The First Time A Man Assaulted Me

I’ve spent recent days and weeks listening to pod casts and news stories about the confirmation of a potential supreme court judge in the USA. I am sitting at my desk streaming the live testimony of both Judge Brett Kavanaugh and the woman who accused him of sexual assault, Christine Ford. While all this is going on social media is blowing up with posts using the hashtag #IBelieveHer in support of all people who come forward to speak their truth about an assault. In a flash, I started crying.

Not because I’m sad for Christine Ford.

Not because I am sad for all the victims of sexual assault who fight to be believed. (don’t get me wrong, I’m sad for them, every damn day) They want to be believed by their families. Believed by their friends. Believed by their communities. Believed by the court of public opinion, aka, social media.

I’m crying because in that instant I gave myself permission to believe me. It was the moment when the I Believe Her movement means believing myself.

The first time a man assaulted me, I was in elementary school. Grade 3. He was my teacher. I remember his classroom. It was a large room with really high ceilings. There was a bank of tall shelving units that acted as a wall separating the back 1/3 of the classroom making a space for our jackets almost like a boot room or mud room at the back. The teacher organized his classroom with 4 long rows of desks one in front of the other for the students and his desk tucked at the back of the class between the boot room and the students desks; beside the tall shelving unit wall.

In my 4 years of school to that point, this was the first time (and only time till high school) that a teacher put their desk at the back of the class. The chalk board was at the front of the class and my desk was somewhere in the first row closest to his desk.

The only day of my grade 3 year of school I remember was the first time he called me to his desk. I was quietly working on something at my desk. The room was silent except for the sounds of shuffling paper and the odd cough from a classmate. I stood up and collected my assignment and walked to the back of the class to his desk.

He greeted me with a smile and slid his rolling chair over slightly to the right while making a motion for me to stand beside him on his side of the desk. I put my work on his desk in front of him and he leaned over to review my progress. He was praising my work. He was happy with my effort. He liked me. I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted to please him. So when he reached around my tiny 8 year old body and groped my back, I didn’t move. He slid his hand from my back down to my bum. I didn’t scream. He rubbed me over my corduroy pants putting pressure between the my two bum cheeks. He was happy with my work. He looked up at me and said, “well done.”

I went back to my desk.

I went home that day and didn’t say anything to my mom.

I don’t know why.

Was I afraid I would get in trouble?

Was I afraid I would get my teacher in trouble?

I started to tell myself lies.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“He’s a good teacher.”

“He didn’t really hurt me.”

I didn’t want to believe myself. I didn’t want to believe the memory of that day.

And so I didn’t talk about it. My mom died when I was in grade 8 and she never knew.

I have no memory of the rest of grade 3. That day in that classroom is my only memory. I don’t know if it happened again. I don’t know if it happened to other students.

Today, as I watched the testimony online of a man who assaulted a woman 35+ years ago as he tried to convince a panel of senators and millions of people watching not to believe her, I broke down. I have spent my adult life not believing my own story. Denying my memories and telling myself lies to cover up and protect the abuses of men in my past. No more. I want to tell my 8 year old self that I believe her. I’m sorry it happened and I will protect her. I will tell her story and try to make a mends. I will be gentle and kind and hold her in my arms. I will let her cry. I will hold her hand as she tells her mom and the school and the police. I will fight for her. I will help her heal as she deals with the once suppressed memory of the second time a man assaulted her a year later.

I believe her.

I believe you.

I believe me.