[et_pb_section bb_built=”1″][et_pb_row][et_pb_column type=”4_4″][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.17.2″]
I thought I wasn’t raped. I was wrong.
By Katie Serrano
Nov. 26, 2018
[/et_pb_text][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.17.2″]
*Warning: explicit sexual content
The ding of the requested stop echoed through the narrow aisle and through my ears. Termini to Piazza Venezia. Not more than a few blocks. As quickly as it started, it ended, and the man got up, never looking at my face, and exited the bus.
Still paralyzed, I let out a deep breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. A local woman pushed past me, mumbling a curt “scusi.”
I had been in Rome for four weeks, studying abroad in the summer of 2017, and had finally built up the courage to explore the city alone. I promised myself that I would be back early enough and that I would be fine thanks to the dozens of guards posted on every street corner, protecting Vatican City.
[/et_pb_text][et_pb_image _builder_version=”3.17.2″ src=”https://wordpressua.uark.edu/hillmag/files/2018/11/metoo1-2f2md2e.png” /][et_pb_image _builder_version=”3.17.2″ /][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.17.2″]
Art by Ally Gibbons
[/et_pb_text][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.17.2″]
And in hindsight, I was fine. I made it back to my apartment that night, and I didn’t have a scratch or external scar on my body to prove otherwise.
I was riding bus 64, “sessanta quattro.” The night was still young for the Romans, which meant that the busses were packed and I was wedged between locals and tourists, hanging on to the metal handlebar directly to my right.
It was sudden, quick and shocking. The man was sitting in the seat to my right, his upper body parallel with my standing torso. His hand went up one of the loose fabric pant legs of my Under Armour athletic shorts and entered my body.
Paralyzed, stuck in place as if the metal handlebar and I had become one, I let it happen.
People have asked me why I didn’t force myself away, start yelling or defend myself. I try to tell them that until they have been taken advantage of in such a way, until they have been paralyzed with fear to the point that their bones go stiff and the air stops flowing through their lungs and they feel the calloused, foreign hand of an invader, they will not be able to understand why I let it happen, or more importantly, why I couldn’t stop it.
…
In the midst of heinous revelations about men assaulting women and covering it up for years, it’s hard to figure out where victims fit on what I’ve come to terms with calling the #MeToo Spectrum. Just because you weren’t raped, domestically abused or locked in an office with Matt Lauer, doesn’t mean your voice doesn’t deserve to be heard. But does your voice, telling the tale of a lesser crime or violation, take away from the more “extreme” cases? Does it quiet another voice that has silently been suffering for years?
After the Harvey Weinstein allegations, then the Al Franken allegations, then the Louis C.K. allegations, then the Roy Moore allegations, then the Kevin Spacey allegations and everything in between, the chorus of “me too” proves that the problem extends far wider than anyone could have imagined. Harassment and assault have become such a norm in society that women aren’t even aware that yes, it has happened to them too.
The Twitter hashtags and polls exist online, celebrities pose on the cover of magazines telling their stories, but it doesn’t always make it any easier for us “normal folk” to speak up.
[/et_pb_text][et_pb_image _builder_version=”3.17.2″ src=”https://wordpressua.uark.edu/hillmag/files/2018/11/metoo2-1wdmxoq.png” /][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.17.2″]
Photo illustration by Lexi DeLeon
[/et_pb_text][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.17.2″]
A few seconds. That’s all it took to become just another statistic. Just as society treats women as objects, we treat masses of women as just another number. I became part of the 15 percent of the population who have been assaulted in an open, public place, according to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network. I am now part of the 54 percent of American women between the ages of 18 and 34 who have experienced sexual assault. I joined the 1 in 3 women worldwide who have experienced some sort of sexual violence. A few seconds was all it took.
I knew what happened to me was more than just a flippant catcall, but it took me a while to acknowledge that it was a form of rape, by it’s legal definition. Yes, a man had penetrated my body without my consent, but I never thought about associating what happened with that word. And so, I didn’t tell anyone for months because, to me, it wouldn’t have made a difference. I didn’t feel like I was at liberty to tell my story because I was, in every sense of the word, “fine.”
When I did decide to talk about it, I was met with a variety of answers.
“I want to kill him, whoever he is.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“That doesn’t really sound like a big deal. Just be thankful you got to go study abroad.”
“I had a similar experience when…”
“My roommate studied abroad last summer and the same thing happened to her on the same public transit!”
“Oh, me too.”
…
I decided to tell my 23-year-old sister, who is out in the “real world.” She works on Sixth Street in Austin, Texas, the notorious bar-lined party street in the city, where every time she walks from the parking garage into her building she gets sexist remarks thrown her way from men. Her response to my recollection was quick, almost curt.
“Oh, me too,” she said casually, sharing her experience with her own nameless and faceless man. It was almost as if it were a contest or the next big trend that everyone wants to say they knew about before it was cool.
She didn’t mean to minimize my story. In fact, she helped me realize the importance of it. And the importance of hers. And of all the other girls who use a casual tone when talking about these experiences. These stories are so common, but they shouldn’t be.
I waited a few more months to tell my boyfriend at the time because I was afraid it would make him feel worse than it ever made me feel. I didn’t want to see the look in his eye.
I was sitting at the head of my bed, and he was sitting at the foot. I almost felt silly, like I was making way too big of a deal out of this. Again, like it didn’t even matter, and why bother? Yet when the words finally reached my throat, my heart was right there with them.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” were the first words out of my mouth, before I even went into detail about what had happened. Why had I adhered so quickly to putting more blame on myself?
And I was right to think that it would just make me feel worse. Not that he looked at me any differently, not that he felt ashamed of me or disgusted with me, but the pain in his eyes made me feel like I should have done something. I shouldn’t have let this happen to myself. Not only did it hurt me, but it hurt him.
And then another thought popped into my head.
Why do I care what he thinks? He didn’t go through it. Why does he get to feel bad about it? Why do I feel bad about him feeling bad?
And finally the root of this problem started solidifying in my head: Women are so quick to blame themselves, and I was worried about how my problems would affect others or how it would make them feel, completely disregarding my own experience and healing.
After the awkward few minutes of silence, him mumbling some obscenities about the stranger on the bus, and me assuring him I was okay, everything went back to normal. I went back to being a number in a statistic.
It took me more than a year to tell my parents. I’m not sure why I waited so long. Maybe it’s because I knew the first thing they would do is lecture me on going out alone in a foreign country. Or that I was worried that they would put the blame on me. And maybe I should have been smarter, maybe I was naive to think that those guards, who stand guard day and night protecting The Lord’s temple, would be able to protect mine.
…
We live in a world that tells young girls to take a friend with them to the bathroom, to never drink out of a cup that they didn’t see poured, and to walk to their car with their head down with their keys sticking between their fingers, “just in case.” Sure, these things help women, and it’s important to be smart and alert. But are we lecturing boys at a young age to not rape or assault someone? It doesn’t seem that hard to shift the focus to respecting women, instead of trying to enforce a set of guidelines for girls and women to follow to make it safely through the night. Boys are not ridiculed by their father if they forget their pepper spray.
We live in a world where I am still asked if I knew that the bus route I took was notorious for sexual assault – if I had looked into it, read any warnings, looked up any statistics – being told that I should have known, that I should have expected it, even accepted that it was going to happen.
[/et_pb_text][et_pb_image _builder_version=”3.17.2″ src=”https://wordpressua.uark.edu/hillmag/files/2018/11/metoo3-1zvr190.png” /][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.17.2″]
Katie wore this outfit, a pair of Under Armour shorts and a tank top, that night on the bus when she was assaulted. Photo illustration by Lexi DeLeon
[/et_pb_text][et_pb_text _builder_version=”3.17.2″]
We live in a world where the Brock Turners are locked away for a shorter period of time than it takes for a victim’s bruises to heal, and the Aziz Ansaris aren’t even aware that they are violating a woman.
I have learned not to put the blame on myself. I was violated, and that is enough to speak up. The constant Why did I let it happen? is slowly becoming Why does this happen?
I have realized that change begins with a whisper, and that can turn into a voice, and that can turn into a choir, and that can turn into a roar that can’t be dulled. Even a whisper that tells the story of assault, no matter how insignificant it may seem to the outside world, is a million times louder than the catcalls men throw at women every day.
I made it back to my apartment that night in Rome. I went to sleep. I got up the next day. I made it back to the U.S. before the summer ended. But that sudden, quick, shocking violation has always left me wondering, how many “me too”s are we missing? Who didn’t make it back? And how much louder could we be? We may never know how many voices have been lost. But what we do know is this: We are louder together. We do not drown each other out.
[/et_pb_text][/et_pb_column][/et_pb_row][/et_pb_section]