Hazey Days

What a time to be alive. Right? I am supremely skeptical when I hear that much excitement. Those words send Q-tip’s dope, classic song “Breathe and Stop” flashing in my psyche. If you're thinking; “great not another story about race!” “I’m so tired of being bombarded and beat across the head by savagery” News flash, so am I. So, let’s talk about another ditch lives are thrown into.

Despite the slow removal of appeal, then abrupt end of approval, even despite the smell of alcohol and bodies shaking with vomit after leaking a foulness too illegal to play-it still didn’t stop. They got what they wanted.

There hasn’t been a day since I survived, that I haven’t asked the question “When does maturity transform into perversion?” I can no longer look at children or their games without pain. Because back then, fun came without labor.

That night;

My freshman year, we played stop light. A game similar to hide and go get it-a mature version of hide and seek. Red light meant STOP. Yellow light-SLOW. Green light-GO. Who knows how or where the lights were stolen from. It's another secret never asked about or told.

The rules of engagement were clear black and white until strangers were allowed to examine consent and legitimacy. Flawed experts explaining how influence limits and opinion validates judgement. This was a moment I wished I still lived under my parents watch. They always sensed danger I should avoid.

Even now, as time passes, I try to bring back pleasurable memories of myself. ones lost because I had to close my eyes to avoid witnessing them being torn away. That blouse I begged my mother to get- which she refused because it was too expensive, but worked extra hours to buy for me. The first time I showed off my curves and put on a little make-up. When I dreamed of kissing... Practicing perfect pucker form on my teddy bear. Or when I tossed ice cream around my mouth to mimic tongue.

My concealer runs with my tears every time I think.

“Why couldn’t YOU run?” A question I was asked from peers, more than I want to remember-they couldn’t believe someone like me, couldn’t just STOP. SLOW him down and GO. Fast as the hands that ripped my clothes and muffled my screams. Powerful as the fingers pulling me back and holding me down, leaving celebratory high fives and good game marks on my flesh. I bit one and he said “I’m gonna say you abused me.”

And they did.

With the amount of drugs and alcohol in my system, the verdict read “it was impossible to remember how many…”

When I showed my bruises, they joked, “you must be celebrity popular to get that much attention!” The glares were blinding. Letters, emails, and bathroom wall art felt as if the entire campus became a different world screaming for my attention. Telling me they despised the role I played.

When I went to the police I sat in their terror-view room for hours seeing my dismal reflection behind that life stealing wall. Beaming bulbs stared down to make me submit and look away. My counselor said “ I didn’t know girls of your type got raped.” “There aren’t that many of you here. Are you sure this is the path you want to pave for the rest of them?” “You know?” “Your Kind…”

I don’t know who made the statement- “You’re nobody til somebody kills you” famous-but I remember it from The Notorious B.I.G. Life After Death album. After I was… My therapist said I should never identify as a victim, so I don’t say… But I identify that saying to my life at that time. I changed it to “ Your nobody until somebody abuses you and kills your reputation!”

I became a fool for a world of failures to judge, ignoring their own, too heavy to budge.

I moved off campus, dropped out of school, missed friends who didn't miss me or chances to clear those boys names who ruined mine. I’m amazed at the difference in acceptance and reputation between advertised promiscuity versus a private girl who likes and is attracted to a dick. I also missed my period.

I went to what I thought was another safe space- for a checkup. The greeting I received outside made me feel lower than the perverts who sent me. Proud guys stood by, blocking my way, holding and showing their obscene views- supported by their mother’s attachment to their nubby severed chords.

If that is their plan for parenthood, I choose my own.

— Support your local planned parenthood. Women have a right to choose. They should not be harassed when going in for a checkup or any decision that could change and improve their life any way they want.

Grizzly Gentleman