BEB: When
By Sienna Brancato, Artwork by Caleigh Andrews
Content Warning: sexual assault, violence
When I see the man—
When I see the man who—
I can’t.
I didn’t know,
or, I don’t know
how to categorize what he did to me.
All I know is that his hands left me
sweating and shivering and struggling to breathe
in a bathroom stall
arms fingers stomach couldn’t stop crawling
When I see the man who _____ me at the coffee shop yesterday,
sitting in the corner typing on his computer,
it seems so normal,
so mundane.
Of course he belongs here,
he’s a student,
he’s still a student.
When I find out that I’m not the only person he _____,
I’m back there in the moment,
the moment three years ago at a party,
the heat of pressing bodies
the dripping, claustrophobic sweat
I’m back there and he’s touching me and I want him to stop
When I found out that he’s done this to other people,
my first thought is
guilt.
Second thought: not surprised.
And then, self-blame.
What if I had said something?
What if I hadn’t told the girl in the bathroom that I was okay?
What if I hadn’t just left and curled up in my bed and told my roommate I felt a little bit weird about it but I don’t really know I don’t really—
It’s sophomore year, the night before move-in.
A friend and I are walking up the street to campus,
and in the passing doorway,
under the light,
a man is grunting and sweating and roughly pulling and we realize a second too late
We don’t run.
We look at each other and walk maybe a little quicker than normal,
because we don’t want him to know that we saw him, that we’re scared.
We wonder what he would do in retaliation.
We breathe heavy when we reach campus, sweating and unsettled.
When I get a public safety email a few weeks later,
warning students about an incident of public masturbation,
my first thought is
guilt.
Second thought: not surprised.
And then, self-blame.
What if I had told someone?
What if I had called it in to GUPD?
What if I hadn’t just run scared like a fucking coward and actually taken any action seriously any action to prevent someone else from experiencing this deep unsettling fear I don’t really know I don’t really—
I am assigned the movie Boys Don’t Cry for an English class and I watch two men rape and murder transgender man Brandon Teena
I watch Netflix series Unbelievable, based on the true story of a serial rapist and a girl the police didn’t believe and pressured into saying she had lied about being violently assaulted, and I witness their attacks
And the trauma is everywhere. It’s in our pop culture, it’s in our classrooms, it’s on our campus, it’s in our clubs, it’s in our friends, it’s inescapable.
I learn about Maria Root’s theory of insidious trauma, the idea that constant exposure to the threat of trauma leads to trauma-like symptoms
“Her model suggests, for instance, that for all women living in a culture where there is a high base rate of sexual assault
and where such behavior is considered normal and erotic by men,
as it is in North American culture,
is an exposure to insidious trauma.”
“Most women in North America today are aware that they may be raped
at any time and by anyone.
All of us know someone like ourselves who was raped,
more often than not in her own home by a man she knew.
In consequence, many women who have never been raped
have symptoms of rape trauma.”
And this is not to minimize or generalize, but rather to emphasize
the absurd prevalence.
It seems so normal,
so mundane.
Of course she belongs here.
When the man grabs my leg and leaves a bruise, I think about the last time someone broke me between their hands
When the fingers wrap around my throat, I think of crushed windpipes
When I say be careful and he says I can’t help myself
When he says “are you sure we can’t just...”
I think about intergenerational trauma,
about the fact that my future child will carry this terror
this inescapable shortness of breath
this perpetual danger
this sense of inevitability
The majority of my female friends have stories like mine,
I was followed
I was drugged
I don’t remember what happened
He kept insisting
I didn’t want to disappoint him
I feel a little weird about it, but it’s fine, right?
and the ones who don’t likely will in time.
And I want to protect the people I love,
but how can I claim to be an advocate when fear has silenced me too many times?
when survival instincts and adrenaline have outweighed collective responsibility?
I don’t have some neat fucking conclusion because
I carry the guilt like a white hot weight
and all I know is when I see him next time I will—