“what’s the problem?” my coworker shrugs, watching the news in our breakroom, slurping noodles. a swimmer gets away with a crime. “so what. he won’t do it again.”
so what. when i am twenty at a party and the rape joke falls somewhere in the middle of our conversation, someone rolls their eyes when i bring up feminism, waving it away. “i see that stuff so much these days I’m like shut up, already. i support the cause but i’m growing tired of all that… noise.” i’m bringing it up because the girl next to me is shaking. i’m bringing it up because everybody is now laughing at me, and not the rape joke, and not the girl who has to leave to go and throw up.
so what. when i was nineteen i had painted “he won’t do it again” in my blood. he was sweet and smart and everyone told me how lucky i was.
so what. when i was sixteen i thought i loved a boy, even though we were barely friends. i was convinced i saw the world in him. his ex-girlfriends, every single one, would openly admit he wasn’t a good person. they said behind closed doors, he became something else. they wouldn’t speak more of it.
but he was beautiful. and funny. and the star of our musicals, with a voice like silk. and i liked him and his teachers liked him and everybody did.
i found one of his girlfriends crying over a sink once. she had been left by all of her friends. none of them believed her, because who would ever think?
so what. when i was fourteen my friend showed up consistently with bruises on his chin. he flinched a lot, was too skinny, an outcast kid. his dad was everyone’s favorite. a big laugh in his chest, coached football, made you feel welcome.
it took eight consecutive calls to the police. it took eight wellness checks, eight moments where they were close to saving him.
it took eight calls where nothing happened, where the dad wrote it off as teenage antics, before my friend gave up and stopped calling.
so what. at seven i knew a boy who was being bullied but nobody stopped it because even the principle loved the person behind it.
so what. at five on the playground a boy pushes me down. “he likes you,” my mother says, cleaning the dirt out of my knee.
“i hate him,” i reply, “i don’t want him to like me.” everywhere is stinging. in a romance movie, we end up together. in the real life, i avoid him. at five i learn. nobody will punish him.
so what. i’m twenty-three and i’ve had six lifetimes of these stories. of men getting away with things. of hurts that never heal. of justice ringing hollow. of the words of the wounded getting swept somewhere they cannot make a difference. there’s nowhere to go but god sometimes, and i’m not particularly religious. “he will burn in hell,” my friend promises. i don’t care if he does. i want him to burn now, to burn the way i did, to burn the way i do, like your body is a river of acid. like you can’t stand to see yourself in the morning. like the mirror is poison and your mouth is wide open. i am trapped somewhere under the earth, slowly being calloused by venom.
“he seemed so nice,” a voice is shocked, coming through the t.v., “we all really loved him.”
