by Things We Didn't Talk About When I Was a Girl (retail) (epub)
As of January 1, 2013, however, according to the FBI, Mark had raped me.
The new definition: Penetration, no matter how slight, of the vagina or anus with any body part or object, or oral penetration by a sex organ of another person, without the consent of the victim.
The definition has changed, but the action remains the same.
I still feel uncomfortable calling it rape.
DIFFERENT FROM GIVING ADVICE
Chris and I are in our living room, assembling a cat tree and discussing the FBI’s old definition of rape, how its antiquated language ignored the possibility that men could be raped. And because I’m reading Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, I say something like, The old definition proves that heteronormative thinking can hurt everybody.
Chris is also reading Gender Trouble. He plans to assign an excerpt to his Introduction to College Writing students. I’m reading Gender Trouble because I’ve never read it—despite throwing around the term performance of gender for a couple of years now.
I still need to read the updated preface, he says. Everyone says it’s essential.
I love you, I tell him.
In high school, never would I have predicted that someday I’d date a man familiar with classic feminist texts and their updated prefaces. That men like Chris existed, or could exist, seemed as unlikely as the possibility that I’d become a physicist.
My dad held feminist views, and since he was born in 1922 into a family of Catholic Sicilian immigrants, this impressed me. He dropped out of high school at sixteen to work in his father’s barbershop, but he read all the time—though I doubt he ever asked a librarian for The Feminine Mystique, The Second Sex, or Gender Trouble, or heard of them, for that matter. Still, he embraced the basic principle that women deserved the same rights as men. That said, he could be old-fashioned. When I was a girl, for example, he delivered the word ladylike as a compliment. He practically lost his mind in church one day when I lifted my skirt to show the boys a run in my tights. I was five. After church, he gently explained: That wasn’t ladylike. But I’m also remembering how he taught me to box. And his response when I picked a red pepper from our garden even though my mom had requested a tomato. At least we know she won’t be somebody’s housewife, he told her.
Whenever my mom recounts the story, she alleges I was twelve. I maintain I was eight.
I forget my age when this happened, but I remember wandering into the living room while my parents watched a court case on TV. A woman said that a politician had raped her, and the defense attorney said that she’d been wearing a short skirt that night.
My dad, rattled, told the TV, It doesn’t matter what she was wearing.
And after a high school English teacher said to my parents, Jeannie doesn’t back down from arguing with the boys, my dad praised my independence.
I considered my dad exceptional, and also: the exception. I didn’t expect most guys—not even my close friends—to identify as feminists. And definitely not my high school boyfriend.
From age fourteen through nineteen, I dated a guy who gelled his hair, wore Hawaiian shirts with khakis, and defended the National Rifle Association. He believed he looked like Tom Cruise, and I would nod, say, Yep, I can see it. He was my first boyfriend, a high school senior when I was a high school freshman. He and I met in an art class. I complimented his self-portrait, and he assumed I was flirting, indirectly calling him attractive. That’s when I first knew you liked me, he said on our first date. Five times he asked me out, and each time I said no. The sixth time I said, I guess. The problem was, each time I suggested we take a break (suggesting we break up seemed impossible, as that would mean I’d hurt his feelings—and I felt terrified of hurting anyone’s feelings), he threatened to shoot himself. But as soon as he left for college my sophomore year of high school, I could forget I had a boyfriend—Monday through Friday, August through May. Holidays posed an obvious problem, but I could avoid him just enough to tolerate the relationship. While I’d rather delete my first boyfriend from this project, he’s possibly relevant for that precise reason. Though I suppose it’s too soon to determine who and what is relevant.
I usually hesitate to describe my writing projects to friends this early in the process—because what if I lose interest in the topic? Like that historical exploration of pets with disabilities that I told my agent I’d pursue (a short-lived endeavor inspired by my cats, Flannery and Bishop, who each have three legs—which probably makes me sound like a negligent pet owner, but Flannery came to me that way, and Bishop developed an extremely rare bone tumor and the vets assured me that removing the leg was the most humane option, and anyway, this isn’t about them). But I’m excited to talk about this project with friends. Sarah has already been so helpful. And I’m excited to discuss it with my therapist, Adam. I’ve been telling him for months now, I’m scared I’ll never write another book. And he’s been hearing that a lot, considering we Skype every week. We met in New York more than six years ago, but now he lives in New Jersey and I’m here in Baltimore. I thought Skype would be weird, but I almost prefer it. Right above his head, the computer clock guides my narrative pacing. I approach therapy the way I approached the Catholic confessional: keep it interesting. During weeks of stability, I worry about boring Adam. And I’m the one who usually ends therapy sessions, saying: Well, it looks like we’re out of time.
The very fact that I’m interested in how the assault affected Mark, I tell Adam, that could upset a lot of women.
Sharing an experience, Adam says, is different from giving advice.
And sometimes, I tell him, I question whether my feelings make sense. Whether what Mark did was severe enough to warrant this much anxiety. I know I shouldn’t think that way. But it was fourteen years ago.
Not to be too graphic, but would you consider it more or less severe if he had used a dildo? Adam asks.
Less severe, I answer. There’s something about the fact that he put his fingers—not an object—in me.
Suddenly I realize: all along I judged the assault’s severity based on Mark’s body—which part he used. I never judged the severity based on my body—which part he violated. I rarely believe the Suddenly I realize line in stories. But it’s true: until Adam’s question, my vagina seemed almost irrelevant.
Three times I type Mark raped me, and then delete it. The term shouldn’t matter, but of course it matters. The FBI revised its definition of rape because language matters.
A PEACE OFFERING OF SORTS
My first year at Northwestern, I emailed Mark about my grief for my dad and my insecurity as a first-generation college student. I described a journalism classmate who, after studying Freud at her boarding school, realized she was afflicted with penis envy. That seemed really sophisticated. Plus, Death Cab for Cutie had practiced in her basement. I’d never heard of penis envy or Death Cab for Cutie.
I feel so far behind everyone—on everything! I wrote to him—or some variation of that.
I used my undergraduate email account. After I graduated, all those emails disappeared.
I search Facebook, Instagram, Twitter but find him nowhere. Maybe, like me, he avoids social media.
His dad uses Twitter. He recently retweeted a message Mark’s sister posted: I hope my son becomes a feminist.
I find an old email from Mark’s sister. Sent to Mark, me, and some friends from high school, the email shared her new mailing address. I felt surprised to be included. Months before, a bunch of us were at a hokey chain restaurant—one of those places with rusty ice skates, bow saws, and canes mounted dangerously from the ceiling in an effort at country charm—and she expressed anxiety about life after college graduation. She wanted to teach high school math, but the job market, she said, looked bleak. I suggested she apply for a Fulbright teaching fellowship. I told her she’d easily get one. And she could travel to another country—for free. After I left, she told our friends that I didn’t think she was impressive. One of our friends then called me to relay the
message, and I called Mark’s sister.
I think you’re incredibly impressive, I told her voicemail. I wouldn’t have suggested you apply for a competitive fellowship if I didn’t believe in you.
I stared at my cell phone for an almost pathologically long time, wishing she would call. I considered driving to her parents’ house to apologize. But Mark might be there too. This happened a couple of years after the assault, and ever since then I’d avoided their house. I missed Mark’s parents but didn’t think I could visit their house without crying. And then how would I explain?
I called Mark’s sister again, apologized again, asked her to please call me back, but she never did. We never spoke after that.
I decide to email him. But first I need some detail that defuses any suspicion about my motivations. I find a message he wrote in one of my high school yearbooks. In it, he asked me for forgiveness—but this was before the assault. He wanted forgiveness for slacking off so much. I’ll say I just happened upon this message. I doubt he’ll believe me, but he’ll at least read the detail as a peace offering of sorts.
Hi Mark,
It’s been such a long time, and I’d love to catch up. I’m not on social media, otherwise I would have friended you or followed you or whatever it is people do. Although maybe you’re not on social media either.
Anyway, I recently was sorting through boxes in my attic and came across my high school yearbooks. I love the message you wrote senior year: Jeannie, You’re a really cool girl and I hope you forgive me for slacking off so much. Over the past few years, I’ve really liked being your friend. We’ve had a lot of fun, and you’ve always been there when I needed someone to talk to about intelligent stuff. I’ll miss you a ton.
It’d mean a lot to me if we could talk.
I include my cell number, in case he’d prefer to call.
If he’s Googled me, he knows I’m a writer. If I were him, I wouldn’t trust me.
I wonder if he’s read my interviews about my first book. In one or two of those, sexual assault is mentioned. Would he know that I was referring to him?
A woman can be assaulted more than once.
The second time a friend sexually assaulted me, I pushed him away but he pushed back, pinned me to my cheap twin mattress. I told him, Stop.
You want this, he said.
I thought, He must be talking to himself.
I was twenty-five, an editor at a literary magazine in New York. New to the city, he wanted to work in publishing but couldn’t find a paid position. He was one or two years younger, but he was stronger, bigger. And we were alone in my apartment. My roommate, still at the party, had asked him to take me home. The next morning, I blamed myself: I should have known not to mix vodka with my mood stabilizer and new antipsychotic.
This all seems almost too distracting to include.
A few days later, I asked him, Have you ever read Franny and Zooey?
Salinger wrote it, he said.
I wanted to say, I know who wrote it.
Have you read it? I asked.
No, he said. Salinger is for teenagers.
If I left our interactions at that, this friend would be easy to hate. But we still spent time with one another after he raped me. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. Why lose another friend over sexual assault? I asked myself. We all make mistakes. And I reminded myself that he often criticized the sexist, pretentious men we knew. He’d impersonate them, say things like, Oh, you’ve never read Thucydides? Huh. And then we’d laugh. He’d also tell me I was smart and deserved my editor’s job. And there’s even more nuance here—because, months later, this friend would save my life.
He called me after I’d swallowed all the pills in my apartment. He knew I hadn’t been feeling well. Within minutes, I’d plummet from I-can-do-anything mania to I-deserve-to-die depression.
My next memory: I was in a hospital, hooked up to tubes, while he stood behind a glass window, his eyes wide and full of worry. The nurses let him see me.
You were slurring your words, he told me. I was scared.
He explained: He’d taken a cab to my apartment and banged on the door until one of my new roommates, a subletter I barely knew, answered. He then ran into my room and helped me down three flights of stairs and into a cab.
As he described all this, I told myself, Forget the rape.
But forgetting proved hard. Several years later, I confided in a mutual friend about the rape. She and I were in a Brooklyn park, sitting on the grass. The sun was out, and twentysomethings in rompers were hula-hooping.
It’s hard for me to be around him, I explained. Sometimes I wonder what his opinion is of that night. I mean, I pushed him away. He persisted, said, You want this.
That doesn’t sound like him, she said.
Yeah, I said.
And the conversation ended there. She knew that I’d been in and out of psych wards. I asked myself, Why should she believe me? He can be a really nice guy.
They’re still friends, and I don’t know how I really feel about that. If a rape victim’s friends don’t believe her, then why would she bother with authorities?
Mark could still be held accountable. Ohio has a twenty-five-year statute of limitations.
But I don’t want to press charges. I want to press him on why he did what he did, or why he thinks he did what he did.
Kant argued that retributive harshness was a good thing—because it expresses respect for the perpetrator by holding him responsible for his act. If we hold criminals responsible and then offer ways to make reparations and reenter society, we strengthen our commitment to human dignity.
This, then, can be Mark’s community service.
When I talk to Mark, I won’t mention the statute of limitations.
I search my inbox and find another email address for Mark, one that our friend Jake (not his real name) used when inviting friends to a party at his house. This was two years after the assault. Mark lived with his parents by this point. That Jake would include Mark—given Jake knew what had happened, had even offered to beat up Mark after it happened—surprised and hurt me. But I was already back on Northwestern’s campus. Jake knew I couldn’t attend the party. I decided he was just being nice by including me. But now I think, How was that nice? To invite me and the guy who sexually assaulted me to the same party? Though Jake had seen me socializing with Mark in the months after the assault. He probably figured Mark and I had resolved things.
I forward the message I already sent to Mark to this other address, along with a note: I just realized that I may have used the wrong email address. So I combed through old emails and found one that Jake had used for you.
What term would Mark use, does he use, for what he did to me?
I call my friend Nina (not her real name). Five years ago, we met as psych ward roommates, both hospitalized for mania. Our first night together, she told me that her ex-boyfriend had raped her after discovering that she’d cheated on him with a friend.
One of the first things we talked about was your rape, I tell her. Do you remember?
Yeah, she says. It felt so recent.
When did it happen? I ask her. How soon before we met?
Three years.
Oh. I thought it had just happened.
I was really confused, she says. I thought the hospital was pressing charges for me. I had talked about it when I was being admitted.
Are you angry at your ex?
I don’t know if I’m angry, or if I was angry. I don’t think I was angry. I think there were negative emotions. Sadness. And grief. Definitely grief.
And now?
I don’t know. Not anger. Or maybe anger. Or maybe contempt!
We both laugh.
I think it’s hard to be angry, she says, because I dated my ex for a few years. Rape is different when it’s a stranger who does it. Did I ever tell you that my friend, the one I cheated on my ex with, ran into my ex on the street?
He did?
Yeah, and
my ex started crying. He tried to shake my friend’s hand, but my friend refused. My ex asked if I was okay. He was a mess.
Does that change how you feel about what happened? I ask.
I don’t know. I realize that if I were to run into him, he and I would approach the conversation from very different sides.
How so?
He’d probably try to apologize. But I wouldn’t want to comfort him. I don’t want him to feel better.
IT’S IN THE ZEITGEIST
Mark gets ten days. After that, I’m calling. I don’t know his cell number. I suppose I could call him at work.
I’ll say: I emailed, but I didn’t know if I had the right address.
While I wait for Mark’s reply, my attention gravitates toward any news story about sexual assault. The stories mostly concern politicians and Hollywood directors and actors. What about guys like Mark?
I tell a friend about this project.
It’s in the zeitgeist, she says.
I want to say: That’s not why I’m writing it.
But of course that’s why I’m writing it. Ever since Trump’s election, I’ve had nightmares about Mark.
I hadn’t had nightmares about him for a few years.
Chris: That’s not true. I’ve been with you when you’ve woken up crying. Years before Trump was elected. Every few months it happened. When I’d ask you what you were dreaming about, you’d say Mark.
But not all that often, I tell him.
Not as much as lately, he says.
I think of the Access Hollywood tape. Trump: When you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything.
Mark texts me: Hi Jeannie, it’s Mark. I was in a bit of a self-editing loop trying to figure out what I wanted to say, and I thought maybe this would be easier. It’s wonderful to hear from you again, I hope you’re well.
I want to feel angry, but I’m grateful. Angry and grateful?
I don’t want my reaction to Mark to disappoint other feminists. I’m supposed to be angry.