What I’d Tell Her

Somehow I got through the election and all the writing about being abused and assaulted by men without remembering the time a boy tried to kill me.

Yes, I’ve faced sexism in the workplace and in the world. I’ve been ignored and passed over for jobs in minor ways. My father was abusive in a number of ways as well, but out in the world, armed with my anger and keys in my fist, I never have had to battle a man wanting to take something from me and my body.

I even wrote about it here on Medium, pledging myself to women and against Trump and his brand of sexism and abuse.

But this week as I read Roxane Gay’s memoir “Hunger,” I remembered an incident that I’d conveniently (for my psyche) put away, tucked nicely into the slot of “I must have deserved it.” Her story is about the aftermath of a violent crime against her body, and as I read through and on, this memory came back to me. Not as in a recovered memory, something I’d blocked out. But as something I filed away as in “forget forever.”

The incident happened at the big swim meet of the year for my town, the one where all the swim clubs came to together to battle it out for the best team in town. Yes, there was the country swim meet, but there was something very personal about this hometown event. I was maybe 12. Or 11. Puberty or just about. I was a wild, laughing, rowdy girl. Loud and sometimes obnoxious. I did not go gentle. I had fun, made jokes, ran around.

And I did something. I have one friend I could ask about the exact nature of my crime, but I haven’t done that yet. I fear she will still blame me still, as everyone did blame me. But first, here’s what happened. A boy, Peter, somehow started to choke me. I was on the cement, on my back, he over me with his hands around my neck. I remember not feeling anything, not worrying either. Maybe I thought it was part of the teasing or game or irritation I was involved in.

But then there was noise, my father, running toward me. I think. I’m not sure. Maybe it was our swim coach, Doug. Somehow, Peter was off, taken away. There was upset and concern, and then . . . and then nothing. Peter was not punished or chastised, even though my friend who witnessed this said, “You were blue.”

For a time, I expected to have some meeting or agreement or maybe even an apology. There was probably talk at home, but by the end of the swim meet, it was over. Summer was over. School started, and my near murder was really never talked about again.

But I felt shame. Peter’s parents — who were important at our swim club, his dad the announcer at the meets, his mother the lead mother who recorded times and wrote out the winners on the ribbons — avoided me. Told people I was bad. Averted their eyes when they saw me. It was common knowledge that his behavior was my fault, and there wasn’t a way to overcome that egregious misbehavior on my part.

Years went by, and as they did, I knew for certain that I was the bad girl who had instigated something vile, so bad that I induced a boy to strangle me. I was strangle-worthy. It was, by all accounts, okay that I almost died. Add this to the fact that my father — while he lived — slapped and hit and yelled and no one stopped him convinced me of the fact of my general unworthiness.

The last thing I remember of Peter and his family is a fourth of July celebration at their house. I was now a senior in high school, headed, barely, to community college in the fall. My friend — the same one who had witnessed the event — had finagled an invitation for me to attend the famous celebration at Peter’s family home. There were fireworks at his side of town, and a sumptuous spread of unmitigated proportions. All the kids would be there under the holiday sky, watching the explosions.

“They said you could come,” my friend whispered in my ear. “It will be okay this time.”

So like a thief, an intruder, someone who broke or stole precious objects and must be minded, I entered Peter’s home and yard. His father nodded at me. Peter ignored me. His mother? I can’t remember. At the time, I felt what? Accepted? Not forgiven, as there were conditions on my being allowed in. I had to be quiet and circumspect, things I’d finally managed to learn. I couldn’t cause a scene or be myself in most ways. It was important for me to shut up and enjoy, two conflicting things for me.

Yesterday, I searched Facebook for Peter. I hadn’t really thought about him as a person living his life, not ever. But there he was, living in the same part of town, and maybe even the same house he grew up in. A wife, two children. He looked almost normal, not like a man who was once a boy who wanted to strangle someone.

As a mother of two sons, I wonder what was going on that would have caused him such rage. His father — important as he was at the swim club — was odd and weighed about four hundred pounds, he himself hiding something or trying to protect himself. His mother was docile and very sweet and good, things I’ve actually never trusted. Peter and his sister were good children and did good things, at least until Peter tried to kill me.

I don’t know of his pain and his problems, but I know that what he did to me taught me that my life wasn’t really that important to anyone around me. Not my parents or my friends. Not my coaches or the parents around me. No one said to me, “You didn’t deserve that. He was wrong. He will be talked to. He will apologize to you.”

No one called child protective services or the police. No one took me to a doctor or to counseling.

People did say, “What did you do? What did you say to him? Why did he do that?”

In many ways, I’ve experienced what Roxane Gay has. I have never weighed 577 pounds, but I’ve put on weight because I sought food as solace. I’ve blamed myself for the wrongs done to my body. I’ve gotten into very bad relationships, where I was not respected or treated well, staying anyway. I’ve felt unworthy or unappreciated by the world around me. I’ve felt that I needed to make up for the bad deeds of others.

What I would do now if I could go back is I’d pick myself up off the cement. I’d look myself in the eye. I’d say, “That was not your fault. He did that to you. You did not deserve it. Nothing you could have done here could have made you deserve that. Let’s call the police. Come on. The pay phone is over here.”