by Things We Didn't Talk About When I Was a Girl (retail) (epub)
ME: When you went back to college, to grad school, was it helpful taking classes with other people?
HIM: It was really helpful for me initially because it was good to have an excuse to think about—the kind of problems you have to do in engineering come pretty naturally to me. There’s no non-braggart way to say this, but that kind of classwork is just not that hard for me. I can just sort of do it. It felt good to be back in that environment, to being the smart kid in the class. The math and physics of it is interesting to a certain extent, but I kind of realized that culturally I wasn’t that interested in actually doing engineering. I don’t have the part of me that wants to do six years of research. I’m not built to be an actual academic.
ME: Did you make many friends in grad school?
HIM: I would say I was friendly with my classmates. I kind of became friends with one of the guys, and then I was kind of shitty about it and just kind of ignored that relationship after we graduated.
ME: Why do you think that was?
HIM: I don’t know. Part of it is I was trying to come to grips with, to come up to speed with the camera stuff, and my head just wasn’t in the engineering stuff anymore. I’m bad at keeping friends around, which is really what it comes down to. I don’t have that instinct that says to call up people because I haven’t talked to them in a week or two weeks or month or whatever it is, and all of a sudden it’s been three months and I haven’t talked to the guy and now I feel like we’re strangers.
ME: I can see how our friendship coming apart was hard for you. It was hard for me. But does it surprise you then that I don’t feel enraged?
HIM: Yeah. I’ve been surprised by the extent to which you seem to have actually put it behind you and are engaging with it at a detached position, which, I don’t know if that’s accurately describing how you’re feeling. Like I said earlier, it’d be expected I guess and easier to navigate if you were just furious at me for the rest of time.
ME: Why do you think it would be easier to navigate? How would you navigate it then?
HIM: Obviously we wouldn’t be having this conversation. It’d be like, I did a bad thing, and the person I did the bad thing to hates me now. I know what that is. That makes sense. It’s unfortunate but the forgiveness is, like I said, it’s great but it is more complicated. I feel like I have to have earned it, if that makes any sense, and I feel that I didn’t.
ME: This makes me really happy, to talk with you again. Which is messed up probably, because I’m like, How nice it is of him to agree to talk to me. I’m recognizing how complicated that is. I certainly had nightmares about what happened over the years. Conceptually, nightmares interest me because of the lack of consent that happens with nightmares.
HIM: Right. You can’t opt out of the nightmare.
ME: To be sexually assaulted, that’s really close to being a nightmare. You’re usually in a bed, and you have no way of pushing the nightmare away. It’s just going to happen.
HIM: There is some metaphor working overtime there.
IT’S JUST GOING TO HAPPEN?
Wait, what? By way of metaphor extension, I said of sexual assault, It’s just going to happen.
I remember talking on the phone with my mom while walking to a subway station. I was in my early twenties, in Brooklyn, on my way to a date. A stranger grabbed me just as I was passing a dark alley.
What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I shouted.
He ran off.
What happened? my mom asked. What’s going on?
Some man grabbed me, I said, but he’s gone now.
And now I’m remembering the guy who tried to undress me in his car. I had just moved to New York and was wandering through lower Manhattan on a hot summer evening. As I was passing an Italian restaurant, a man in the doorway stopped me, motioned me inside, said he needed customers so as to attract more customers.
I own the place, he said.
I almost suggested he take the Tony Soprano poster off the window, but I felt bad for him, thought, Well, the rent here is pretty high.
Drinks on me, he said.
I figured, Why not? I can sit in the air-conditioning, drink for free, and read. After a couple of hours of drinking and reading, I got up to leave and stumbled. How much wine had I drunk?
You’re not taking the train home, are you? he asked.
Yeah, it’s easy, I said.
But really I hated the idea of navigating the subway system drunk. I’d need to transfer trains at least once. And I didn’t have enough money for a cab.
I’ll drive you, he said.
So I followed him to his car, gave him my address, and tried not to throw up while he drove me to Brooklyn. I forget what we talked about on the way, but I remember feeling nervous and then reminding myself that he did own a restaurant—as if that reduced the likelihood he’d rape and/or murder me. He parked outside my apartment. I thanked him. But when I tried to open the passenger door, I couldn’t. He pulled down the straps of my dress. I pushed him away and kept trying to unlock the door. He started kissing my neck and rubbing his hand up my thigh.
Don’t you want to be pampered? he asked.
I took off my right shoe and stabbed its short heel into his thigh.
Hey! he shouted. I’m pampering you.
I pushed him, hit him, figured out the door, and ran half barefoot from the car to my apartment. He yelled, Good night, sweetheart!
Great, I thought. Now he knows where I live.
He called the next day, as if nothing had happened. He said he owned properties in Queens and Brooklyn and he’d rent a place to me at a good rate. I didn’t remember giving him my number.
I don’t think so, I said and hung up.
This is all to say: I could resist strangers, just not friends. Maybe because I figured I’d see Mark and my other friend again. And I did see them again, for a time.
Mark’s comment about my nightmare metaphor working overtime really irritates me. I do think the shared setting of both experiences—Mark’s assault of me and my nightmares about him—is interesting. Sure, comparing something terrible to a nightmare is trite. I guess I’ll let myself be trite then.
. . .
ME: I think over the years, it certainly, what happened did impact the way I viewed men. The way I still view men.
HIM: I mean, it would have to, it seems like. I know it impacted—go ahead. I don’t want to interrupt.
ME: It impacted how I felt about relationships, men, sex.
HIM: I can understand that totally. I felt similarly.
NO, YOU DID NOT FEEL SIMILARLY
No, no, no, he can’t understand that totally. He did not feel similarly.
. . .
HIM: It led me to not really trust myself with women. I had done this thing, and I didn’t really understand why.
ME: Do you think it’s why you never—
HIM: I don’t think it’s the only reason why, but I’m sure it’s a contributing factor. But by no means the only reason why.
ME: I always felt bad that I fell out of touch with your parents. I felt sick about it. I was sad because I missed all of you, but I wasn’t going to explain to them why I disappeared. Do you talk to your parents regularly or see them regularly?
HIM: We have a decent relationship. I see them every few weeks to a month or so. They’ve been really supportive over the years financially, which has allowed me to be where I am now. Because basically they paid for my tuition to go back to grad school and I paid for my apartment and expenses up here. Because otherwise I couldn’t have done it.
ME: I figured that they probably figured I fell out of touch because your sister and I had a falling-out.
HIM: Did you guys have a falling-out that was like—I don’t really remember the specifics. When she has a falling-out with somebody, it’s usually permanent.
ME: She felt I’d insulted her. She was talking about not knowing what to do after college. She said she wanted to teach but the job market was bad. I recomme
nded a teaching Fulbright. She interpreted that as my saying that I thought she wasn’t doing anything impressive enough. She didn’t tell this to me directly. I had to learn it from a friend. When I called to apologize, explain that I hadn’t meant it that way, she refused to answer my calls and never replied. So that’s how that ended.
HIM: That sounds like her. Maybe she’d be happy to hear from you now.
ME: I won’t reach out to her. I want to make sure I’m protecting your identity.
HIM: But when you write the book, Mark [Last Name] Ruined My Life.
ME: No, but—
HIM: Right. I’m being unkind.
ME: That’s not what it’s going to be. By any means. I’ve been thinking about this. I want to change certain identifying details so that I’m protecting your identity.
HIM: Which I appreciate.
ME: Well and then it’s really weird—because I’m in the position of power. There’s this weird power thing, right, which I’m very much aware of.
HIM: Yeah, you’re subverting that whole dynamic.
ME: And then at the same time—if I change certain details to protect your identity, then I’m lying.
HIM: It’s tough to do a deep dive on the psychology of friendship and betrayal and then change the reasons why.
ME: I don’t want to—I want to be respectful of the fact that you’re doing this. But I wasn’t sure if your parents—they have no idea?
HIM: No, I wouldn’t think.
ME: This whole thing, it’s interesting. Am I saying in some way it never happened—because I didn’t press charges? Pressing charges never even occurred to me. And so by not doing that, does that mean that I’ve provided consent? That’s how I was thinking back then.
HIM: That’s an unfortunate twist of logic.
ME: Fortunate for you.
HIM: Right. I mean, that works out.
DID I REALLY NEED LOCKE FOR THAT?
Two weeks have passed, and Mark still hasn’t replied to my request for five good memories.
I read Locke. I’m probably simplifying here, but he said memory is a necessary condition of personal identity. So, this means Mark’s personal identity—in relation to me—is my rapist.
Did I really need Locke for that?
I almost deleted the word rapist. But Mark used the word rape. I should be able to use the word rape. Do I really need Mark to use it before I can?
Maybe Mark chooses not to remember the good moments—because he wants the friendship never to have mattered.
Not mattering breeds indifference, or a freedom from existence.
That one night matters more than all the years of friendship. Why should I be hurt if that’s his position? It’s what I wanted, isn’t it?
If I wrench out five fond memories from Mark, then what?
And if Mark can’t come up with five good memories?
Mark said, It’s tough to do a deep dive on the psychology of friendship and betrayal and then change the reasons why.
Can I interpret that to mean he’ll approve of what I’m doing—of keeping details the same but simply neglecting any irrelevant identifying details?
Why not?
Because it’d be unethical.
I’ll tell him. Eventually, I’ll tell him.
. . .
ME: How do you think—would you have expected me to ever report it? Was that ever a concern of yours?
HIM: I mean, it was a concern of mine immediately afterward, and then I guess you didn’t.
ME: Right.
HIM: But yeah, certainly you could have.
ME: It didn’t occur to me.
HIM: It’s helpful for me to hear your side of a lot of these things, but it’s just like, I just want to give you a big hug and say I’m sorry in person.
ME: I appreciate it. And that’s the thing, I genuinely appreciate it. I know I keep saying this, but I feel worried I’m going to disappoint women with this project.
HIM: You feel like you should be angrier at me.
ME: Yeah. Instead, I think back to how there were so many good times. I do wonder, if it had gone further—
HIM: Would you still have that reaction?
ME: I don’t know.
HIM: I think it’s probably for the best that you don’t have to find out.
ME: I’m certainly mad at this other guy and at my newspaper advisor, but with you it was different. And that’s why I find this interesting. In some ways, this story isn’t original, and that’s the story. Sexual assault happens all the time. What makes this story sort of unusual is we’re having the conversation. I don’t think that happens very often.
HIM: Yeah, I can’t imagine.
ME: And I’m glad we’re having this conversation. I told you before, when I decided to pursue this book, I thought, Oh good, I can talk to Mark. I didn’t think I was allowed to talk to you before. Because of the narrative of how one is supposed to react to such events.
HIM: It really has been good to talk to you, even about this. I feel in a lot of ways the same way.
ME: That’s good. I’m glad it’s helpful. I’m sorry you don’t really have anyone you feel like you can open up to.
HIM: Yeah, but that’s more of a me problem than a you problem. It would be better if I did have someone, but it is what it is.
BUT WHAT’S IT LIKE?
I’m reading a book about metaphors. Chris asks me about it, and I try to summarize the thesis, something about how metaphors shape our perceptions and actions without our consciously realizing it.
It’s pretty good, I tell him.
But what’s it like? he asks.
Ha, ha, I say.
I’m now considering my figurative language surrounding the assault:
I became rigid, like an animal who senses it’s impossible to bolt.
I cried, quietly, as if in public.
In the first instance, I’m not human. In the second, Mark is a stranger.
I stare at the ceiling fan and wonder: Why store our friendship forever in that basement?
The basement is a metaphor. The perfect metaphor. The Freudian metaphor. The id lives in the basement, right?
This impulse to find metaphors, it’s because I want to describe feelings that don’t have words. Or maybe there is a word for this—for missing the friend who sexually assaulted you. The German language has a word for everything, it seems like. Is there a word for the fear of hearing one’s own voice?
And does Mark not understand that saying he wants to hug me is actually pretty creepy? And yet, after his hug comment, I said, I appreciate it. And I then apologized for his not having anyone else he can confide in. I think Leigh-Anne would title this project An Obvious Performance of Gender.
I need to power through the transcription.
. . .
ME: Self-absorbed question: Was it obvious in high school that I was having psychiatric problems?
HIM: I remember you being—no, I don’t recall you being sad. You at least at the surface level were, you had all that energy. You were so earnest about everything, it seemed like. It was really endearing. But no, I wouldn’t say you came off as damaged or disturbed.
ME: I guess it’s easier to see when somebody is depressed, but when they’re hypomanic or manic—
HIM: Yeah, I guess the mania—I was aware you were having manic episodes, but at the time I didn’t realize what that implied. In high school you were just this superachiever. I remember you wanting me to try so much harder.
ME: I remember Daniel’s mom asking me to take Daniel with me to college. She said I made him work. I remember wanting everybody to work harder. I guess I probably was pretty earnest. I guess it’s good—I never felt like anything came easily to me. Which is probably why I work so hard.
HIM: Whether or not it comes easily, it does seem to come to you.
ME: I never know how to stop working. The idea of a vacation never occurs to me. When I think of leaving the house, I think of going to a café to do work. Or going t
o a bookstore or a library for more books.
HIM: It’s funny because my own experience is different in that way. I never had to try. Physics was the first class where I couldn’t just hear what the teacher said once and know it. I feel like I was going somewhere more interesting than that, than just saying I was smart in high school. I guess what I’m saying is I had been told I was really smart my entire life and I resented the expectations that were on me.
ME: That’s why psychologists tell parents not to tell their kids that they’re so smart or so talented. Parents are supposed to compliment the action. That way, when the kid does poorly, she won’t see it as a reflection of her core self.
HIM: I remember: I think I was in college when I realized I’m pretty smart, but I’m not that smart. I’m not going to be the next Einstein or the next Feynman or the next name-your-physicist-here. I’m just a guy.
ME: Was that hard for you then, in college? Do you think that also led to dropping out? Realizing that it wasn’t going to come naturally and then it was some reflection of your core self?
HIM: I mean, did I have a hard time reconceptualizing myself as a not-genius? Yeah, that took some processing. But I dropped out more because I was having crippling anxiety attacks. Which I don’t really think were necessarily related to that.
ME: I think a lot of people would think of a genius as needing to work hard. So I don’t think it’s any indication of your intelligence that physics didn’t always come easily.
HIM: Right. Einstein is a good example of this. He was preternaturally gifted, but he wanted to do physics enough that he wanted to do physics in his spare time. He wrote four epoch-changing papers in the course of one year when he was twentysomething. Twenty-three or something like that. I’m not that guy.
ME: Certainly leaving high school, going to college, being in a new setting, and realizing, Oh my gosh, there’s so much I don’t know.
HIM: And I think everybody goes through that. I have a bad habit of rationalizing my tortured genius, I feel like. Which I don’t want to do. I don’t find that narrative all that interesting.
