Is it me?

Is it me?

Why did you sit at the back of the class that day, so far from the hawk eyes of the teacher? Your own eyes glued to the front like steel magnets, you let him slide his hand into your panties and touch your bare bum. He made you feel dirty, like your heart would always be imprinted with a speck of black. You didn’t tell anyone. It would be silly to sexualise an eight-year old’s actions.

Was it you?

Then, at age sixteen, he raped your friend. You were shaken. How could any human have the capacity to commit such an act of violation? You also felt guilty. You had been flirting with him at that party; you got lucky.

Was it you?

In the summer of your seventeen years, you worked in a small, sweaty kitchen. He called you his ‘kitchen daughter’. He was a kind man and he valued your friendship. You exchanged jokes like secretive winks; no one else was allowed in. Sometimes, he tickled you. But your laughs were hollow, and his tickles felt like jabs in the ribs.

Was it you?

The next summer, you worked in one of the most popular restaurants in the city. He welcomed you into his suffocating embrace of friendship. He would surprise you by squeezing your waist or tickling your stomach from behind. He was amused by your squeals. You laughed as well. Laughing was so much easier than admitting your unease. It was only when his hands started creeping up towards your boobs, or down your shirt, that you started to feel confused. He was your friend. Tickling was meant to be innocent. Were you perverse for interpreting it in a sexual way?

Was it you?

The only associations you had with tickling were with the people you loved. As a kid, you would spend hours pretend fighting with Daddy and end up in fits of giggles as he nuzzled into your stomach and attacked the soles of your feet. You also remembered tickling your little sister when she was only a few months old and seeing her laugh for the first time. Then, later, the moments of intimacy you had shared with your boyfriend in tickle fights. Tickling was special; it was an exchange of affection and trust. Why were your precious experiences suddenly colliding with such a vulgar world?

Was it you?

You felt deeply relieved when you reported him at work, like an anchor of doubt being lifted off your shoulders. You had mustered the courage to make it stop. You had believed in yourself. This didn’t last long: you started to feel bad when you saw him at work. You had accused him of something very serious, yet all he had done was tickle you. You remembered the times you had felt violated at ages eight, sixteen, seventeen and eighteen. These had never been explicit cases of sexual violence. How valid were your stories? And so, you still asked yourself:

Was it me?

When did actions begin to infringe on my bodily rights? Was it the day I started to feel sexualised in primary school? Or the time my bum got squeezed at a party? Or, was it when I started to get repeatedly tickled at work, to the point where I would feel emotionally exhausted after shifts? I feel angry when I think of how he appropriated my relationship with tickling. It was not for sharing. But, most of all, I feel lost when I try to define my experiences or categorise them. They are a part of me, yet they are so very foreign. For now, what I do know is that I want to live in a world where my mother, my sisters, and my future daughters can experience their lives without the constant fear of assault.

Any actions that encroach on our safety must be discussed. So, when I ask myself,

“Is it me?”,

I have to remind myself to value my own experiences and share them with the world. Because, they will not stop until we raise our voices, and, hell! - let our shame, pain, and rage wash over the world like a thousand waves.