by Things We Didn't Talk About When I Was a Girl (retail) (epub)
Back in my hotel room, I review my manuscript, consider the holes. I really need to reflect on how the rape altered my perception of myself.
I doubt it did. If anything, it cemented my sense of self. I already knew I cared too much about a man’s comfort. About a man’s approval. How many times did I tell men, in my twenties, after they rolled over in bed, That was amazing—a complete lie.
And that screenwriter, I’m now remembering, he refused to use condoms, and so after we’d have sex, he’d give me cash for the morning-after pill. And I genuinely considered him sweet and responsible. He always gave me the exact amount.
That way you don’t feel like a prostitute, he said.
This is uncomfortable. I need to move around. Endorphins will help me think.
I change into shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt. Only one other guest is at the hotel gym. I’m happy the guest is a woman, because now I can experiment with these weight machines without feeling self-conscious. I hate reading the directions when men are nearby. A broad-shouldered man almost always intervenes, explaining how the machine works, what to do, what muscles the machine will work, and so on. And the man usually tells me, Start small. But today, with no men around, I confidently move from machine to machine. Turns out they are fairly self-explanatory.
I shower, put on pajamas, get ready for bed, open my notebook.
I feel _____________________________
I feel _____________________________
I feel _____________________________
I feel _____________________________
I feel _____________________________
I feel _____________________________
I feel _____________________________
I feel _____________________________
Mark signed his initial email Your friend—probably because I’d led him to believe that we were becoming friends again.
I close my notebook and play a history podcast. The hosts are talking about upside-down crucifixion. I turn off the lights.
NOT MUCH SOUND TRAVELS HERE
Today I see Mark. We agreed to meet at the local art museum. I’m wearing what I’d otherwise wear—dark fitted jeans, pink tie-front blouse, brown summer oxfords—after deciding that I should wear what I would have worn had I not been thinking about what to wear.
I considered a white tie-front blouse but decided on the pink. Pink might throw him off, make me seem sweet as opposed to manipulative.
Or: he will sense that I’m wearing pink so as to catch him off guard.
Or: he will not even think about my outfit because he now is a progressive man who regrets his past and will be cautious about looking at me anywhere but in my eyes.
Likely: the outfit is irrelevant.
If he’s wearing anything moderately professional, how do I interpret that?
Questions. What are my questions? So far, these are all I have:
Where did/do you see this relationship going?
How have you been feeling since we last spoke?
How would you feel if your parents found out? What would you tell them?
Have you had crushes on women since the assault rape?
What about this project scares you the most?
Have you been running anything in your head since we last spoke?
Is this giving you closure?
Are you going to read the book?
These are not enough. But I want to riff off his answers. And I don’t want to be too prepared. Just prepared enough. Articulate and casual, serious but moderately nonchalant.
I call Leigh-Anne, ask: When you, as a sociologist, interview subjects, what’s your approach?
I think of a central question, she says, or one narrative or idea that I’m trying to answer. Then I think of how to get there with indirect questions.
One of my big questions, I tell her, is why did he and Jake carry me into that basement?
I don’t so much know if he’ll ever admit to that, she says. Because that would mean it was premeditated, and I don’t think he can get himself there. I’m not saying he was plotting it for months. The point is, he always had the propensity to do it. Mark knew, the moment he decided to carry you from upstairs, a safe space, and into the basement, his space, that he would commit the act. That’s the reckoning that he’s doing right now. He may have thought of himself as the nice guy. And Jake could have convinced himself that Mark was a nice guy. But Jake also knew that Mark had the propensity to commit the act.
So Mark probably won’t fess up to that, I say.
I highly doubt it, she says. But you can try to lead him there.
What interests you, as an academic, about this project?
I’m interested in how masculinity impacted his perception of self, she says. You might ask him, What did or does it mean, to him, to be a man? What messages did he get that made him think this would be okay? How did this influence how he sees himself as a man? And I’m interested in how masculinity is reproduced in masculine relationships.
He was living with Jake and Jake’s uncle, I tell her. I remember issues of Playboy and Maxim all over the place. I remember how Jake’s uncle would rate women on a scale of one to ten. Mark said that Jake’s uncle was a pig. That environment had to have affected him.
Definitely, she says. You could ask him more about that. And if he gives you an answer you don’t really agree with, you may need to play along—just to get further. Remember: he’ll be looking at your body language.
I’m interested in why he viewed himself as a nice guy, I tell her. Did he see himself as sensitive, trustworthy, and decent? Or was it all a manipulation tactic?
You might ask him what one of the bad guys looked like. Guys from your high school.
That’s good. You’re really good. I miss you.
I jot Leigh-Anne’s advice on some loose-leaf paper and slip it into my binder. I grab my tote bag and purse. The tote bag, perfect: it’s from the independent feminist bookstore in Chicago. If I get stressed, I can look at it and think about Rebekah. I get into the hallway and realize I should check my makeup. Did I remember mascara? My God, what does mascara matter? But it does. I’ll feel confident with mascara. I remember when the psych ward nurses refused to allow me eyeliner and mascara, so I used a crayon from the activities table, even though I knew it was probably covered with germs. I knew it might cause some eye infection, like that time the sample pencil eyeliner in a Sephora left my eyes irritated for a week. But without defined eyes, I look haggard. I return to my room, and yes, I’m wearing (allegedly waterproof) mascara. I request the Lyft. I get to the elevator and realize I forgot an umbrella. It might rain. And then I’ll feel uncomfortable. And this blouse, it’s too thin to tolerate heavy rain. But the Lyft driver is only three minutes away. Do I have time? I check my weather app. Eighty percent chance of rain within the next hour. The driver will leave after four minutes upon arrival if I am not there. But the umbrella. I run back to my room, grab the umbrella, run to the elevator. But it’s full, and a bunch of the floor buttons are pushed. Monsters, these guests.
I make it outside just as the Lyft driver pulls up.
He asks where I’m from, and I say Baltimore.
Beautiful city, he says. You have a nice waterfront. No basketball, though.
No. And that’s the only sport I like to watch. And thanks to my partner, I sort of glean the obscure inner workings of the NBA. And he’s into NBA gossip as if it’s a soap opera. Did one of LeBron’s teammates really date LeBron’s mom? I’ve heard it might not be true.
Delonte West. Yeah. That’s the rumor.
And then LeBron went to Miami, which sort of fueled the rumor.
That’s an interesting situation, actually. West has bipolar disorder. That probably had a lot to do with it.
I didn’t know that.
Yeah, he came forward about his bipolar, and the media tore him apart. I dated a woman, for several years, with bipolar disorder, and I saw how hard that was on her. And I used to be one of
these guys who didn’t believe in mental illness. I didn’t consider it a serious issue. But I see it a lot differently now.
A lot of NBA players are discussing their mental health, I say. I appreciate that these men—who are in a field where masculinity is valorized—are making themselves vulnerable.
Absolutely, he says. People have got to get help. There’s no shame in it. Bipolar is a serious illness. The woman I dated, I don’t blame her for how she treated me. Friends of mine can’t understand why I’m not angry. But she couldn’t help so much of her behavior. I saw her struggling with meds. It’s a bad illness.
How do you explain your lack of anger to your friends? I ask.
I don’t think they’ll ever understand it, he says. I stopped trying to explain it.
Even though Mark and I agreed to meet in the museum’s lounge, I find a seat in the restaurant. I explain that I need to interview someone, and the server seats me in the corner.
Not much sound travels here, she says.
I sit on the side facing three big windows—because the seat on this side is higher. The sky turns an off-white. It’s now raining.
I open my bag. Where are my questions? I remember picking up the paper, putting it in my binder, and right: I decided not to bring my binder. I text Chris: I forgot my questions at the hotel. There’s no practical reason for this text except to vent. He replies: Go back! I tell him it’s too late, and he assures me I’ll be okay. You already know what you want to ask him. Plus you’ll see him again tomorrow.
Just then Sarah texts: Thinking of you!
I debate whether I should drink. I need to maintain control.
But I order a cocktail anyway, and the server says, That’s my favorite.
This reassurance—that I’ve made a good choice—immediately raises my confidence.
And I still have time. I hurriedly write what questions I remember.
Suddenly Mark approaches. I remain seated. He sits without expecting me to stand. He smiles, and I see where a friend once was.
LIKE A FILM, IN REVERSE
Back at the hotel, I lie in bed, mentally reviewing how I handled my meeting with Mark. I didn’t hug him. I was friendly but I pushed back when he, as Sarah would say, started equalizing our experiences. I think I talked more than he did. But that’s okay. That’s more than okay. That’s a good thing. Right?
Oh, and right: he acknowledged that he knew, before carrying me into his basement room, that the basement would work to his advantage.
I could reconstruct today’s conversation from memory, but I have the audio. I may as well listen to the audio.
Or I could mute his voice. I could just listen to mine. I can handle listening to mine.
Or what if I went hyper-experimental? What if the transcript read something like . . .
ME: I was hurt, and sort of surprised.
ME: I remember feeling relief that I didn’t have to keep this from my dad.
ME: I know so many women who’ve been sexually assaulted.
I text him: Thanks for today. It was extraordinarily helpful.
Mark texts back: Good! And glad I could help. I kind of felt like I was being really inarticulate, honestly.
I reply: I’d feel a little skeptical of flawlessly delivered explanations of sexual assault.
He texts: Hah, that’s a fair point.
Instead of thanking him, I should have texted: Today was useful. No, that would’ve been too cold. Or: I’m glad we met today. It’s so hard not to slip into thinking of him as a friend.
Have I learned nothing from this entire project?
When talking with him, I don’t think I used the word rape.
Each time I close my eyes, I see the rape. I imagine watching it, like a film, in reverse:
I stop crying. Mark removes his hand from between my legs. He kneels, dresses me slowly. Jake walks down the steps. Together they lift me, carry me upstairs.
But why stop there? Why not rewind until my dad is breathing again?
Cut it out, I tell myself. Either sleep or work.
I start transcribing the audio.
. . .
ME: Okay, so it’s okay that I’m recording this?
HIM: Yes.
ME: Okay. [We laugh nervously.] I think I can black it out. [I turn off the iPad’s screen display. Then I turn it back on to confirm the app is still recording.] Yes. It works. Okay, so [I turn off the screen]—how have you felt since we last talked?
HIM: It was good to get some of that off my chest. And you actually caught me at a useful time of the year, for you. Just because I had, in the winter, or February, when we last talked—I’m not as overwhelmed with work. I’m able to be more emotionally present. I actually took a personal day today because I didn’t want to come here and be totally fried.
ME: We’ve talked on the phone, but I haven’t seen you in—I guess it’s been more than fourteen years.
HIM: It’s been an awfully long time.
ME: How have you felt since we last talked on the phone? Has anything changed? Or have you had that experience where you ruminate over something you’ve said and start to pick it apart?
HIM: I will say I went about sixteen sort of iterations over whether I should offer to pick you up from the airport and then decided not to. [We laugh.]
ME: That’s okay. So nothing?
HIM: I don’t know how to feel about it.
ME: Let me cover this [I cover the iPad with paper] because this is probably distracting.
HIM: A little bit. [We laugh.] Um. It’s just been a strange experience. I think I had buried it a little more than I thought, and so I’ve been sort of reprocessing my actions—so that was really stressful for a while because I’m basically not happy with who I was. And you know—I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. I’m glad that you’re willing to forgive and move on and this is an interesting project. It’s an awkward position to be in, to just be apologizing over and over.
ME: It’s hard, I would think. I have this concern a lot of the time when I’m writing nonfiction—about authenticity, about being genuine, all while being inventive and reconstructing an experience.
HIM: Well, you’ll never be able to write your inner monologue in real time.
ME: Right. [Silence. Server is nearby.] Do you want to order?
HIM: I think I do. Maybe just the cheese plate.
ME: Is here okay? I figured a museum restaurant would be quiet. We can move to a bench or table in the atrium if you want.
HIM: No, this is okay.
ME: Okay. So when you were picking apart your memory of that night, I guess that process is a reckoning with your actions and—
HIM: The problem with picking it apart is my memories are so fragmentary. In some ways it feels like it was somebody else. Not to excuse myself. I don’t know. I’m having trouble accessing the headspace I was in at that time. It’s— [Silence. Server is nearby.] I don’t really know what to say.
ME: I understand that you’re not trying to excuse it.
HIM: I don’t know how to own it and be embarrassed and ashamed of it at the same time. [Server comes. We order.]
ME: You’ve felt like it wasn’t you who—
HIM: I just—and this is not really—it’s not just about this incident. It just seems to be how my memory works. I feel like I’ve done about five different iterations of myself. I was just such a mess as a teenager.
ME: I can understand that.
HIM: The thing that keeps me up at night is I can remember you crying. That’s what sticks.
ME: You’ve said before that this one experience warps your memories of our friendship. For me, I was really worried when I asked you for the five good memories and I hadn’t heard from you in a while. I thought, Oh. Maybe this friendship—
HIM: Did we actually never have this friendship?
ME: Yeah, and that was tough for me.
HIM: Coming up with memories, that was harder than I thought.
ME: You sent me a memory
of us in Chicago. Was that from our freshman year?
HIM: It must have been. I think it must have been. I remember I hitched a ride with Jake and his uncle. They were going to a football game.
ME: You must have stayed in my dorm.
HIM: Yeah.
ME: Because I was thinking, When did that happen? People think I have a good memory, but I’ll insist on never having seen an entire movie and then, right when the credits come on, I’ll realize: I have seen this movie before! [We laugh.] I was really happy that you had that memory. And that detail, of us getting lost.
HIM: I was just mortified for days. I really wanted to go to the Skydeck of the Sears Tower and I marched us probably a mile down Michigan Ave. in the wrong direction toward the John Hancock Building, and then it was closed. [We laugh.]
ME: I remember we both tried to pretend that what happened hadn’t happened. [Server comes, checks in.] I forget where I was going with that. I do remember reaching the point where we stopped talking. My mom would give me updates about you. And, up until then, I had trouble acknowledging that I was angry at you. But then I’d get these updates—because your dad would tell my mom how you were, what you were doing—and I remember feeling indifferent. I remember thinking, Yeah, so? And when I learned you’d dropped out of college, part of me felt bad for you, but another part of me felt indifferent. But now I want you to have a good life. I want you to be happy. And I think that’s because this project is giving me closure. That’s not necessarily why I’m writing it. But the fact that it’s community service in some way. [We laugh.] And before, I tried to rush through the forgiveness process—I forgive you, just read Franny and Zooey and things will be fine—instead of letting myself feel any anger. And by doing that, it wasn’t genuine forgiveness. It was Dr. Phil forgiveness.
HIM: If you say it enough, you’ll believe it.
ME: Or: I’ll forgive and I’ll just feel better. I was jumping past the emotions, and so there were no negative emotions to overcome. No anger or resentment or whatever. And so it wasn’t real forgiveness, which is probably why I found it hard to move on. And given the years I distanced myself from you, I realize I probably felt contempt. But now, I don’t know—to know that you’ve felt bad about it, I find that helpful. And that you acknowledged it was bad, that has been helpful to me—in processing some of this. For years I thought, Maybe it wasn’t that bad.
