Friday, August 02, 2013

A Collective Pain: Same Story the World Over, Just Different Details


Shhhh!  Rape: a taboo subject in my family, never once talked about; my rape never reported.  The year was 1969 and the place was downtown San Antonio, 300 miles south of my hometown of Fort Worth, Texas. I was barely 14 years old, a troubled runaway youth, and my attacker was a stranger, a corporal in the U.S. Army. 

I fight him with every ounce of my being, but am no match for his brute strength. When he is done he releases my bound wrists, and I bolt out of the room, grabbing my clothes off the floor as I leave.  I scurry down the hall and dart into the deserted stairwell, stopping only long enough to pull on my jeans and t-shirt.  My heart is in my throat as I imagine he has dressed and is on his way to find me.  My head is throbbing, each passing second marked by a loud boom ringing in my ears, as if from a bass drum.  My hands shake so much I can’t zip and button my jeans and I’ve dropped my t-shirt twice trying to get it over my head. Where are my shoes? Damn. I left them in the room. What do shoes matter when one is running for their life? 

The stairwell is the only way down to the first floor; I must hurry before I am caught. I race down the stairs and pause for just a moment to listen for noises to know if I am being followed. I hear nothing but my own labored breathing. I slip through the door and into the dimly lit motel lobby, passing the disinterested clerk, who is laughing at some sitcom he is watching on a small black-and-white television behind the counter. Holding my breath I make my way silently on bare feet the short distance to the front door, not wanting to be seen and leaving behind only a trail of tears.  

As soon as I make it out the front doors I begin to run away as fast as I can, to nowhere in particular in an unfamiliar city, my escape covered only by a thick fog. Three blocks away I find a park bench on which to sit and catch my breath in the city's famous downtown River-walk area, which is mostly deserted due to the late hour. I don’t dare stay too long in one place, for fear my attacker will be in pursuit. Moments later, a couple walking arm-in-arm passing nearby notice me crying and stop to ask if I’m okay.  I open my mouth but no words come out. I don’t know who to trust or what to say. The man’s gaze lowers and I see him stare at the abrasions on my wrists, which are starting to burn. I jump up from the bench and begin walking quickly away, hearing the couple call after me but not understanding what they are saying.

I feel so disoriented, my thoughts spinning around in my head. I feel weak and my legs shake, and, I am cold in the night air but I cannot stop until I reach somewhere safe. I wonder what safety will look like and how much farther I will have to go to reach it. My body is running on nothing but adrenalin, fueled by an overwhelming sense of terror. I have come to the mind-numbing realization that it is safer for my attacker to hunt me down and kill me, rather than run the risk I will report him, an active-duty soldier, for rape.

I get away but do not feel safe again for years. Ten long years pass before I find the courage to tell someone – the man I will later marry.  And now, 44 years after it happened I write it all down.