“Like many women, I routinely receive unwanted sexual attention. It happens when a stranger on a Manhattan street looks directly at my chest and makes a sexual comment… Men in suits with briefcases, men on a break from their construction job, men in baggy jeans and backward caps- I’ve gotten comments from them all. Now, there are instances when I desire to be desired, when I want to be sexually admired. But generally I don’t want to be sexualized in asexual contexts, such as a New York City sidewalk… For many men, woman equals sexual being, and sexual being means sexually available all the time. But I don’t want my femininity confused with my sexuality. This confusion flattens me into a nonthreatening, cartoon figure: My sexual identity becomes my only identity, my every other characteristic wiped out.
Rape is a thousand times worse: The ultimate theft of self-control, it often leads to a breakdown in the victim’s sense of self-worth. If rape is defined as full penetration occurring against a person’s will with the use or threat of force, then 1 in 8 American women is raped in her lifetime. 1/5 of American women have been forced to do something sexually at some point in their lives. 8% of high school age girls said yes when asked if “a boyfriend or date has ever forced sex against your will. More than 70% say they were worried about their families discovering they were raped. 2/3 worry they might be blamed for it.”
I was 15 when I became a statistic. He was my older sister’s friend. He used to come over play the guitar with me. He was funny and really cool. My parents thought it was a bit weird that he wanted to hang out with a younger girl, so we began to hang out secretly. We would get frozen yogurt or something. It was simple. Innocent. However, I began to lie to my parents since they began to make it harder for us to hang out. I began to go to “math tutoring” after school, when in reality I would hang out with him. One day we couldn’t figure out where to go when he picked me up from school so we went back to his house. We were watching cartoons when his sister got home, she was in the next room over when he stuck his hand down my pants. I didn’t know how to react so I just stared ahead at the TV. I didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t my first encounter with a boy like this so why was I so hesitant? He took his hand out when he heard his sister start to walk around. “How about I take you home now?” I was relieved, I didn’t understand why it felt so wrong. We got into his car and he said “I’m sorry if I came on too strong in there, I had just been holding back for so long. You’re really pretty and it drives me crazy that I can’t have you.” Flattered, I just nodded and said “It’s okay”. He took a wrong turn. We were at a park. He parked his car in a secluded part and unbuttoned my jeans. I didn’t know what to do. If I said no he might get mad and leave me at the park stranded. I couldn’t call my friends, none of them drove. If I called my parents or my sister I’d be in so much trouble, so I sat and stared ahead in silence while he stuck his hand in me. I was in a lot of pain but all I could think about was getting in trouble so I stayed. He then unbuttoned his pants and pushed me down on him. I was choking, tears were flowing down my face and he just kept saying how much he liked the noises I was making. The noises of pain, the sound of my torture. He pulled me over the center console and pushed me onto him. It was the worst pain I had ever felt in my entire life. I was crying but he didn’t care. A cop car drove by, I hid my face, and they drove on. I could have screamed for help, but I kept thinking of what people were going to think if they heard about this, they’ll probably call me a slut or whore, they’ll probably think I deserved it, I guess I do.
I finally couldn’t take the pain anymore, the tears wouldn’t stop streaming down my face and I began to say “please stop it hurts so much” after about the fifth time I said it, he stopped. I pulled up my pants, he had gotten them dirty. I was so ashamed and I stayed quiet on the ride home. When I went inside my house I didn’t eat. I lied and said that I had eaten with my tutor. I went to my bed and slept all afternoon. The next day at school a girl in class commented about how I was walking funny… I lied and said I had hurt myself at the gym. That Friday my friends wanted to go to the football game. I lied and said I thought I was getting sick and probably shouldn’t go out.
I never saw him again after that. I never wore the bright pink sweater or jeans I wore that day again. I never spoke to anybody about what happened until a year later when I was sitting at home with a friend looking for a movie to watch and it just came out. I told her I hadn’t said no and he stopped when I said stop, so it couldn’t possibly be rape. She was the one who explained to me that just because I didn’t say “no” it wasn’t rape. I never said yes, it was not consensual. I had been abused.
Sometimes I still catch myself blaming me for what happened. Sometimes I get angry that I didn’t listen to my parents. Sometimes I choose not to go certain places because I might run into him. I always worry he did the same thing to some other girl and it’s my fault for not having spoken up before. I always wonder why he chose me to hurt. I always remember how sweet I used to think he was. For a whole year I was silent. For a whole year I hated myself for being stupid. I finally realized why it was wrong for a 19-year-old to want to be friends with a 15-year-old. I finally understood why he never kissed me, to him I was nothing more than a sexual tool. He probably never even truly thought I was pretty. To him I was just a way to please himself.
I became a statistic at fifteen years old, the world around me made me believe I was to blame because I was the one that wanted to be around him. I have a friend that became a statistic at six years old, are you still going to tell me it was her fault for trusting somebody? How is it that there are still people telling us that we “need to accept the compliments we are given”, that we “need to lighten up about jokes”, that we “need to realize that boys will be boys”? There is a quote in the book SLUT! By Leora Janebaum that reads, “The average age when teens begin to have sexual intercourse is fifteen. That is much too young.” I agree with this, I was much too young, I was much too trusting. This crushed me, I had no confidence, I was afraid of being around guys for a while. I figured they all wanted what the other guy had gotten. Recently, I made myself realize, I did not ask for anything, it was not my fault, I grew past it and I restored my confidence. I refuse to let anybody take this from me ever again.
