Member-only story
How Beauty, Assault, and Racism Reverberate Through My Life
The first time a man touched me I was in sixth grade
The first time a man put his hand on me, in that way, I was in sixth grade. I was sitting on the edge of a desk; just Mr. C and me were in the classroom, before school. I pondered the Do Now question written in chalk across the board.
“If a tree were to fall in the forest and there were no animals, insects or humans around, would it produce a sound?”
I turned the question over in my mind.
Deeply immersed in the problem, I did not realize Mr. C was now sitting next to me, on the next desk over.
Why was he so close? It struck me that I had never been so close to a teacher before.
He was saying something, I can’t remember what, when he slid his hand from my knee to my thigh and told me I was pretty.
Next thing I know I am in the bathroom by the main office, breathing heavily, muscles burning and heart beating forcefully in my chest. I can now only vaguely remember running out of the classroom after it happened.
I didn’t think much of it at that time. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know what sexual assault was, and there was no one to tell. Only my instinct to run at that moment…
