by Things We Didn't Talk About When I Was a Girl (retail) (epub)
I wanted to investigate: Were there other teachers like my advisor at my school?
Instead, I published stories about gas prices, student clubs, cheerleading tryouts, a new smoking law.
The local newspaper ran a story about the school paper. And there, on the front page, was a photo of me and my advisor. I’m sitting at the computer where he touched me. My right forearm is covering all of my right thigh. He’s behind me. I remember the photographer instructing us, Get closer.
I declined my advisor’s invitation to edit the paper at his apartment.
Working at school is easier, I told him.
But how do you know? he asked.
You live sort of far away.
I’ll drive you, he said.
I declined the next few times he asked.
Suddenly I no longer could use the computer room, according to my advisor. From now on, I’d use the old computer in his classroom. The screen refreshed every time I clicked the mouse.
If you want to be a journalist, he said, you have to learn how to deal with challenges.
But there’s an easy solution, I replied.
There is?
There is? may sound like unnecessary dialogue, but the way he said it: he sounded hopeful.
There are good computers in the computer lab, I said.
He said that I didn’t know how to respect authority.
From then on, editing the paper took three times as long. I started staying at school especially late. Sometimes, while I calculated point and pica—attempting to fit several stories on a page—the sun switched off, like a light. After I shut down the computer, the hallways were too dark for me to maneuver the lock on my locker. I complained to my advisor, said the computer was too slow.
If it’s too slow for you, we can do this at my place.
I said nothing, and he returned to his desk and graded papers.
I started bringing a flashlight.
I worked alone most evenings on the newspaper, while my advisor spent more and more time with his fiancée, a new teacher in our school.
One evening, however, he stayed late, grading papers at his desk. I needed to head home, I told him. I had scholarship deadlines. He claimed there was still too much work to do on the paper. There wasn’t, though.
You’re a disappointment, he said.
What did I do wrong? I asked him.
You don’t know how to manage people.
I explained that most students wanted to put school newspaper on their college applications, show up for the yearbook photo, and that was it. I named friends, such as Amber, Heather, and Mark’s sister, who’d offered to stay late to work on the paper, but my advisor had told them to go home.
It’s as if you want me to fail, I said.
I turned off the computer, grabbed my backpack, but he blocked me from the door.
You don’t understand, he said. You’ll never be a journalist.
I replied: I’m done. I quit.
I asked my mom if I could spend the rest of the school year at home.
I know Dad isn’t feeling well. I want to spend more time with him.
You’re hiding something, she said. Something else is wrong.
I started crying.
You can’t tell Dad, I said.
Tell him what?
I confided in my mom. She left the room and returned with my dad. She helped him walk into the living room.
I tried to explain: It’s a teacher.
My mom said what I couldn’t: He touched her.
My dad clenched his cane.
If only I were well enough, he told the floor.
My mom took me to the principal’s office the next morning.
We’ve got a problem, she told him.
I thought of my dad, how hurt and helpless he looked, and then I thought of my advisor’s fiancée, how hurt she’d likely feel. The principal closed the door. My mom sat beside me. I struggled to describe what my newspaper advisor had done.
He turned mean after that, I said. He doesn’t come out and say exactly what he wants.
But my examples sounded inconsequential, to me at least.
It’s all in his tone of voice and his eyes, I said.
He touched her, my mom said.
The principal said he believed me. He’d order a police investigation.
Afterward, the guidance counselor called me to her office.
I don’t think I can be here, I told her.
We’ll make it so you can avoid him as much as possible, she said.
Because my former advisor was also my current homeroom teacher, my counselor wanted to transfer me into someone else’s classroom. I chose my art teacher’s.
My art teacher was also my art club, drama club, and yearbook advisor. I took several classes with him. His windows were often open. The walls were always covered with student art. He was demanding, and everyone wanted to impress him. Whenever I felt sad for no clear reason, my art teacher said he understood. I confided in him about my former advisor, and he believed me.
The detectives did not.
They said I looked tired. I said I had trouble sleeping. They asked if I thought my ability to reason had been compromised by a lack of sleep.
No, I said.
The detectives asked me to repeat the violation in words. I didn’t want to say vagina to these two men. I didn’t want to draw attention to my body, to sexualize my body. One of the detectives asked me to demonstrate on my own thigh precisely how far up my advisor’s hand had traveled. This would have required me to rub my hand up my thigh and then over my vagina. I started crying. They exchanged looks, and I thought, They don’t believe me, and they never will.
At one point, the principal’s wife, an English teacher, stopped me in the hallway.
Don’t back down, she said. Don’t let them twist what you know is true.
I’m losing sight of Mark. This project is supposed to be about my friendship with Mark and about how he ruined it.
On the phone I said: I think about our friendship, though, and the type of friend, whatever friend you are.
Why did I slip into the present tense?
. . .
ME: Some people knew that something had happened with my newspaper advisor. I would get comments from jerks.
HIM: Teenagers are super cruel.
ME: Yeah, like: Shouldn’t wear short skirts. And I just remember going to your house a lot, and that was the one place where I felt kind of calm.
HIM: Well, I’m glad.
ME: That’s why this is interesting to me, because honestly, when I think about our friendship—and I’ve thought about our friendship a lot—you were one of the few people who I felt understood me back then, and that’s why I was hoping you would talk to me. I think of what a great person you were, how wonderful you were, and I’m sure you still are. And it was just this one night. To completely lose an entire friendship over one night. And yes, it was a betrayal, but we had so many years of friendship. And so it means a lot to me, I can’t tell you how actually helpful this is. It’s not like I expect my writing projects to be cathartic.
HIM: I have to admit, I’ve been having a slow panic attack all week, stressing out about how this phone call was going to go.
ME: I guess you Googled me.
HIM: I had heard about the book last year. I knew you had written something. And then when I saw what it was about, I was afraid of what it said about me. And so I had to read it. And, by the way, it’s an incredible book.
ME: Your compliment means a lot, because I always thought of you as a really good writer. You were kind of good at everything.
HIM: I actually had the thought reading it, I knew you were really talented, I didn’t know you were that much more talented than me than I was at anything. You should be very proud.
I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE THAT MUCH MORE TALENTED
I call Sarah, quote Mark’s compliment.
His compliment was weird, right? I ask her. He said, I didn’t
know you were that much more talented than me than I was at anything.
That’s so self-absorbed, she says.
I do have an unfair advantage with this recording, I tell her. I can analyze and pick apart what he says.
I’m compelled, she says, by your conflicted relationship with power. You want it, through the narrative, but you keep disavowing it.
I’m just trying to acknowledge that there’s an imbalance.
This all feels very gendered to me, she says.
Reflecting on what Sarah said, I regret praising him: I think of what a great person you were, how wonderful you were, and I’m sure you still are. Also: You were kind of good at everything. I doubt he needs praise. And I don’t believe he deserves it. His participation in this project really is the least he could do.
And why did I diminish what he did? And it was just this one night. To completely lose an entire friendship over one night. . . . We had so many years of friendship. I’m disappointed in myself, and I’m of course disappointed in him. But where’s the anger?
Bishop jumps on my desk and sits next to my computer screen.
Where’s the anger? I ask her.
And she nuzzles my hand, making anger—about anything or anyone—impossible. Maybe I should take a break from this project. But I know that I care too much about it to stop now.
I start to play the audio, and Bishop hears my voice say: Thanks. The book is obviously focused on my dad. You know you have to leave some stuff out.
She scrutinizes my unmoving lips.
I ask her, What black magic is your mom practicing?
. . .
ME: Thanks. The book is obviously focused on my dad. You know you have to leave some stuff out. I do feel bad. But I think your identity was disguised. Nobody would really know.
HIM: Nobody who didn’t already know.
ME: Did you ever talk about it with any of our friends?
HIM: I think my sister knows something happened. Beyond that, I couldn’t say.
ME: I want to write about it, but I don’t want to write it in a way that would be hurtful to you. That’s why I reached out. So that I could explain, so that you would understand my intentions.
HIM: It’s hard for me to talk about. I’ve been thinking about it. I was, you know. I was isolated and frustrated and drunk and horny and I don’t know. It was stupid. It’s not your fault. It’s just. It’s just. I don’t know.
ME: Well, we were what? Nineteen?
HIM: Nineteen or twenty.
ME: It was December of sophomore year of college.
HIM: So we must have been nineteen.
I DON’T UNDERSTAND THE PHYSICS OF TIME
I can’t—no, I can—believe I said: I want to write about it, but I don’t want to write it in a way that would be hurtful to you.
That’s absurd. That’s impossible. How could this project not be hurtful to him?
And then I dismissed the assault as serious by emphasizing our ages: Well, we were what? Nineteen?
As if a nineteen-year-old should be treated like a nine-year-old.
This is hard, much harder than I thought it’d be. Transcribing the conversation slowly, I occupy different planes of time. I’m reliving the conversation just as I’m reliving the assault just as I’m reliving my friendship with Mark. I find it hard to exist outside of this project. I don’t want to relive my memories. I want to write about them.
In my memories of Mark, he tells me, It’s okay.
It’s okay that I received a B on the physics quiz.
It’s okay that I want to change majors.
It’s okay that he’s taking off my clothes.
And now a memory within a memory. In the basement, I remembered a lesson from physics: that time moves more quickly high up than below, nearer to Earth. The basement was a negligible distance from the party upstairs, and yet it felt impossibly far away.
I remember when Mark tried to explain that concept—how time can move at different speeds.
I’m so stupid, I said. I don’t understand the physics of time.
And then I laughed, because it seemed like a silly thing to say. Of course the physics of time should be difficult to understand. But then I started crying from frustration—because I wanted to understand.
He closed my physics book.
This isn’t important, he said.
But it’s physics, I told him. It’s holding our world together.
I wonder which physics concepts will be disproven years from now.
And I wonder which of my memories are wrong. I’m afraid of making mistakes, as if one slipup will discredit my story entirely—which is why I’m asking Mark to confirm the details of the assault. This, then, gives him power. I’m asking him to explain his assault of me to me. But at least he admitted what he did. My newspaper advisor never admitted to touching me. Which is probably why I crave confirmation from Mark. And now Mark has given it.
It’s not your fault, Mark said.
Is that why my anger feels hard to summon?
I need to keep going. No deleting what I’ve written. No starting over.
I remember taking notes and tests in high school. If the ink smudged or if I left out a word, I’d retranscribe my notes. This made timed, handwritten tests especially difficult. Instead of striking through one bad sentence or one misspelled word, I’d crumple the paper and start over.
You have to stop this, teachers and friends would tell me.
I wonder if Mark will tell me to stop.
. . .
ME: So this is how I remember the event, but correct me if you have a different memory. There was a small group of us. I know Amber came. Jake was there, obviously. Your brother went along. Earlier that night, you were driving him and me to the party. He was in the back seat. I was in the front. We stopped to get gas. You got out. And your brother told me—I know he was just in high school, but while you were out of the car he told me, You know, you’re not as pretty as the guys make you out to be. And I was like, I never said I was pretty. I thought, Where is this coming from?
HIM: Jesus. [We laugh.]
ME: I know! Then you got back in the car, and you said to me, You’re quiet, and he said, How much longer is it going to be, and I thought, Okay, this is stressful.
HIM: Have I mentioned that people are the worst? That’s my thesis.
ME: Otherwise, he was a sweet kid. He was a teenager. Whatever. That night, it was the first time I’d ever gotten drunk, and I remember thinking, It’s just friends.
HIM: I didn’t realize that that was the first time you’d ever been drunk.
ME: I remember I was really drunk. Garrett said, Oh, she should lie down. I don’t remember who suggested putting me in your room. Maybe you suggested it. Anyway, I ended up in the basement, where your room was. I think it was you and Jake who carried me down. But I remember you saying—
HIM: Yeah.
ME: I’ll stay down here with her to make sure she’s okay. I think that’s when—I mean, I was in and out of it. That’s what I remember you saying. And I remember thinking, Oh no. And suddenly I thought something bad was going to happen. I felt so sick and dizzy. So I guess the question that’s been on my mind: Was it at that moment, right before carrying me downstairs, that you planned it?
HIM: It’s not like I set out to do this. If I hadn’t been in that basement.
IF I HADN’T BEEN IN THAT BASEMENT
So he could have controlled himself had he not carried me into the basement?
I’m tired of white, educated, middle-class guys, like Mark, not being held accountable. Does my silence make me complicit? I think it does. Or maybe I’m finding another way to blame myself.
I want to stop working on this, which is why I should keep working on this—because I don’t know how I think or feel about any of it.
Had I written about the assault immediately after it happened, I might have confronted my feelings, fossilized them for later examination. Since I didn’t, the best I can do
is trust my present feelings—because my fallible memory taints the past.
Even though a mood ring might not be scientifically accurate, its glass stone would at least indicate an emotion that I could agree with or resist. Maybe I should get a mood ring.
. . .
HIM: But. I don’t know. It’s. My memory of that night is not great to start with. Honestly, my primary memory of that night is just I remember I lay down afterwards and I could hear you crying, and I mean, I can still hear it. And it, it just haunts me.
ME: As I remember it, you fingered me and masturbated.
HIM: That’s all I remember.
ME: I don’t want to do that gendered thing where I say, I don’t get angry. I just get sad.
HIM: I feel like we brushed what happened under the rug. At least certainly I tried to not really confront what had happened, which is a regret of mine. And I don’t know, maybe that was for the best. What could you say? I felt bad—not just about what happened—but the way that I handled it afterward.
ME: Well, I mean, it’s hard to determine how one is going to handle that. But the other thing that’s interesting to me—and I’m in writer mode, so sometimes I don’t confront the emotions to really traumatic stuff—but one of my close friends, this guy in New York, I got really drunk, and my roommate at the time, she sent me home from the party with this friend, and it was a clear-cut instance of rape. I pushed him away. But it didn’t matter.
HIM: I’m sorry to hear that.
ME: Cutting off that friendship didn’t feel, I don’t know why it didn’t feel, as bad. Maybe because I wasn’t as close of a friend with this person. You know, if we looked at this situation using a continuum of sexual assault, what happened between you and me, it wasn’t as severe. I think what made it so difficult: you were a good friend. And I guess that’s why it’s so complicated, and it’s why I’m really interested in writing about it. But I also want to write about all the great memories. Like at Angelo’s. Is that what it was called?
HIM: The little crappy pizza parlor run by the coke addict?
ME: Yeah. He would always ask me, Do you know of any girls who would like to have a car wash in my parking lot?
