"since we all came from a women, got our name from a women, and our game from a women. I wonder why we take from women, why we rape our women, do we hate our women? I think its time we killed for our women, be real to our women, try to heal our women, cus if we dont we’ll have a race of babies that will hate the ladies, who make the babies. And since a man can’t make one he has no right to tell a women when and where to create one” – Tupac Shukar
In high school he wasn’t much of anything. Overweight, a bit of a stoner loner. I don’t remember him much. After high school he blossomed. Shed his weight, developed a personality. I was startled to meet him at the local tavern one night. I had no idea who he was until my friend Karen introduced us. He laughed when I told him my name.
Of course he knew me, he said. We graduated together and I was one of those goody two shoes President of Student Government types he told me. I would have never guessed it was the same guy. This man was handsome, charming, tall, blonde, blue eyed. I was quite taken by him.
We chatted for a bit, shared a drink with friends and parted ways.
A week or so later my friend Kare and I run into him again. He is clearly flirting with me and I am enjoying it. We spend the night talking and sharing drinks. Closing time approaches and Karen begs me to leave with her. She wants to go to the diner and get breakfast. I wave her off. I assure her I will be fine. I haven’t been drinking much. I have my own car.
He and I continue to chat and share one more drink. That is the last thing I remember.
Several hours later, I awake, crying, shaking, and naked. I am on the cold concrete laundry room floor of my apartment building. I don’t know how I got there or what happened to me. I am horrified that I am naked. My body hurts. I am disoriented and can barely walk.
I fumble in a dryer and find a large, thick, peach colored towel belonging to a stranger. I struggle to walk up the two flights to my apartment. My legs can barely support me.
The apartment is locked.
My horror deepens. Confused, debating knocking on doors of neighbors, I make my way to my car outside the apartment. Can I rest there? Is there money there? Clothing?
My head is gradually becoming clearer. I walk to a nearby payphone and call my friend Karen. I am clearly in a state of shock. Wrapped in a towel, on a main street, at three in the morning, I am screaming, crying, sobbing. She asks me where I am. I tell her.
She picks me up within a matter of minutes.
She gasps at the sight of me. She is very angry. Screaming that she knew this would happen, why I didn’t come with her, he’s done it before. I have no idea what she is saying. I just want clothing and a warm bed.
I sleep for hours at Karen’s. When I awake, she is there with fresh clothes, a glass of water and a cup of coffee. She proceeds to relay the evening’s events to me. She is convinced our high school friend slipped something into my drink, a roofie. She has heard he has this reputation. She knows others he has assaulted; even more that he has stalked.
When she left me, I was indeed fine. I hadn’t been drinking much. She is angry at herself for leaving me. She is urging me to go to the hospital and to call the police.
I still cannot grasp what has happened. No, no. I wave her off (again). I urge her to take me to my parent’s home. I must rest. I must get to some place safe. I must get the keys to my apartment.
She takes me to my parent’s home and I enter, crying, shaken. I don’t know what she tells my parents. Perhaps they never asked. I make up a story. I tell them I lost my keys, I need to use their phone, I need to borrow their car. They don’t press me.
I locate my landlord, meet him at his home and get an extra set of keys to the condo. As I approach my apartment, I see Karen is there again. She is begging me to call the police. I don’t. I beg her to stop asking me.
When we enter my apartment, she is shocked into silence. It is a wreck. Clearly, whatever happened there, I put up a fight. Lamps are knocked over, furniture out of place. It’s not pretty.
I collapse. Suddenly I am hit with mild flashbacks of fighting someone off. The energy of the night before, the night I don’t remember lingers in the air and begins to assault my senses.
I ask Karen to leave. I make her promise she will not tell a soul what happened. She is dumbstruck. She doesn’t understand why I would keep such a horrible violent act to myself. Clearly it was not my fault.
I am not so convinced.
I put myself into that situation.
I wanted his attention. I made myself vulnerable.
I am a mother of loss. A branded woman.
He is the wealthy son of a local businessman.
It would be he said / she said.
And who would look better?
The girl who got pregnant out of wedlock, got sent away and then gave away her child or the rich kid with the rich daddy? I am nobody in this town I grew up in. He is somebody.
Like so many victims of sexual assault, I am convinced it is my fault, I am bad, I asked for it. I should have known better. It was something I did. Something I said.
These feelings I have, my fault, my mistake, I asked for it, are much like the feelings I had after losing my daughter. It doesn’t matter that I lost her to a baby broker known for notorious coercion and intimidation. It just doesn’t matter. I should have known better. I should have done something to stop it, I tell myself. I should have known their intentions. I should have seen through their lies. I should have seen that adoption broker slip that roofie into my psyche.
We teach children that their body is sacred. That no one should touch it without your permission. Doing so is a supreme violation, punishable by law. While we are teaching children, particularly young girls that no one should derive pleasure from their bodies against their will, we are simultaneously taking babies from the body of their mother and giving that child to others for their pleasure.
My child is of my body. She was taken against my will to give others pleasure.
Date rape roofies mirror adoption roofies.