It's winter, 1985. I'm 17 years old. I've been living on my own since my 17th birthday in April; I am currently renting a room in a house on the not-so-good side of Lansing, Michigan. Even though I've only been out of my mother's house for six months (I left a month before graduating high school), this is already the third place I've lived.
I share my tiny room with my six-month-old puppy Misty and my not-much-older cat, Spike. There are two men who also live in the house, both in their late twenties; they, like me, are on the first floor. Upstairs is rented by two graduate students, both women, that I almost never see. My memories of them are mostly from the two guys calling them "dykes" and the weird-ass food they had in the fridge (they are vegan).
It's not a great living situation; the two guys insist on letting themselves into my room (even though I have a lock) and letting out my dog when I'm at work (because they feel sorry for her); once, she eats a steak one of them cooked and he makes me pay for it. Another time she is hit by a car, breaking her front leg. They both drink a lot, and freebase cocaine (I didn't realize until much later that was what they were doing; I was pretty inexperienced back then). I was very poor; I work at an Arby's, and many, many nights the only food Misty and Spike eat are leftovers from work.
One of the guys is the house "manager" meaning we give him our rent and he deposits it in an account for the owner, a buddy of his currently working on an oil pipe line in Alaska. But about six weeks after I move in, Jed, the owner, shows up. He's home for the holidays, but doesn't want to stay at his parents, so he crashes on the couch in the living room of the house.
Jed takes an interest in me right away. It makes me uncomfortable; although my high school boyfriend Paul and I weren't really seeing each other any more, we hadn't really broken up either (we'd been living together until I moved into this house), so it felt weird to have this guy hitting on me all the time. Once, as I tried to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, he's waiting for me by my bedroom and tries to kiss me. I tell him I have a boyfriend, and go back to my room. I lock my door. He owns the house, though, so he has the key.
That New Year's Eve, I go with a friend to a party. I don't remember much about the party; I was bored, I think. We left early. I didn't drink much--a beer or two--because I was driving. I get home early, barely 1 am. I let the dog out, and we go to bed.
A couple hours later I wake up and feel a huge weight on my chest. I reach up, half asleep, thinking it's Misty, and try to shove her off to her part of the bed. I touch cloth.
Now I'm awake. I turn on the light, see Jed's face leering above me. He tries to kiss me. I start to push him away, and manage to sit up. The blankets fall off me and he sees I'm naked (I've always slept naked). He grabs my breasts, painfully, and uses them and his weight to push me back down on the bed. We struggle for a minute or two until, thanks to anger and fear and a feminist upbringing, I manage to get him off. In fact, I actually fling him across the room.
I'm up out of bed in a flash and get dressed. He comes back at me, I knock him down and get out of the room. Misty is barking madly. I run to the phone, pick it up and call Paul, my maybe boyfriend. I ask him to come get me, tell him my landlord tried to rape me. Jed comes barreling out of the bedroom, rips the phone out of my hand. He screams into it that I'm a slut, then he rips it out of the wall. I start yelling at him, he's yelling at me. Calls me a tease, a bitch, a lying slut.
I go back in my room and start shoving my things into garbage bags. For some reason, none of the other roommates show up--they must either still be at parties or too drunk to hear. I put Spike in his carrying case and put Misty's leash on.
Luckily, Paul and his roommate Jimbo live close by in the same bad part of town. Jimbo, 6' 4" tall but only about 120lbs soaking wet, is holding a baseball bat. They are both drunk as hell, but angry. Jed shuts up and just glares. Paul grabs my bags of stuff, and I bring Misty and Spike and we get the hell out of there.
Once I get to Paul's, my feminist upbringing rears it's head again and I call the police. I'm shaking and crying at this point; I can't really seem to pull myself together. My breasts hurt. I smoke cigarette after cigarette while Paul and Jimbo wander around the apartment feeling helpless.
A cop arrives to take my report. The first thing he does is ask me why I didn't call the cops from the house. I told him I was scared, I wanted help, so I called for help, and by the time I could call the cops the phone was ripped out of the wall. This part of the conversation goes on for a long time, with him clearly thinking I didn't call the cops for some other reason.
He writes down what I say, then snaps his notebook shut and says, "Well, this sounds like a case of a goodnight kiss that went too far." I'm astonished. I look at him for a moment and say, "But I never went on a DATE with Jed. He is my landlord. He let himself into my LOCKED room while I was asleep and got in my bed. I never gave him permission to touch me. Not EVER."
The cop waves his hand at me. Dismisses me. He leaves.
The following business day, I call a lawyer. Yes, a civil lawyer. I didn't really know what I was doing. I do know that now I'm angry. My breasts are covered with bruises and hand prints. I feel ugly, disgusting. I want Jed to pay. The lawyer tells me that I need to call the District Attorney's office and push them to file charges. He tells me I'll have a strong civil case if Jed is convicted of criminal charges.
I call the District Attorney. They are surprised to hear from me. They had no intentions of filing any charges. I push and push and they finally agree to charge him with "criminal sexual conduct in the second degree." I go to the office a few weeks later to meet the woman prosecuting the case. She tells me they've made a plea offer to Jed. He'll plead "no contest" to domestic assault charges. Once again, I'm astonished. I tell her, but I wasn't living with Jed, he wasn't my boyfriend--he was my landlord. She says the offer has already been made.
I throw a fit. A big one. At that moment I thank god for my mother and my ability to be incredibly articulate, even though I am so young. I end up getting to see my DA's boss. Her boss, a man, looks over my case and agrees that the plea offer was a mistake. He agrees to rescind the plea offer.
Jed, it turns out, is the black sheep of a prominent family. His father used to be on city council. The lone media story about the case casts me as a disgruntled ex-girlfriend out for revenge. The story is small, though, buried in the back of the local paper. No one I know ever sees it.
We go to court. I have bought my first suit for court. I have to get on the stand. On the stand, Jed's lawyer attacks me. He asks how many men I've slept with. He accuses me of trying to seduce Jed. The DA interjects, and I don't have to answer too many of his questions, but I'm shaking. I'm so scared and humiliated.
Around this time, the movie The Color Purple comes out. I'd already read the book in high school (thanks to a teacher that gave it to me on the sly, it was actually banned at my school). I see the movie over and over again. It gives me courage to persist in the case against Jed.
Finally, sentencing day arrives. Jed's lawyer argues long and hard that the original plea bargain offer should be kept. By some miracle, the Judge asks for my opinion, even though I'm not supposed to address the court that day. I tell him what I've told them over and over again; Jed was my landlord, not my boyfriend. I never gave him permission to touch me, EVER. The judge agrees, but the lower charge of "assault and battery" is accepted, eliminating the "sexual misconduct" portion.
Jed is given ninety days in the county jail and required to write me a letter of apology. As they take him out of the courtroom, he turns to me and screams "BITCH!" and tries to spit in my face.
My civil lawyer asks me what I want to do. By this time, I'm tired. So, so tired of talking about the case, of fighting what everyone seems to think about me. I tell him I don't care. Jed's home owner's insurance offers a settlement of $2,500; after the lawyer's fees, I get a check for $1,200.
By the time that check is in my hand, I've gained over 50 lbs. Paul and I have stopped having sex, even though we are living together and sharing a bed every night. As teenagers. Being fatter makes me feel safer, bigger, stronger. I drink more and more, blessedly passing out every night. Being drunk makes me feel calmer, better.
In the fall of 1986, my mom invites me to move across the country with her to the East Coast. I do, and most of this story fades into memory.
.
.
.
When I wrote about the Duke Lacrosse Team Rape Case the other day, several of you posted comments about how you think "something is fishy" and "why isn't there any DNA?" I'm afraid I wrote some pretty terse emails back to you; I apologize, but as you can see, this is a story near and dear to my heart.
I'm not saying that false accusations of rape never happen, although I believe they are extremely rare. I also believe that many women, unlike me, just stop fighting the system because they can't take the abuse any more and then the people accusing them of "making it all up" crow with victory, further tarnishing the victim (and the reputations of all rape victims). In my case--and I wasn't even actually raped--at every turn I was sabotaged by the lawyers that were supposedly on my side. There wasn't any DNA evidence in my case either, of course. But that sure as shit doesn't mean it didn't happen.
How could there not be any DNA evidence in the Duke case? Maybe the men wore condoms. Or maybe they used the toilet plunger or another foreign object to rape her. Who knows? You think what we learn from the media is the full truth? And other than one violent sexist and racist email, why aren't we hearing extensive details about the pasts of the young men accused the way we are learning from Fox News all the sordid details of the woman's past? After all these are young men that get together and act in a violent manner on a regular, socially accepted basis (Lacrosse is pretty brutal, right?). Why is it such a stretch to think that they have trouble seeing boundaries off the field?
I don't know the answers to these questions. But I ask you this: tell me, exactly, how this woman's life has improved because of the charges she's made? What benefits has she gotten? I'll bet by now she's had to drop out of college (she was a student at the University of North Carolina). I bet if anyone in her community knows it was her, her children are treated horribly by the other kids. I'll bet she'll end up having to move. I'll bet she's lost her job.
Almost NO ONE believes the victims of sexual assault. Over and over again, the victims of assault are attacked and harassed until they give up or become broken yet again.
It happened to me, and no one wanted to believe me until I insisted and insisted and insisted. And that's why I do believe her. Because she's insisting too, contrary to all the pressure she is getting to make her stop, make her shut up and keep her slut mouth shut. Even though she can't turn on the TV without hearing about her sexual past. She insists she's telling the truth.
So I believe her, because she deserves my belief and my support. I think she deserves it from all of us.
