#broken We all felt the same way, but none of us ever said anything to him.

The first time I felt violated by a male I was 15 years old. It was Halloween night and I was hanging out with all the other teenagers that lived on my street. I don’t know how it all started, but at one stage we were all running around the block, trying to catch each other with cans of shaving cream.  One of the older guys, who was about three years older than me, finally tackled me onto the ground. He held me down hard with one hand and pushed the can of shaving cream between my legs, pushing the pump down. He then took his hand and rubbed the shaving cream hard in between my legs. Really hard. So hard that it really hurt. Back and forth about twenty times.  It all happened very fast, and was such a shock that I don’t even think I yelled at him.  I didn’t understand. I mean, what the hell was he doing? Why was he doing this? Before I knew it he got up off me and ran away to get someone else. I stood up, feeling awful, feeling shocked and violated. I wiped what was left of the white shaving cream off my legs. I stood there for a while, not knowing what to do. And then I did nothing. I walked back to the house we started from – his house, and waited for all the others to come back. I know he did this to all the girls, not just me.  We all felt the same way, but none of us ever said anything to him.

My second experience was about two years later. It was far more frightening and I am extremely lucky to have survived it. It was a freezing cold winter’s evening in Queens, NY.  As I was about to leave the house to meet my friends a few blocks away, my father wrapped a very long woollen scarf around my neck and over the back of my head several times.  As I walked, I noticed a car slowly pass me, and then watched it back up all the way back up the street to where it had come from. While the car was still a bit further up the street, I noticed it pull up to the curb and saw the headlights turn off; I also saw the driver get out of the car and open the trunk. I noticed all this as I continued walking in his direction. I had a fleeting thought that it seemed a bit strange to turn the lights off while the engine was running and you were looking in the trunk, but I let the thought go, and didn’t really think anything else about it as I continued walking,  head down, trying to keep my face out of the freezing cold wind.  A few minutes later, I heard footsteps running behind me and just as I was about to turn around, I was grabbed from behind. Before I knew it, I was on the cold ground with this person on top of me. His gloved hands were on either side of my face as he lifted my head again and again and again, trying to smash it into the concrete sidewalk. He was trying to knock me unconscious. I didn’t hear myself scream but I could feel it in my throat. My screams made him hesitate for a second, but then he grabbed my legs and tried to pull me toward the car, which was now right beside me with the trunk open.  I instantly knew that if he got me in there, I would not be coming back.  I screamed and kicked, and I don’t really know how I managed it, but I got away from him and ran to the house I was in front of, frantically ringing the bell and banging on the door. Eventually two older women let me into their home, and saved my life. The police told my father that there had been several foiled kidnap attempts in the area, and that the perpetrator was getting bolder and braver. They said that if he had gotten me in that car, he would have taken me to another location, and I would have been raped and murdered.

The third time I felt violated I was about 25 years old, working shift work on a Saturday evening in the Manhattan office of the small airline I worked for. There were only two of us working in the entire office, myself and a married gentleman about ten years older than me. This man and I had worked together for several years and had always been friendly and kind to each other.  When it was closing time, we signed off our computers and started to get ready to leave. As we headed toward the door of the office, he grabbed me and tried to kiss me. I was stunned and pulled away, asking “What are you doing?” He continued quite forcefully to try to kiss me. He pulled me hard toward him, up against him, and his arms completely enveloped me. I remember saying “stop” many times, and pulling and pushing to get away from him.  He kept on, and I started to get very afraid. I was in an empty office in an empty building on a Saturday night.  There wasn’t even a guard downstairs at the entry door. I suddenly realised this was no joke and that I could be raped.  I started screaming for him to get the fuck off me, and then he looked shocked, but he did as I asked. He apologised continuously and begged me not to tell anyone. And I never did.

So, what impact did these experiences have on my life?  It’s not easy to define. I was not raped, beaten or tortured; I was a very lucky girl. Nevertheless, there were lessons learned and adaptions made, particularly for my younger years. First of all, these experiences alerted me to the power of men. Not just their physical power, which could overwhelm, but their internal power; the power that told them they were entitled to whatever they wanted, and that all they had to do was take it.  I learned that I was never really safe, and that the people I knew and trusted could be equally as dangerous to me as a stranger in a strange car. I learned that boundaries were not a simple matter, which led to confusion and inconsistency in my ability to enforce my own. And lastly, I learned that my own wants and needs could be over-shadowed by the wants and needs of someone else.