Horrid Memories


This post contains descriptions of various assaults on my person. It also contains some language. If all goes according to plan, the rest of the post should be hidden behind a jump.

I was in 6th grade (11 or 12 years old) when another student tried to stick his hand down my shirt IN FRONT OF THE TEACHER. I hit him with one of my crutches. I was the one who got in trouble The school threatened to suspend me. I told them to call my mom and explain that I was being suspended for protecting myself against inappropriate touching, the very thing that my parents and my teachers preached at me. I wasn’t suspended.

This is the first incident I remember happening. It wasn’t the last. To Trump and others who think it’s “just locker room talk”, try grabbing this pussy. This pussy fights back. And not just for myself, for any person I see being forced to deal with harassment.


I wrote that on my facebook page yesterday. It, and a few other stories, have been weighing on mind and heart. Trump’s comments have caused all these memories that I had largely manage to push out of my head. That was the first one I remember.

A few short years later, I was a new freshman in high school. Dad and I were at the store where mom worked. He went into the bathroom. While I was waiting for him, a man came up to me and asked me a question. I live in my own little world, and it took me a moment to fully process what he said. I’d already answered his question before I even realized what it was.

He’d asked if I was married. I had said no. He grabbed my arm and said, “We’re going to Mexico.” One of the workers, a friend of Mom’s, hollered at him. At the same time, Dad walked out of the bathroom. The man ran off. I was shaken. I spent the next several months not leaving my parent’s side when we went out.

A few years later, I’m a freshman in college. I’m so, so excited to be there. We had this safety class that we all had to take. I found a few people to sit with. Me, in my typically me fashion, made a sarcastic remark. The self-defense instructor, who was teaching a technique incorrectly, heard. He called me down there.

I was standing there, and he was using me to demonstrate. I avoided him. I broke his holds. The better I did. The angrier, and more violent, he got. It got to a point where he stopped trying to teach. I don’t know what that point was, but I started having to actually defend myself. The two professors there tried to pull him away. I’ve always been a defensive fighter. I rarely attack. He came at me one more time, and I switched. Instead of avoiding, I stepped in. I hit him. I hit him as hard as I could. I broke his nose.

I was shaking. I was crying. I was told that I would be fine. That I wasn’t in trouble. I don’t remember what happened after that. It’s been just over seven years, and writing this, remembering this, is so hard. I’m sitting here, typing this, and I’m crying. My anxiety is cranked up high now.

In that class, we were told to put keys between our fingers when we were walking. We were told to carry a small bottle of lemon juice or pepper spray with us everywhere. We were told to walk fast, but not too fast. If we walked too fast, we could be seen as running, which is bad because that makes us look weak, like prey. We were told to stay in a group and never separate.

These are three of my stories. There are several more. Now I’m reliving all of this, all of them, because some rich asshole thinks he’s entitled to whatever his gaze lands on. That’s not normal locker room talk. Normal locker room talk may be crude, but it stops at a lack of consent. None of the men in my life would EVER consider what Trump said as normal locker room talk.


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