Granta, “No Man’s Land,” ed. Sigrid Rausing, no. 134
Gulf Coast, “The Archive Issue,” eds. Martin Rock, Adrienne Perry, and Carlos Hernandez, Summer/Fall
Hunger Mountain, “Edges,” ed. Miciah Bay Gault, no. 20
Lapham’s Quarterly, “Luck,” ed. Lewis H. Lapham, Summer
The Literary Review, “Fight,” ed. Minna Zallman Proctor, Winter
Little Patuxent Review, “Myth,” guest ed. Patricia Jakovich VanAmberg, Winter
Manoa, “Yosihiko Sinoto: Curve of the Hook,” ed. Frank Stewart, vol. 28, no. 1
The Massachusetts Review, “The Music Issue,” ed. Jim Hicks, Winter
Midwestern Gothic, “Nonfiction Issue,” eds. Jeff Pfaller and Robert James Russell, Fall
The Missouri Review, “Family Practice,” ed. Speer Morgan, Summer
New Letters, “Jazz,” ed. Robert Stewart, vol. 83, no. 1
North Dakota Quarterly, “McGrath at 100,” ed. NDQ staff, Fall
Orion, “Coexistence,” ed. H. Emerson Blake, November/December
Oxford American, “Southern Journeys,” ed. Eliza Borne, Summer
Prism, “Nonfiction Contest,” eds. Jennifer Lori and Claire Matthews, Spring
Room, “This Body’s Map,” ed. Chelene Knight, vol. 39, no. 4
Ruminate, “Nowhere Near,” ed. Brianna Van Dyke, Fall
Salmagundi, “Arguing Identity,” eds. Robert Boyers and Peg Boyers, Fall
Slice, “Enemies,” eds. Celia Blue Johnson, Maria Gagliano, and Elizabeth Blachman, no. 18
Texas Monthly, “Guns,” ed. Brian D. Sweany, April
The Threepenny Review, “A Symposium on Crying,” ed. Wendy Lesser, Fall
Tin House, “Faith,” ed. Rob Spillman, no. 69
The Turnip Truck(s), “The Road,” ed. Tina Mitchell, Spring/Summer
Under the Gum Tree, “Fifth Anniversary Issue,” ed. Janna Marlies Maron, October
Vice, “The Holy Cow Issue,” ed. Ellis Jones, May
Note: The following essays should have appeared in “Notable Essays and Literary Nonfiction of 2015”:
JASON ARMENT, Fear City, Phoebe, Fall
MICHAEL FALLON, The Other Side of Silence, The New England Review, vol. 37, no. 4
PHILIP F. GURA, To the Curator of Birds, The New England Review, vol. 37, no. 4
GARDNER LANDRY, The Song of Songs, Cream City Review, Fall/Winter
KATE LEBO, The Unsealed Ear, The New England Review, vol. 37, no. 4
SUSAN OLDING, White Matter, The Malahat Review, Winter
Visit www.hmhco.com to find all of the books in The Best American Series®.
About the Editors
LESLIE JAMISON, is the author of The Empathy Exams, a New York Times best-selling essay collection. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, and is an assistant professor at Columbia University.
ROBERT ATWAN, the series editor of The Best American Essays since its inception in 1986, has published on a wide variety of subjects, from American advertising and early photography to ancient divination and Shakespeare. His criticism, essays, humor, poetry, and fiction have appeared in numerous periodicals nationwide.
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Footnotes
1. Do you trust me?
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2. Six days after my eighteenth birthday, I was raped by two men. They took me into the woods. They stripped me beneath a massive, deeply rooted oak. It was late fall. The leaves of the tree had already browned. Many had fallen away. The few remaining leaves clung desperately to the branches in the breeze.
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3. You can’t tell anyone about this, the men said after they finished. They dragged me back to my dormitory. Dirt and gravel bloodied my palms, my knees. You can’t tell anyone about this. You don’t want to look like a slut.
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4. You don’t want to look like a slut.
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5. While the men raped me under the oak tree, I wavered in and out of consciousness. I caught glimpses between blackouts. The sleeve of one man’s army fatigue jacket. The other man’s hand reaching for my hair. My chest covered in vomit. While one of the men moved on top of me, I felt as though I were swimming outside myself. I was around and above. In a place along the periphery. I saw my underwear lying a few feet away. They weren’t the lacy panties of a woman, but the white Hanes of a little girl. That’s what I thought about while the men finished. Only little girls wear white underwear. Only stupid little girls.
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6. You can’t tell anyone about this. At first, I didn’t heed the advice of the men. I told a few people what had happened. I told several friends. I told a therapist. I told the administrators of the Catholic college where the men and I were students. I told these administrators what I remembered: I had been under a tree, and one of the men moved on top of me, and the other urged him to hurry—come on, hurry up, someone’s gonna see—and my white underwear lay in the dirt, and the roots of the tree dug into my back, and the November breeze pricked at my thighs, and the men had given me something to drink in a red cup—a red cup I hadn’t watched them pour—and the branches of the tree were mostly bare, and everything blurred after I drank from the red cup, and I could no longer stand, and so much of my memory is unclear—even the tree fades in and out—and now I cannot stop crying, and I cannot get clean, and I can still smell them—I can still smell them on my body after I wash—and I cannot forget their smells, and I cannot forget their voices, and I cannot forget how spectacularly the branches of that goddamned tree forked the moonlight into tiny beams.
Everyone asked the same question. Well, they said, did you say no?
I don’t know, I said. I can’t remember.
People raised eyebrows. They grew silent. There were awkward pauses.
How can you not remember?
Then the people said other things. The therapist said date rape, and the college administrators said consensual, and my friends insisted I confess my sins to a priest. The priest said that women who don’t love themselves often commit acts of sexual indiscretion.
Did you say no? Well, did you? How can you not remember?
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7. Did you say no? I don’t know. I can’t remember.
I remember this, however: I watched a rerun of The Joy of Painting on the morning of the rape. Bob Ross brushed one of his idyllic scenes—snowcapped mountains set behind a twisting, rock-strewn river. When the painting looked complete, Bob turned toward the camera with a smile.
Let’s put a happy little tree right here, he said.
He loaded a knife with black paint and pulled it down the canvas.
No, Bob, I said aloud, surprising myself. You’ll ruin it.
Of course, the happy little tree turned out perfectly. Its branches were full of burnt-umber leaves. Its bark was subtle and knotty. The tree looked like it had been in the picture all along.
This is a strange thing to remember.
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8. I told a friend about the man at the bus stop. I told her of the syringe, the tourniquet, the black bra. My friend listened distractedly. She was working on a PowerPoint presentation about preventing date rape on college campuses. She was a high school teacher, and the presentation was intended for the senior class. She barely looked up from her computer while I spoke of the man and his heroin.
I’m not surprised, my friend said when I finished my story. That kind of thing happens all the time in San Francisco.
Yeah, I said, but it was so weird. So difficult to watch.
Eh, she said, it’s not really weird for San Francisco.
I brewed a cup of tea.
Hey, my friend said suddenly, do you mind if I use the story of your rape as an example in my pre
sentation?
She knew what had happened when I was eighteen years old.
Yeah, I said. Sure.
Thanks, she said. It’s a great example.
Yeah. It’s a great example.
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9. You don’t want to look like a slut.
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10. Did you say no?
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11. T. Messman-Moore and P. Long, “The Role of Childhood Sexual Abuse Sequelae in the Sexual Revictimization of Women: An Empirical Review and Theoretical Reformulation,” Clinical Psychology Review23 (2003), 537–71.
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1. “Lynwood” is a pseudonym.
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The Best American Essays 2017 Page 39
