I Remember like it was Yesterday
NOTE: This is not a political statement. I am not at all making a comment on what might seem like a last minute accusation about a Supreme Court nominee. I’m making a statement about one woman’s memory of traumatic events. I am going to write this from my memory, and THEN I’m going to go check my diary and my yearbook to see how close my memory is.
I believe it was 1971 and I believe I was in eighth grade. I base this on my memory that many of the “boys” in this story went on to the local parochial school in ninth grade. I was glad to see them go. So we are talking about 47 years ago. I would have been 13 years old.
I’m CERTAIN it happened on the northeast corner of Third Street and Highland. I’m certain that I can name at least two of the boys who participated. (J. and C.) I’m not sure about the others. I’m pretty sure that one of the boys who hung out with this gang (R.) was not present at this time. He was my “crush” and had he been there, I think I would have remembered.
I’m CERTAIN about what happened. I was walking home alone after drama rehearsal at school. It was still light out and probably around 4:30 pm. Suddenly, there was that gang of boys. I’d known most of them since elementary school. They weren’t an official “gang” but they hung out together.
They moved in on me and backed me into the front yard of the house on that northeast corner. It was a busy street. Cars were driving by. No one walked by. There was a plant in that yard that was kind of like a yucca. Low to the ground with long leaves sprouting up like a fountain. The yard was small and higher up than the sidewalk.
They circle me against that plant and began spitting on my face. They were a pretty good aim. I’d seen them spit before on the lunch area at school. They liked to hock a loogie at a beam over the benches and watch the phlegmy spit hang and drop. Such was their entertainment.
I didn’t cry. I wasn’t scared. They weren’t going to hurt me right out there in the open. I didn’t yell because I was so utterly humiliated. I just stood there, wiping it off my face and telling them they were stupid in some eighth grade language. When they ran out of spit, they got bored and left. And I walked home, which was three blocks away.
What I don’t remember was what I did when I got home, but I probably washed my face. I am certain that I did not tell anyone. Not my mother. Not a soul.
Many months later, a very pretty and cool girl that I knew was with a group of girls, including me, and telling about how these boys liked to spit on girls they liked. I know this is really sick, but that made me feel better, because when it happened I thought they spit on me because they thought I was worth spitting on. Even then, I never told anyone. I didn’t tell the girls in that group. I didn’t tell anyone. I was still humiliated and felt like a gross, spit-on, idiot.
So, now I’m going to look in my diary and see if there’s an entry. I’m also going to look in the yearbook at their names. I’d like to know how close I am to the memory.
Sometime later: Nothing in my diary that year at all. I just skipped that year, which is weird, but a lot happened in our family that year. I did confirm that the boys in question went to the local parochial school in ninth grade, so I’m safe in saying it was eighth grade. And I did get the two names right. So, that’s how my memory works. Might be how other memories work. Just saying.