A LONG STORY…BUT AN IMPORTANT STORY….A VERY PERSONAL STORY.

I was 14 years old when I was assaulted-molested, by a man old enough to be a grandfather.  While the rest of my family shopped, I was ‘holding down the fort’ in the apartment complex we managed.  A tenant, a nice white-haired man who lived alone and had frequent visitors to his apartment, young boys and girls alike, (he had really cool war memorabilia and stories that fascinated us all) walked into the office that day.  Rent wasn’t due, but the office needed to be open just in case someone needed to report a maintenance problem or something like that.  As I recall now, he asked “where is everyone?”  “Shopping, I replied.”  I now remember him asking, “So, you are alone?”

After another few minutes of idle chit-chat, he slowly made his way from in front of the desk toward where I sat, behind it.  I didn’t then, but can clearly recall him looking over his shoulder.  The office was quite spacious and had two large windows in front and a screened door.  It was quite warm that day and everything was open. 

As he approached me, I recall his breathing – heavy, almost foggy, sultry or suggestive men might think.  Before I could react, he had thrown his arms around me in a bear hug and stuck his tongue in my mouth (down my throat…I gagged) as he breathed even heavier.  Quickly I tried to push myself from his embrace and muffled “STOP!  DON’T.”  Back then, I didn’t know it was a ‘bad thing,’ but somewhere in my 14 year old mind I understood that EVERY human being – man, woman, no matter what color or religion was equal, and he was violating me.  He continued molesting me – fondling my tiny breasts.  I resisted, and finally, by the grace of God, if you believe that, he stopped, and backed away.  As he left the office he warned, “Don’t you EVER tell.”  And, I didn’t.  I felt awful.  I felt guilty as if I had done something to provoke this behavior in a grandfatherly man that I considered ‘a nice guy – a friend.’  I felt ashamed, and I didn’t understand why.  He was a man, and older than my own step-father, how could he have done anything wrong? 

That night, I silently ate dinner and retired to my bedroom shortly after when usually I would be watching The Ed Sullivan or Carol Burnett show (I can’t remember what was popular back then).  I cried myself to sleep and tried for the next two weeks to put the incident out of my mind.  Then I remember sitting in the living room which was adjacent to the apartment manager office and my mom walked in with ‘the grandfather’ in tow.  “Look who’s here to visit,” she said unknowingly.    Every muscle in my body tensed.  I thought I had ‘gotten over’ what I had experienced.  The grandfather, with his beady eyes (I can’t remember the color) stared….no bored into my being, my resolve.  There was polite conversation, but I never answered and the few words I managed to speak were uttered….terse.   My head slumped to my chest.  My eyes stayed glued to my lap.  I trembled.  I couldn’t look at him.   I could hear the frustration in my mom’s voice.  She didn’t understand.  Why was I being so rude?  How could she understand my dilemma, I had never uttered a word about the violation.  I was ashamed.  In hind sight I believe, the grandfather, who had NEVER visited the office had come for recognizant.  Did I tell?  Fortunately for the scumbag I hadn’t, but now, after all of these years I wondered if he wasn’t some kind of a pedohile.  No allegations were ever filed against the old man, then again, who would believe a little kid over a war veteran, and who ever heard of such a thing back then? 

Once the grandfather left, mom berated me, shamed me for not speaking to him, all the while demanding “why?” I hadn’t spoken to him.  I couldn’t answer.  I still felt as if is my fault.  I was some kind of a vixen – a coquet – a hussy – worst of all ‘a whore.’  I had heard that word before, and I knew it meant a shady lady, someone others shunned.  I ran to my bedroom and locked the door.  Mom never responded.  She never even asked if I wanted to have dinner with the family.  Perhaps she sensed something.  I’d like to think so.  I stayed in my bedroom the rest of the day and night.  I remember staring out of the window and contemplating running away, but could never formulate a concrete plan in my mind.  In the morning, when I emerged from the bedroom for breakfast, nothing happened.  It was forgotten, I suppose.  Eventually, life for me returned to normal.  I never saw the grandfather again nor do I know whatever happened to the son of a bitch.  I went on to ‘live my life.’  I’ve had encounters, during my single years plenty misogynistic ass-holes, but since my earlier encounter, immediately recognized the ‘red flags’ and steered clear of the situation, when in actuality I should have ‘nailed’ all of the son of a bitches to the wall, but I didn’t.   Who would believe a woman, patronizing a bar and drinking, over a man doing the same?  In fact, until recently, I will be 67 in a week; I never said anything about the molestation to anyone.  Not even my mother.

While my assault was mild in comparison, I can empathize with anyone now days, coming forward with allegations.  I understand the stigma surrounding a molestation and sexual assault.  I understand the guilt.  I understand why, even after many years a woman would suppress the situation and not want the celebrity because of unwarranted ridicule and humiliation.  I absolutely believe this woman accusing the SCOTUS nominee, and it makes me wonder what kind of moral human being would support, believe and recognize this person or those persons supporting his nomination and degrading, maligning and ridiculing the victim.   How dare they!  How dare you for believing them in any way.

 So when I say that, that ‘thing’ in the White House, posing as the president is a misogynistic, inhumane, scumbag, you can ‘take it to the bank.’  And, if you believe ANYTHING out of his mouth, or the mouths of his constituents, or if you continue to support him, then you are just as culpable and despicable, and fucking shame on you.