Photo by Petras Gagilas
When I was fourteen, I was raped.
I was walking home on a warm June evening. School had been out for a few days and I was feeling confident: I’d turned fourteen a month ago, graduated from grade nine, and had just had my braces removed. I couldn’t stop licking my too-big, too-smooth teeth; every time I saw my grin in the mirror I instinctively covered my teeth, not used to seeing a bright white smile.
My best friend S. and I had just spent the evening making greasy nachos, watching YouTube music videos (Jesse McCartney was enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame), and had ended the night with a trip to 7-11 for slushies. I picked cherry and watermelon (“Ick,” S. said whenever I combined these flavors, wrinkling her nose) and sucked it greedily on my way home alone.
Three men in a glossy pick-up truck pulled up alongside me. We’ll give you a ride home, they promised. They looked friendly. And sort of cute, if I’m being honest. I’d grown taller that year and was proud of my long hair and budding breasts. I thought: maybe they think I’m pretty. Besides, my house was only another ten blocks. It would take them only two minutes to give me a lift. No one gets hurt in two minutes, right?
They didn’t take me home. Instead, they took me to their apartment, where they threatened me, forced alcohol upon me, and proceeded to violently rape me.
I didn’t tell anyone.
When my rapists dropped me off at home (a drunk, bruised, burned, and bloody fourteen year old), one slipped his phone number in my pocket. The next day, I came up with a plan: I was going to call him and threaten him. So I did. What he said has stayed with me ever since: “You’re going to call the police on me? Good luck. Then everyone will know what a slut you are.” Instantly, I felt my indignation and power slip away from me. He was right. I was a slut. I no longer framed my gang rape as a tragic and brutal crime committed against me. Instead, I blamed myself for getting in their car, for not screaming loud enough, for walking home alone.
Associate Professor Regina Nayak speaks of this rape shame and how it works to enforce constricting gender roles in the face of feminism:
“Violence against women surges whenever the patriarchal status quo or the traditional mode is challenged. It strikes with a severe backlash to kick women back in the space ordained by patriarchy for her. That is why it is important to understand that there is clear-cut power dynamics related with the very concept of rape.”
As much as we encourage rape victims to come forward, there is still the mentality that those who accuse someone of rape might be lying. Various studies reveal that only 2-8% of rape accusation are false. This means we should take someone’s word for it. If someone breaks into our car at night and steals a precious possession—a personalized mix CD; an expensive GPS; your ID—our first instinct is not to ask the person if they locked their car or parked in a dangerous neighborhood. And the person who has been stolen from does not generally hesitate to admit what has happened. I’ve had many friends deal with thefts and openly bemoan their luck. Rape, albeit a different crime, is not allowed this conversation. I’ve known friends for over a decade who only drunkenly tell me, in a shamed whisper, that they were “sexually assaulted” when they were young. Like me, most of them didn’t tell the authorities. Like me, most of them dealt with it on their own.
We must encourage women to talk—talk about the things we are told to keep silent. Talk about our abortions, talk about rapes, talk about our abuses. As Nayak says, it is only “when society stands up to support rape victims and ostracise the assaulters” that we will feel the shackles of shame fall from our victims’ shoulders and sit where it rightful belongs: on the rapist’s. Punishment is not the survivor’s burden to bear, so let’s shift our thinking and have the tough conversations so that in the future, they might not be so difficult.