Since last week. the media has been rife with stories of sexual assault victims coming forth with information that is sure to be--finally--the beginning of the end for a certain presidential candidate. Amidst speculation as to why these women waited until just a few weeks before the election to tell their stories (some of the incidents took place more than a decade ago), there have been accusations that their stories must be false, since they didn't share them immediately. It was infuriating to hear the candidate say that these were "horrible, horrible lies," and claim that "Believe me--she would be not be my first choice." As if victims were required to meet certain standards of beauty.
Why did they wait? Why didn't they rush to tell their stories? Surely someone who has been shamefully mistreated by a powerful celebrity should be eager to defend herself against accusations that she's a liar--and worse.
It got me to thinking...
While nothing as horrible as Donald Trump has ever happened to me, I do have a story about a creepy incident that took place 45 years ago. I hardly ever think about it anymore, but when I do, the images in my mind are as vivid as when it first happened. The only other person who knows is My Awesome Husband Greg, who was My Awesome Boyfriend at the time. The reason we never told anyone else was that we were ashamed of our shared naivete.
I was 18, and I was asked if I would like to do some modeling for a photographer that Greg had met through the college theater group he was in. Flattered, I said yes. I was to bring my own clothes, but was given guidelines--mostly casual, sporty clothes, including a bathing suit, and one nice dress. Greg dropped me off at the guy's studio. The photographer said he would drive me to the theater when we were done.
Sounds like the makings of a cheap horror movie now, doesn't it?
My shyness made me awkward, and although no one else was there, I was unable to relax in front of the camera. I could tell the guy was pissed, but he stuck it out. I felt sorry for him because I was wasting his time. I wanted nothing more than for Greg to pop in and say, "Hey, I just happened to be in the neighborhood..."
Finally, we were finished. The room where I had been changing was a tiny cubbyhole at one end of the studio, but at least it had a door that locked. As I was buttoning my blouse, getting ready to leave, I heard a noise. Looking up, I noticed, just above my head, a knothole the size of an eye--with an eye in it! Always a quick thinker with a ready remark, I said, "Hey--get away from there!" He moved away from the peephole and I packed my things in my tote bag, wondering what I should do or say next. Wanting to be prepared, I kept one of my wooden clogs in my hand,in case I needed a weapon.
Not a word was said on the way to the theater. (I'm sure he was intimidated by my wooden shoe.) I told Greg, who was furious, and felt responsible because he had arranged the "shoot." I felt dirty and stupid and wanted my mom and dad to never find out.
Through the years, I've thought of many alternate endings for my story, none of them as anticlimactic as the actual one. As it is, my embarrassment is nothing compared to the shame and humiliation those women must have felt--and still feel. I understand why they would hesitate to share their stories. I am grateful that they have shared them, and hope they feel proud of themselves, and will not be further shamed by that predator/bully.
I still cringe when I remember that day, but I entertained myself by writing about it. Thank you for "listening."
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