What came next I didn’t see coming. The heart-aching, immense realization of a betrayal from an unexpected source. My childhood did not prepare me for this. Disappointment, sure. Insult, sure. Violation even, sure. But betrayal. This is new.
Let’s go back first. Sense of self. You want, you think, you do. You have feelings about yourself. And they aren't shaped or formed. You creating yourself through being doesn’t look for answers, explanations or labels. Doesn’t look for belonging even. They are free-floating, based on nothing, no foundation, your idea of yourself, your feeling of yourself just IS.
But then it happens. It gets placed. It gets place for you.
"Oh gosh… oh yea ... oof, yea I don't know… girls reading that stuff… they're too young for that kind of stuff, don't need to be reading it".
He quickly reads the chapter titles, skims through it, his face contorted with bewilderment. He cringes and retreats into himself. Ick. Girl stuff. He's uncomfortable. Boys, friends, bullying, bodies. I'm now uncomfortable. 9 years old. It is a book for girls about things that may come up shortly. How ick. I don't even know who this guy is. A friend of the parents. But no one familiar. Sitting at our kitchen table, a-sit-at-the-table, having a beer with the parents kind of guy. A - I'm scared of girls kind of guy. A – I'm so glad I never had any daughters kind of guy. I didn't know that girl things were so scary. I didn't know I was so scary.
"Boys, make sure you bike those girls home."
From our porch with my parents, his father calls out to us on the street. Loud enough for everyone to hear. Loud enough to make a small scene. An announcement of his responsibility. He's not over at our house very often. He doesn't see myself and my friends and his son's bike away very often. I mean, he has, we all hang out regularly, but this is the first time he sees us take off while in the presence of my parents. 13 years old. We bike, we swim, we hang out. We go to the movies. We smoke weed. We bask in the sun. We live in the river. We eat fruit from the trees. We trade hanging out at each other's houses. We hike the small mountain overlooking the town and eat at the local burger joint. We are different. The boys and the girls. We know we are different. But we are equals. Never felt any different. I bike myself home. I walk myself home. I take myself home. Maybe we all move together across our small town, one kid dropping from the group as we pass their house. But that's not from any sense of chaperonage. I didn't know I needed to be taken home. I didn't know that boys were supposed to know that I needed to be taken home.
"Well, I think she looks the sexiest." His voice dips playfully with the "welllll, slowly and proudly the rest of words roll off his tongue. His eyes get coy as if this is a fun, flirty, appropriate announcement.
We are getting sorted with bags and seats as we funnel into the minibus on our way to a volleyball game. 16 years old. We might play sports and get all sweaty and yell-y, but it is an event in more than one way. We might be in jerseys, but we probably all put the effort to still look cute and confident. "She" had just gotten her hair done.
"Daaaaaadddd" his daughter says from across the seats.
This was not the first or last time our adult volleyball coach commented about his all-girls high school teams' appearance.
We didn't know that our teenag-esque could be infiltrated for the adult gaze.
"Hello 911".
This time it's my voice. 24 years old.
I ran. I didn't know how to stop the fighting. And it wasn't arguing anymore; it was about winning. It was yelling to yell. It had taken a dark turn; with anger, he was scaring me.
He hated me. He thought he loved me. I think I hated him. I think I loved him. He didn't want me to go. He was trying to stop me. I hate being told what to do. So. I ran. No. I fled. Out the apartment building that I used to live in. Down the stairs. Out to the street. Into the neighbourhood that I still lived in. I'm just a few blocks from home. I'm running. I never run. I hate running. But again, this isn't running. This is fleeing.
I started to slow; leaving was the right choice; leaving was my choice. I didn't expect him to follow my dramatic exit. To challenge my choice. I made my decision, isn't that enough?! He was behind me. He was closer. He was in front of me. Right in front of me. He surrounded me. Yelling, shouting, covering. Bushes behind me. Cement below. Street, houses, bushes, dim lights but mostly darkness and quiet behind and around. And his rage, spatting and sputtering in my face. The busy streets were just out of view. Leaving didn't mean shit. My choice meant shit. I couldn't get away. I hate to admit that I was cornered. I hate this. I hate this like a hunted creature, bound with his attack. I'm scared.
His desire to win, his need to not let me go unpunished, broke my heart. It broke my heart. It broke my heart. He took my choice away. He's got me. I had never felt like this before.
It washed over me. This welling sadness grew and filled my core. This disappointing enlightenment. Understanding. This truth.
I am inherently weaker than him. This fate. At the construction of the universe, this consequence of existing was a type of betrayal I had never felt before.
This wasn't the same as disgust towards the volleyball teacher, or anger at the Dad who diminished me to nothing but a helpless girl, or the second-hand embarrassment towards the man who just couldn't hold back his fear for girl things. This was deeper and bigger. This wasn't just people telling me what I am. This was new. I've been double-crossed by the universe that is supposed to love me. Is this the burden we inherently carry? What the FUCK is this. I do not want this. I do not want this. I feel like I've been tricked. This is not who I thought I was. Does my life depend on the trust that someone will not hurt me?
He could kill me if he wanted to. He could kill me if he wanted to. He could kill me if he wanted to. He could kill me if he wanted to.
It doesn't matter that he didn't. It doesn't matter that he only grabbed my arm, only chased me down the street. I didn't have a choice in that, and if he wanted to do anything else, I would not have had a choice in that either.
It broke my heart. It broke my heart. It broke my heart. And it pissed me off. He made me be something that I never agreed to. And I do not like being told what to do. I've become a victim. I've become something of not my will. I cannot do anything. I am not all-powerful. Anything I want to be, could be undone. My ideas of myself will end if I am not here. And I'd have no say in it.
"I'm going to do it. Go away. Let me go. Go away. STOP IT. I'm calling 911. I'm calling 911. I'M CALLING 911. GO AWAY; I just want to leave. Stop, STOP IT **** #### ***".
I didn't know that my own choices wouldn't always be enough.
