A Memory of Internalized Sexism (Trigger Warning)
TW: Sexual Assult of a Minor and Drug Use
As I recollect this memory, 20 years later, I feel emotionally detached. Although the incident was traumatic, sexual crimes against women are commonplace. Although it may shock some that another female shamed my experience, I cannot say this is the first time I experienced another woman who perpetuates internalized sexism.
The clock strikes 0400, and I witness the room transform from an airy vision of light to one shrouded in darkness. I clutch my gargling stomach, and I wonder how to stop this tortuous spinning. I allow gravity to pull me to the ground and drop onto all fours. This transition triggers intense nausea, and I let out a soft scream. Searching for faces of comfort, my only savior is John, who stands as a six-foot-four bodybuilder. His sunken eyes meet mine, and he asks, “are you okay?” Silence. He continues, “no more spins. You gotta smoke more, babe.” I shake my head and can feel my brain swish back and forth. If there is anything I have learned from this experience, I will never smoke crack again.
John shakes his head “then you gotta wait this out, little girl.” I watch him saunter to the kitchen, reach into his worn jeans front pocket, and retrieve a white tablet. He drops this chalky lozenge into a glass of tap water. As it emulsifies, the clear water turns to a murky grey substance. He shuffles over the stained carpet and offers the glass and shrugs, “here. Ant-acid can help — it ain’t gonna take the pain away but is all I got.” He lifts my chin and pours the liquid down my throat. The sparkling bubbles tickle my nose as I swallow and instantaneously feel the vomit begin to rise in my esophagus. I push John away, crawl to the restroom, shut the door behind me, and hurl my body to the toilet. Smells of days-old urine and feces permeate my nose, but I plop my head on the porcelain veneer regardless. Between the smells and my physical agony, the vomit begins to pour out of me. Relief is a cold stone on my cheeks — this toilet is my savior. I hear the door open and part my eyelids. John is leaning in the doorway. He smiles as he closes the door behind him and inches toward my comatose body.
Maybe he’s here to help. Maybe not. I’m unsure how this happened, but he pulls down his sweatpants and hovers over me, “this oughta help,” he says with a chafing whisper. I never envisioned that this would be the first time I would see a man naked. Instinct courses through me, and I scream at the top of my lungs, “leave me alone!” Shocked, he stumbles back and pulls his pants up “shhh! You crazy bitch!” He darts out of the bathroom and slams the door. I wonder what would have happened if there were not people in the next room. My body pulsates with adrenaline, and I know I must leave. I stand up, and like a robotic symphony, I wipe the vomit from my face, flush the toilet, walk to the sink, and turn on the faucet. I find relief in the splash of ice-cold liquid and slap my face.
When I leave the restroom, I frantically search for my friend Silvia, whom I find curled up with the other addicts. I grab her by the arm, and she jerks away. “Silvia, we need to leave. I have to go home.” She glares at me in annoyance and slowly stands up. “I have to get out of here!” I plead. She responds with an agitated eye roll, “All alright, alright, calm down. Can you let me say goodbye to my friends at least?” I scurry towards the front door and call out, “I’ll be in the hallway!” John glares at me as I make my exit. I trusted him. Only hours ago, we exchanged pleasantries about his kids — the same age as me. Him at 35 and me at 13, I could be his daughter.
I flee from the coarse apartment in desperation. Do not listen to promises made by drug dealers. Friends cannot be trusted. I lower my body to the biting cement floor and curl into the fetal position. Time freezes, and I close my eyes until I feel the vibration of the door open. It is Silvia, thank God. She looks down at me with disgust and murmurs, “let’s go, princess.” I look at her and whisper, “Silvia, I think he was trying to….” She disapprovingly shakes her head, “I heard the story. We all saw the way you flirted with him. You were asking for it! John is a good guy, and you’re crazy.” Ashamed, I gaze at the floor — this is not the first time I’ve been called crazy. Maybe she is right. If I could die at this moment, I would. “Come on, the next bus leaves in 30 minutes.” We walk in silence for a decade, and I recount the scene. Was she right? Am I the problem? He did leave when I asked him, and I was nice to him. I guess I led him on. I guess I am the slut in this scenario.
