That’s the recurring thought that has come and gone for the past thirty-some years as I’ve played back my gang-rape in a Berkeley fraternity house in the Fall of 1981. It happened as I was searching the three-story house for a restroom. I’ve often marveled at the fact that I didn’t live out a girl’s ‘greatest fear’, by being jumped and raped at knifepoint behind a dumpster, by the mythological toothless escaped convict. No. My dozen perpetrators, who took turns with me one by one, were the affluent, well-educated, un-challenged white boys of their time. Think orthodonture and polo shirts with popped collars. Think proud parents back at home, sharing how Dave or Matt are double-majoring and may already have their summer internship lined up. I’ve been in conference and board rooms over the years and found myself at the table with Dave’s and Matt’s, nice guys, alpha-men who made post-collegiate lives for themselves, found nice wives and made nice kids. But do they have a secret?
Is their secret that they helped pull that stinky navy blue pillowcase over my head and push me backward into the wall so hard that the knot at the back of my skull took two weeks to subside? And whose idea was it? Who had the temerity to take the clothes off a modest girl, clearly wobbling, clearly in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had no brothers at home, only sisters. No guy had ever seen me naked. Did any of them think of me with compassion? Or consider their own sister? Did any of them consider the press conference 30 years into their future in the midst of a MeToo revolution sweeping the country? One that would bring down their corporate ascension, their nomination, their marriages? One that would alter the look in their kids’ eyes when they read in feeds and threads the accusations against dad?
Perhaps one of them did. Because as the night wore on, and my head continued banging into the wall, I remember one voice, one tired voice drifting across the room, the one voice upon which my ears could focus hope. “Come on guys, stop. Leave her alone now. That’s enough, man.”
As the blue light of dawn leaned on the windows, I awoke to the far-away sounds of a payphone ringing and ringing and ringing. The ringing went on endlessly, until a deep voice shouted over the silence, “has anyone seen a girl with brown hair?” The voice was furious to be awakened, to be the one guy who had to rise and attend to the interruption. As my weary synapses began to fire, the voice in my head shook me, ‘that’s you! get up, get out, someone is looking for you, and was looking for you all night long and wouldn’t put that phone down until it was answered.’ I slipped the rancid pillowcase from my head to see through the gloom and counted six bunk beds, each with an undressed sleeping man-child. I looked down to see my dear naked body, sticky, swollen, broken. I stood slowly, quietly to dress. From between my legs rushed volumes of warm liquid, the likes and smell of which I’d never known. I shoved a sock in my underpants and as I pulled on my clothes my eyes met those of the one awake boy in the room. He watched me carefully, and to this day I’ve never forgotten the way his lips tightened, his brow furrowed, and his lips whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
What are all my rapists doing today? What companies do they run? Which lucky start-ups are getting their investment capital? What sales divisions, think tanks and soccer teams do they manage to accolades of how great he is! Did you hear his leadership talk? Did you see that piece about him? That post he made? Or watch him rise and rise and rise without complaint? I know I did.
