Why We Waited So Long

   

"Things are not getting worse. They are getting uncovered. We must hold each other tight and continue to pull back the veil."   ~unknown~

 In the spring of 1992, I lived a dream life in Redondo Beach, California. I was an aspiring actress and singer, and I bartended part time to pay the rent for my grimy but darling little beach apartment.  Life stretched out ahead of me like one long summer day.  I partied a bit too much, went rollerblading on the boardwalk every sunset, and dated as much as I wanted, whomever I wanted.  I was 26.  I had all the time in the world to make better choices, and this particular era wouldn’t last forever, so why not enjoy it? When I look back, I am so glad that I savored each sundrenched moment, because it all goes by so fast.  What I wouldn’t give for one more day in my carefree twenties. I’d sail along the horizon in my neon pink skates and cutoffs, my spiral-permed ponytail flying in the ocean breeze, dreaming of the day I’d be a big star.  Never did I imagine that one day I would care about things like health care and the environment, or that I would worry about anything other than paying my rent. I would’ve died laughing if someone told me back then that Donald Trump would one day be President, and I certainly never dreamed that as a middle aged woman, I’d be part of history in the making.  NEVER did I imagine that one sad event, buried in my memories of a mostly wonderful year, would be pertinent to write about 27 years later. But here I am, 53 years old, living in my Dad’s basement, far from stardom but not unhappy, writing this relevant story, and wondering where the time went.  Sometimes I wish I could have it back, but I’m grateful for all of my life experiences. It is every little thing I went through as a young adult that has shaped me into who I am today, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Not even the story I’m about to tell you. 

      One night in April or May of 1992, I went out with some friends after work, as was common practice. We were musicians and restaurant workers, young and unburdened by responsibility. There was nothing extraordinary about the evening,  just another warm night in some shoddy beach pub that stunk of stale beer. I don’t remember much about that night, except for how it ended.  If I were asked to describe the timeline of events in front of a jury, I’m not sure I could. If you asked what I was wearing, I don’t know. It could’ve been some slinky wanna be Madonna outfit, or maybe I was still in my work clothes. Does it matter? Were we drinking? I imagine we were tossing back kamikaze shots or purple hooters, why not? We were kids, just having fun. There are a lot of things from that night I don’t remember. I’m not sure what bar we were at, or the names of the friends I was with.  I don’t remember how many of us went out and if it was girls or boys or both. I don’t remember why a certain boy was there, someone I worked with, because he was younger than us and kind of an annoying guy, cocky. I do remember that I ended up at his house later; did I give him a ride home? I don’t remember, because I don’t know if we took a car or a cab or if we walked. I don’t remember why I went into his apartment, or was it a house? I don’t remember if I wanted a glass of water or if I needed to use the bathroom or if I was drunk enough to think maybe I wanted to hang out with him after all. I don’t remember much of what happened, it was a lifetime ago.  I don’t remember why I wound up on his bed, or futon, or maybe it was the couch. I don’t remember if he had a roommate or if he lived alone. I don’t remember if I said yes, but I don’t remember if I said no.

    Here’s what I do remember. I remember his first name and what he looked like. He was cute, but not my type-like I said, he was cocky. I remember that I had no intention of sleeping with him, because, as I’ve said, I didn’t like him that way. I remember that he wanted to, and that suddenly he had my arms above my head, and his hands were holding them down.  I remember that I didn’t feel afraid or hurt, but I couldn’t understand why he held me down. I must have struggled, because I didn’t want to be there, not like that.  I remember it happened very fast, and I couldn’t move.  Afterwards, I remember somehow getting up and getting home, but I don’t remember how. I remember calling up a boy I was dating at the time and telling him what happened. He came over and held me while I cried, and didn’t judge me. He didn’t ask for any details, but he wanted me to call the police. I couldn’t, because I wasn’t sure what had actually transpired.  He didn’t force himself on me (or did he?), and he wasn’t violent. He didn’t seem like a criminal. I wasn’t traumatized, just confused. I felt sick.  I did get sick. I cried, a lot. It is the only time in my life I have ever felt that way. Even though I went into his house and people could say I lead him on, no one has ever held me down against my will. No matter how many miniskirts I wore in my young days, no matter how many shots I did, no matter how careless I was at times…this was the only time something happened that I didn’t want to happen.  It isn’t my only story of abuse, or assault, or whatever you want to call it, but it’s the only time I couldn’t figure out why it felt so wrong. It was not black and white, not at the time.  I remember a few days (or maybe weeks) later, he confronted me at work. He said he knew what happened between us was kind of weird. He didn’t apologize. I couldn’t look at him. I wanted him to just go away. At some point, I don’t remember when or why, I told another girl at work, and she told me he did the same thing to her. That’s when I knew I did have a reason to feel violated. I remember that girl, I think her name was Amy, went with me to talk to our boss. We told him what happened, and I remember he just said, “Jesus Christ”. Nothing else.  A short time later he fired that boy I wasn’t in to, the kid that annoyed the hell out of me, the young man who should have known better than to hold my arms above my head while he took advantage of me. He wasn’t fired for sexual assault, just something obscure like tardiness, but I didn’t care. I never saw him again. I never called the police, and I never called it rape. I went on with my life and didn’t give it much thought. I just made sure nothing like that ever happened again.  I learned to take precautions, I learned I couldn’t trust someone who I thought was a friend, but I didn’t dwell on the actual event; I pushed it aside. Still, the memory of his hands clamped around my wrists is something I’ll never forget. 

    Now let me tell you another story. Nine years earlier, in the spring of 1983, I met a boy on a scuba diving trip in Mexico.  I was 17, and I was a virgin. I loved this boy. I knew it the minute he smiled at me. I knew that I wouldn’t stay a virgin for very much longer.  He never once pushed me. He waited until I was ready. He was the first boy that stuck around when I told him I was a virgin.  All the other boys throughout high school dumped me the minute they realized they weren’t getting anywhere. I knew he was the one I’d been saving myself for, and a few months later I lost my virginity. I don’t remember if it was prom or graduation. I don’t remember whose house we were at, or who else was at the party. I don’t remember where we were, if it was my neighborhood or his or someplace else.  I don’t remember the act itself, but I remember him. I remember I felt safe, and loved, and most of all respected. I remember I wanted to be with him forever. I remember that it was not confusing and I didn’t cry.  I remember that he asked if I was sure, and that I was. I remember that it was everything a first time should be. I remember my heart breaking when he went off to college, but not because I was hurt. He never hurt me.  We were just young and our lives went in different directions.  

    Most of you who know me well probably get where I’m going with this.  Here we are in 2018, the #metoo movement in full force and the entire country debating what constitutes sexual assault. If it was 35 or 27 years ago, does it count? If she didn’t say no, does it count? Why can’t she remember details? Obviously she wasn’t assaulted if she doesn’t remember the color of his sheets. Why didn’t she come forward earlier? She was confused, it was messy, it was just high school shenanigans, he said, she said, who knows what happened? Well…She knows. He knows. I know.  Why does it matter how we dressed or how much we drank or who can corroborate our story? How many drinks justify sexual assault? I know that even if the details are fuzzy and names and faces elude me, something awful still happened to me in the spring of 1992. I also know that in the spring of 1983 a young man made me feel like the most beautiful girl on earth, and even though the details are sketchy, there was nothing confusing or messy or weird about that night. It was magical.  Two completely different nights in my young life where specific memories are vague, yet the outcome of each event is imprinted on my brain forever. 

    We, as human beings, have instincts, and if we trust those instincts, we will be okay. The Senate or the Supreme Court or the President or the Police may not believe us, but we know in our hearts what happened, and whether it was wrong or right. If something feels weird, confusing, scary, or wrong, than it probably is all of those things. If it feels like assault, it is assault.  There is a big difference between assault and “rough horseplay”; it's a shame that there are senators who don't know this, but a woman does. To whoever is asking why woman don’t come forward, well, there are a million reasons, but mostly because someone will invalidate our feelings. Someone will mock us or make it our fault or tell us that it didn’t happen because we don’t remember every last detail. The experience itself is so scary, but it’s even more terrifying to let it out. We keep it inside, locked away, so that we can survive. I think it’s easier to survive the assault than to face the ridicule and judgment of naysayers. God, what a sad thing to admit.

    Some “people” are saying it’s a scary time for men. It is not a scary time for men, and let me tell you why. Not all men are bad. In fact, most men are good. My boyfriend is not scared. The boy from 1983 who is now a man is not scared. I would imagine that the boy I called for help back in 1992 is not scared. My brothers and my friends are not scared. Men that have never done anything to be worried about are not scared.  Men who tell the truth and who treat women respectfully are not scared.  Why should they be scared if they know, deep in their soul, to trust their instincts and do the right thing? If they are scared, they probably have a reason to be. I think that boy from story #1 is probably scared, wherever he is now.  I don’t particularly want to be the one who brings him down, but I wasn’t the only one he hurt.  And…I would be very uncomfortable if he was a Supreme Court candidate. 

    The ones who have a right to be afraid are the people telling their stories. What can be scarier than re-living your trauma, only to have someone, like the sitting President, tell you it never happened.  It happened, Mr. President. It happened to me, it happened to Christine Blasey Ford, it happened to almost every woman I know.  The good news is, it’s not going to be happening for much longer. We can’t change what happened to us, but by coming forward we can change the culture we live in. Let us speak, let us tell our stories, without condemnation. At the end of the day, if you still do not believe us, if the accused still get to live their lives, then understand, you are the reason we don't come forward. 

Peace, love, and Namaste,

Sunnie