToo