I was reading some other folks' blogs today, and found a few stories about close calls, either with a person who had a weapon, or about the first time they almost had sex, or other kinds of close calls... things that may have been frightening, but are now maybe looked back on with a sense of nostalgia and/or excitement. That got me started thinking about my own close calls.
The first time I was ever attacked I was somewhere between the ages of 11 and 13. I was old enough to know what sex was, young enough to be scared of it, and still living in the same home I grew up in- in Orlando, Florida.
When I was born, this neighborhood had no female children in it, and what boys were there were WAY older than me. I became, in essence, the neighborhood mascot to a bunch of early 1970's hippie teenage boys. Seriously, my Mom has pictures of me as a baby being held and watched over by an entire group of shirtless, bell bottom wearing, Sean Cassidy hair-styled, teenaged boys. I think back on those photos now and they are hilarious. I can just imagine what those boys were thinking, "Don't drop her. Hold her right. Hey! Give her back to me." Something you might think if you were holding a puppy or a ceramic doll.
Eventually, there were a few girl children. But they were all much younger than me. And I never got along as well with them, being as much of a tomboy as I was. Most of the playmates I had were boys, both significantly older and younger than me. Which is why I thought nothing of it when Chris and his friend (whose name I have since forgotten) came into my yard acting like they wanted to play. I had played with them many times in the past, with Chris especially, who I considered to be a friend. He lived right down the road from me. We used to climb trees together all the time.
There was something different about Chris on this day. He seemed sweaty (okay,
sweaty-er... it was Florida after all) and nervous, and his friend was too quiet and looking at Chris like he was waiting for him to make the first move. For some reason, I was sitting inside my inflatable swimming pool, which had no water in it. I think I was picking pieces of grass and dirt out of it so we could fill it up the next day and go wading around in it. I was already my full height of 5'6" at this time, and I couldn't lay down all the way in the pool, so it was pretty small. I probably weighed around 100 pounds. Chris' friend said that he thought he could pick me up "easy". This was a spoken like a bet, or a dare. I was loathe to turn down a bet, or a dare... I never wanted to be seen as anything "less" than one of the boys- meaning (to them at least) being seen as a girl. So I gave him my arms. He grabbed me by the wrists and started to haul me out of the pool. Chris then grabbed my feet and they were carrying me like a jump rope up and out of the pool.
I saw their faces change... to something harder, much more grown up than they should have been. I remember something rolled over in my stomach. I remember I had this feeling like I had to pee. I recognize it as being fear, now. My mind hadn't wrapped itself around the concept then, though. I knew that they were carrying me out of my yard, though. I knew if they did that I would be in big trouble. I wasn't allowed to go out my gate without telling my Mom where I was going. Then Chris' friend said, "What do you want to do
to her?" Not "with" her. The answer to that question would have been, "Drop her in the sandspur patch," or something like that. Something that would have hurt, would have made me mad, would have made them laugh, and would have been forgotten the next day when we were all climbing trees again. But "to" her. That would be a different answer. It was going to be permanent, and not something that anyone would be laughing about later. I heard words I didn't really know yet, like "dildo", "fuck her", "screw her"... at least, not in any context that had ever applied to me. I just knew it wasn't good.
I was within 25 or 30 feet of the back yard gate. I started screaming my head off. "MOM!! MOM!!! PUT ME DOWN!!! MOM!!! HELP ME!!!" I had my head twisted back, looking upside down at the kitchen window, praying I would see her face between the familiar green and white ruffled curtains with the browning lace that my grandmother had sewed for the house when my folks first moved in. And, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, there she was. I started to cry. I didn't know how much trouble I was going to be in, and I still wasn't sure if she could get to me in time. The boys started moving faster, Chris' friend's shins were hitting me in the head as they tried to run with me. "MOM!! HELP ME!!" I still don't know what she yelled at them out that kitchen window. I hope she threatened to shoot them. Whatever it was, they dropped me. Of course, it was ass first onto a bunch of sandspurs. I think people call them "stickers" or "burrs" here. Anyway, it was an ass full of sharp little thorns for me, but at least I was safe.
She came outside, and I was already up and running towards her. I told her what they said, I was shaken and crying then. I was afraid I would get in trouble for trusting them. For inviting them into my yard, even though our yard was pretty much a "come over anytime" kind of place. She took me inside and helped take the sandspurs out. She had me take a shower to wash what little blood there was up, and she put hydrogen peroxide on the little holes. She made me dinner, and I went to bed before my sister (who was younger than me) that night.
Now that I am older, I imagine the reason I had to take a shower was that my Mom was calling my Dad (and/or my grandfather or uncles). I imagine that the reason I went to bed early was not just that I was wiped out from what had happened, but because adult conversations were being had, and possibly men were leaving the house to go find the two boys fathers and have a chat with them.
I saw both boys in the neighborhood in the months and years to come. But they never came near me again. In fact, anyplace I would go, they would leave shortly after I arrived. Which was a fun game to play, until I mentioned it to my Mom and she told me not to follow them around just to make them leave places.
It was never talked about again. And we moved from the neighborhood when I was 13. And I almost never think of that story, except for when I am volunteering at the Restraining Order Advocacy Program. This program is designed to help people (primarily women) understand the process involved in, and fill out the paperwork for, getting a restraining order. There is one section where I have to ask people if they want the "respondent" to be able to come within 100 yards of them. They almost always say "no". Then the inevitable question, "What if he is at the grocery store and I walk in? Do I get thrown in jail for violating the restraining order?" I always think of Chris and his friend, and then I say, "No, he (or she) would have to leave within a few minutes of your arrival. You can't violate your own restraining order."
I never needed a restraining order. I just had my Mom, and maybe my Dad or my grandpa or my uncles. Luckily, back then, that was enough.
Maybe someday I will tell you guys about the other close calls. In the meantime, feel free to tell me about yours. I'm all ears.
Love to all,
Sherry