I want to thank those of you that read my poem Violation.
I thought I should give you the background so easily suppressed within my mind, yet so close to the surface as to color my world for many years. The dictionary defines rape as "sexual intercourse with a woman by a man without her consent and chiefly by force or deception." Those words are so bland for the act perpetrated upon a child of thirteen. No words can really contain the horror that fills your being, your soul, and affects you for the rest of your life.
For many years, I tried to suppress the horrible memories, but they surfaced almost daily for forty years. I so bought into his supposition that "it was my fault" that over the years, I tried to kill myself four times. The latest episode happened a year ago and I am in therapy to rid myself of my demons, to rid myself of his voice in my mind. Those of you who have not experienced rape I rejoice for you, but wonder if you can really understand what I am saying. Those of you who suffered this heinous act, my heart bleeds because I know each and every one of you, I am every one of you.
The summer of my thirteenth year I spent on a farm in North Dakota with cousins because my father died November 8th. My mother tried to give my brother and I a carefree summer, in my mind; I was deserted and left amongst strangers. My loneliness knew no bounds, I was miserable. My brother thrived on the farm; I hated the isolation, the loneliness, the fright, and my mother. One of my cousins was a sixteen-year-old boy. For purposes of family harmony, I will call him Daniel.
Daniel is not tall, although he is taller than I am and very muscular from farm work. He teased me incessantly, tickling me, chasing me, and getting me to ride my first horse. I remember a time when we were milking the cows, separating the cream, he started chasing me, and he threw me down in the hay and kissed me. It was the first kiss ever and I was startled. I remember blushing and running out of the barn. Do not ask me why I did not tell his mother, today my mind screams this at me constantly. Things cooled down between us for a few weeks and that kiss fled my conscience memory. One night his parent left for some social function and left my brother and I with Daniel. I remember a quiet evening of talk and board games, dishes of homemade ice cream and pillow fights. Those are the last happy memories I can remember.
We went to bed around nine o'clock, my bed was in the foyer and my nine year old brother shared Daniel's room. I remember drifting off to sleep cuddling my pillow and counting down the days until my mother came to pick us up again. My next memory included the feeling of someone staring at me, then someone's weight pushed down my mattress. I remember waking up and a hand clamping over my mouth as his body covered mine. I tried to scream and struggle out from under him but he was so strong and I was so scared. I remember something slipping over one hand then the other; he must have planned this for a while because he came prepared. He quickly stuffed something into my mouth, I do not know what, I do not remember my mind will not let some things through. He hooked his rope or what ever over the brass bedstead and immobilized my hands. I tried to kick him but he tied up my legs also. He was nude and he was hard.
He put his mouth close to my ear and whispered in a voice I can not really describe,
"Not to scream because no one could hear me except my little brother and I did not want him to hear did I?"
He loosened my hands and clutched my wrists in his; he told me I wanted it, that I always wanted it. In 1958, I did not know what "it" was. I remember the pressure of his body pressing on mine; I remember his breath, and my wrists becoming numb. His next words were chilling,
"I'll know you want it if your fingers move."
I tried to keep my fingers still but they soon jerked involuntarily and he plunged deep within me. I can remember the tearing sound and the pain. I can still feel his penis throbbing and hurting. I can still see that little girl sobbing and writhing trying to escape from her nightmare. I can still hear his ragged breath and his grunts. I still remember the death of my childhood. It seemed to take forever and the pain was excruciating. I do not remember any orgasm or any feelings except terror and loathing. I remember he came and how he collapsed and I remember the warm trickle between my legs. He took off my bindings and took the cloth out of my mouth; the tears on my face were cold, so very cold as cold as my body. The last thing he said to me was, "If you tell anyone I'll kill you! Besides no one will believe you or care because you are not really a part of the family because you are adopted and Indian. Everyone knows Indians are just good for one thing."
He then climbed off me and went back to his bed, I got up and went to the bathroom and washed myself and washed myself. I could not wash off the memories nor could I get his words out of my head. I wanted my mother! I wanted my father! I wanted to die! I hated myself because I did not stop him, what had I done to deserve this? Was he right? Was I not part of the family because I was Indian?
I know the questions going through all of your minds. Did I tell his mother? What did my mother say? Did my brother see what happened? The answers to these questions haunted my life for forty years and I guess this essay is a catharsis for them. No I did not tell his mother because when they got home, they received a telephone call from the State Troopers in Montana, my mother was in a car accident and not expected to live. She was driving back to North Dakota to pick us up and a drunk hit her car, flipping it over three times in a field. She was ejected from the front seat and the car rolled over her three times. She had a fractured back, a fractured skull, and severe concussion. Multiple injuries kept her in the hospital for more than a month.
It was the longest month of my life, I think it was when I started withdrawing into a shell and building a brick wall around my emotions. I wanted to tell her but she was so sick. She could barely walk and her pain was excruciating and I could not give this to her! So I kept the memory deep within me and a year later is when I tried to kill myself. I never again felt I was a part of a family, I still don't, in an essay I wrote about myself, Conversations With Myself, I relate a feeling of being on the outside of a warm, loving home looking in on the laughter and warmth and afraid to knock on the door. That sentence is the summation of my life.
I am still struggling to find myself, to get my life back on the course the Creator has planned for me. I still struggle daily with my demons and fight the urge to kill myself, but I also find myself becoming slowly stronger. I wrote this not for sympathy or to show myself as a saint or sinner; I wrote this to show those of you that experienced the same that I know how you feel, how the demons can take over your life. I know the feeling of inadequacy, of feeling like you don't belong. But there is hope, there is light, I can see it when I close my eyes and if I can find it, so can you. Reach out to someone, if no one else, reach out to me, I can help.
May the Creator walk your path and hold you tall.
© 2001, J. Britton, All Rights Reserved.
Jacqueline Anastasia is Salish Indian born in Montana, adopted at four months of age, and raised in the Seattle, Washington area. She graduated from Lake Washington High School in Kirkland, Washington in 1964 and now attends California State University-Sacramento. She is a Junior working on two degrees, one in history and the other in ethnic studies. Her plans for the future include obtaining a Master's degree in history so she can teach Native American history on the community college level. She is the current president of the Inter-Tribal Student Alliance (IT'S A CLUB!) and the grandmother of six grandsons.
She has written poetry for only five years, and is currently working on a series of children's stories about a little hermit crab named Herman. She is also in the process of working on three novels and yet maintains a 3.45 GPA. She is interested in Native American issues and has worked on educational committee's dealing with the educational needs of Native American youth. She wants to stay active working for Native people and on adoption issues within the Native American family structure.
Her published works can be found at SynergEbook and The Native American Haven
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