I think I am going to vomit; right now, I am going to lose my lunch. At 2:30 p.m. on October 7, 1998, while sitting next to the wall in Cultural Psychology. I will throw-up on the person next to me, a girl whom I have known since fourth grade. She was there that night. I should have left in the middle of class. I should have taken advantage of the escape Bob offered. I will not cry, not here, not now. I could cry during Schindler’s List– Hell, I bawled my eyes out throughout the duration of the movie. But, I cannot cry now, because if I do, SOMEONE MIGHT KNOW. Someone might guess that I am the one in eight; I am a statistic. So instead, I swallow the bile rising against my tongue and hold my eyes wide open, until the tears dry unshed. I will not let them fall. My eyes sting. I look around and survey other women’s eyes. Is there a glimmer of recognition? Is there anyone who can center me, someone with whom I can connect? At the same time, I fear finding and meeting that gaze, having to share that knowledge with someone else.

His Dreamworld is my nightmare, a nightmare for which I did not ask. As a lot of nightmares go, mine started out as a good dream. Yet, it progressed into a dark, hazy myriad of images and emotions that has continued for a nightmarish year and one half. Was it because I was at my friend’s house, in her bed, on my territory? Why was I not scared of him? He came into my world so briefly and rocked it so thoroughly. He had no right; the violation was not my fault.

Oppression numbs. I was numbed, numbed by a false sense of security, numbed by alcohol, numbed by his heavy body. Now, it is hard not to be emotionally numbed, not to think about it everyday, with every man that passes me on the street, asks me the time, scoops my ice cream, or sits next to me in class. At the same time, my experience has made me frighteningly aware, electrifyingly sensitized. There were many nights I would lie awake in my bed freshman year shaking, checking and rechecking the lock on the second floor window to the balcony that faced Vine Street, a main road. When did I lose control of my thoughts, emotions, and fears? I hate that I have given him that power over my mind.

The oddest aspect of the entire situation is that he seems to have no idea that he possesses this power, that after a brief encounter, he has so dramatically entered and altered my life. When did NO become YES? One week after he raped me, he called and asked me out. In his mind, how did NO translate into YES? These words are basic vocabulary with simple meaning. Yet, he had the gall to call me and ask me out. How dare he? How dare he! How could he not know! Is he in denial, or is his mind so twisted that he assumed that I liked what happened? I said NO; how did he interpret it to mean YES, and how could he think that I enjoyed it?

I wonder how could he have found me attractive. I was in flannel pajamas, asleep, make-up smudged, with a mixture of alcohol and vomit on my breath. It had nothing to do with me, and all to do with his own power. In my mind I am sure of that; I know that I did not ask for this. I could have

Yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder what I did wrong. Who was I that night? Did I give off strange vibes? At the same time I know that it was not under my control. His actions, uninvited and unwarranted, have forced me to evaluate and re-evaluate my personality and beauty. And that makes me so very angry. I have been so silent. I do not want to be a victim.

Please take part in the Take Back The Night March on October 25 in front of Olin at 7:30 p.m.



This Wespeak, submitted anonymously, was originally published in the Argus on October 24th 2000.