I Reported my Rape. Don’t Worry Guys, Nothing Happened.
In the early hours of July 5th 1985, I was raped by a stranger. I was 17, dressed in a polo shirt and Bermuda shorts. Hours after the fireworks ended, I snuck out to meet a boy I liked. I waited at our appointed spot on a suburban street corner by a park. A skinny, skanky white guy got there first. He dragged me through poison ivy by my neck; told me he was coked up; said he had a knife (which I never saw). I used my considerable sarcasm, wit and humor to humanize myself. I told him I was 14. Eventually, he let me go. It was pretty unpleasant, to say the least.
My mom, having discovered that I was not in my bed, found me walking home. Truthfully, I only told her what happened in order to spare myself the inevitable punishment for having been out. I demanded we report it to the police immediately. She hesitated. She did not want to make a fuss. She did not believe me. Perhaps she did not want to believe that she had failed to protect me. Perhaps she was tired of my teenage wildness. Perhaps she just needed not to have a raped daughter. Perhaps.
We went to the police, who did virtually nothing. They showed me a binder full of photos of skanky white guys and asked if I recognized any. They drove me around the area to see if he was still there 3 hours later. They suggested I go to Planned Parenthood for a check up. A male…
