Speaking out.

[rikibeth]

By now, if you haven't seen misia's post, or any it inspired, you haven't been reading.

II've been composing this all day in my head. I wasn't sure I should say anything, because naamah99 already spoke so eloquently of the feelings of someone who's never experienced sexual violence. And, for the most part, her words spoke for me.

But there was a little voice in the back of my head, saying, "Never? Are you sure?"

I'm not writing this looking for sympathy or for praise. I've never considered myself a victim of sexual violence, nor do I claim the label "survivor," because, to me, that speaks of a courage I frankly didn't need to draw on to deal with my life.

And yet my life has not been entirely untouched by sexual violence.

What's happened in my life, I'd file under "close calls." Or "brushes." Enough to make me nervous for a half-hour or so, and enough to remind me of the need to be wary, and to look out for myself. And my friends.

I'm going to describe them now because I think they show how close the experience can be to anyone's life.

Boskone 21, February, 1984

It was the weekend of my fourteenth birthday, and Friday night at the con, my first one. I was with my friend Sharon. We'd been chatting and flirting with a gorgeous dark-haired young man, with a vaguely piratical air and eyeliner rimming his eyes. His nametag said "Michael." We drifted into a group of people he knew who were standing in a rough circle. He stood behind me and rested his hands on my hips, and I was delighted. Then he started rubbing his crotch against my ass. I stiffened. He said, "Relax." I stammered out something about needing to go to the ladies' room, ducked out of the circle, and didn't stop until I ran into some other people I knew in the stairwell, and wandered the halls with them for the next while.


First Night, 1986

With Sharon again. Near midnight, and we were outside in the bitter cold of Quincy Market, waiting for the fireworks. We'd fallen into conversation with some young men -- college age, I think, perhaps they even said they went to Northeastern, I'm not sure -- who had a bottle of champagne, and shared it with us. I didn't really care for the one who was mostly talking to me, but at midnight, taking the opportunity of tradition, he kissed me hard. As I didn't feel like kissing him again, or explaining why not, I whispered "Let's go" in Sharon's ear, and we melted into the crowd.

And now for one that I'm not sure HOW to count. If I were putting it in fanfic, the warning would say "dubious consent," I suppose. It's not something I disliked, or regretted; I enjoyed it a lot. But I have always wondered what might have happened if we hadn't been interrupted.

I'm going to name names, here, because the name may actually MEAN something to someone on my friendslist. Who knows, it may draw some old friends out of the woodwork, or give someone courage, or... something.

Boskone 22. February, 1985. Right around my fifteenth birthday.

I'd met Duncan Newberry early that Saturday morning. Teenage hormones, chemistry, puppy love... whatever it was, we'd been joined at the hip for most of the day, and enthusiastically making out wherever we could find a private corner. Somehow, with the connivance of at least one of the friends I'd shared a hotel room with, we'd managed that night to be in that hotel room, by ourselves. I told him, as we settled ourselves on the bed, that I expected to end the night still a virgin. He said, "You realize I'm going to try to change your mind." I acknowledged that, and didn't let it stop me. I wasn't telling him that I already had a fallback position in mind: although I'd never done it before, I'd decided that I'd be willing to give him a blow job, if it got that far. I didn't tell him because I wasn't sure how far we were going to go, and if it stopped short of that, that was okay with me, too.

He had my jeans unzipped and his hand inside my panties when my friend's mother walked in on us and sent him packing, leaving me embarrassed and disappointed. She gave me a short lecture about not getting pregnant. I didn't tell her my fallback plan, either.

To this day, I wonder what would have happened if nobody had walked in on us, and how I would have felt about it afterwards.

Those are my stories. They're not much like the stories that have been cropping up all over my friendslist, stories that I wish I could say surprised me as much as they saddened me.

But maybe they'll speak to someone, somewhere.

So, for all of you out there whose lives have been touched by sexual violence:

My name is Riki.
I stand with you.
No pity. No shame. No silence.

Comments

[ceilidh71.livejournal.com]

i read the linked post, and many pages of the responses. wow. i have a few close calls similar to what you have posted in my history, but i have been very very blessed not to have any *horrific* experiences to deal with. i'm going to post a link in my lj, too.

[naamah-darling.livejournal.com]

I may do a close calls post, myself. I've had a few, but I just wasn't thinking (and still don't) that they made me a victim. They were close calls -- that's it.

But it does show how we are all affected, how close most of us have come -- more than once! -- to becoming a statistic.

Thank you for posting this. It's important.

[plymouth.livejournal.com]

I don't even have any close calls like those. It makes me feel... I dunno... like I'm living in a bubble? I really haven't known what to say to this meme. I feel like whatever I tried to say would come out looking inappropriate somehow.

[gem225.livejournal.com]

Thank you for sharing and for standing with us.

Gail, friend of Nomi and not altogether insane weird bad person (all right, not a good night. Sorry. I was strong yesterday, but not as much today)

Bravo

[arden-ranger.livejournal.com]

Thank you for stnding up.