TRUE STORY

Trickle Down Silence

A belated conversation with 1987 me

Photo by on

Content Warning: Sexual Assault

You’ll remember his breath on your face. It smelled of Jolly Rancher candy — watermelon, if memory serves, though you’ll wonder if your mind is adding a spoonful of sugar to soften the vile.

Specificity will blur.

You will remember the year — 1987 — your first year of college. You’ll lose track of the month, but recall remnants of snow — plowed, piled, and dirty — March? You’ll remember you wore those little brown boots from Payless, the ones you hoped no one knew were from Payless. You were outfitted in an of-the-times ensemble — oversized sweater atop black stirrup pants. This remains mind-ingrained. This you will recall most of all as you forever play judge and jury. What were you wearing?

You’ll speak little of that day while always emphasizing that it was the middle of the day. You’ll volley between confessionals, “I got in the car willingly” to snarky rite of passage, “I went to college in the 80s. Of course, I had nonconsensual sex.”

You’ll idiomize it, like your grandmother who walked uphill, in both directions, for miles in the snow. Make light of it. Excuse it away.