I am a third generation of ****** assault victims.
A third generation.
My mother before me had experienced assault time and time again.
I don’t believe I even know all the stories.
She experienced men who thought that because they can push your head where they wanted meant that she would not, could not, fight back.
Man, were they surprised when they felt the sharp ridges of her teeth sink into their shaft.
My mother is a fighter.
Her mother before her experienced a man who hid behind a medical license
He said if she wanted to be cleared to go back to work, she simply had to pull down her pants.
She was there to check on her shoulder.
She told him that there was no way and he could tell the company whatever he wanted but she was not going to be taking off her pants.
They later arrested this man for molesting dozens of patients.
A ******* under the guise of a medic.
My grandmother was a fighter.
And don’t you dare think that for some reason growing older gets you a pass.
At 72, she moved into a new apartment building with people of all ages and backgrounds.
One day, walking home, a man decided to press his naked body against a window while she walked by.
He gyrated his hips and touched himself as she ran by.
Sometimes I worry if he’ll step out from behind the glass.
Me though? I do not know if I am a fighter.
Maybe its because my assault took a different form, one they rarely talk about.
When my older cousin asked me to play a game I was thrilled to be a part of her world.
It took me years to realize that where she kissed and what she touched and the game we played was actually how women have ***.
Years later I had a boyfriend, and for some reason when my lips said no, he heard ask again.
Ask again and again until she feels worn down. Ask again until she gives in.
Because that’s your boyfriend, aren’t you supposed to fulfill his needs?
How dare you be *****, or sick or not in the mood.
Men have needs, and can’t you see when they commit to just you, that’s your role.
When I was 21 I naively thought that I could make friends with a boy.
I told him before we ever met that I was not looking for love, nor ***, just a friend.
However, he reached for the check. However, he reached for my neck.
He kissed me, big whoop, I can live with that.
But then he put my hand on his lap to feel his hardness and asked me to **** it.
I lied and said not tonight, knowing I would never see him again, and left.
Maybe I am a fighter.
Maybe every woman I know is a fighter.
When my mother, my friends, my sisters, my roommates, my cousins, and the stranger on the street has a story like mine, don’t you think that it’s time?
Time to teach men that women, we are fighters.
I am a third generation of fighter.
