Most Likely To Survive

Me at 15, less than one month since my rape.

The Kavanaugh hearings were rough, but the unprovoked and vicious attacks on high school yearbooks stung. We were student journalists, dammit, with a highly illustrated annual publication, and our book didn’t include things like senior quotes or membership in silly societies. The goofiest thing we did was write nonsensical captions and index things like Cheez Doodles (that’s Doodles, Cheez, if you want to look it up).

It did get me thinking, though: I went to school with my rapist. He was in all the same activities and classes I was, which meant having the same friends and spending a lot of time outside of school hours with him around. And I had an entire school year with him after the year of our abusive relationship. In short, he was unavoidable. So when my yearbook got passed around, he took the opportunity to write in it. His comments were inappropriately personal, and people commented on them, a fresh humiliation that exposed more than I wanted anyone to know then.

But now, as an artifact, they answered questions Dr. Ford’s testimony stirred inside me. Here’s what I learned.

1. He knew he’d done something wrong. I haven’t been sure if he even knew he’d raped me. I could imagine that a person like him who’s so self-centered might not have actually realized the extent of his actions. But he wrote, “There are, at times, certain incidents I wish I could take back.” And it’s clear that he’s not talking about the emotional abuse he heaped on me because…
2. It was still all about him. More sentences start with “I” than anything else, by a long shot. The whole thing starts with “I finally have the chance to say what I want to say.” As if I hadn’t listened to him: his worries, his emotional outbursts, his wild theories. He didn’t give me a choice. Even after hours on the phone, if I said I needed to go, he’d threaten, “I’ll probably kill myself if I don’t have you to talk to.” On one line, he even mistakenly writes “I” instead of “you”: “I meant more to me than just some ordinary friend.” And I absolutely believe him.
3. He thought he could manipulate me. He flatters, he cajoles, but the most telling sign that he’s still trying to pull my strings is the way he ended his page-long essay: “…there’s so much I wish I could tell you. Maybe…maybe, I love you.” He thinks he’s springing the ultimate snare, the one that will keep me under his control.
4. He won’t get another chance. He doesn’t know my friends had circled the wagons, unaware of the extent of his abuse, and he’d never get close to me again. The following year’s yearbook has another inscription, one he only had the chance to write because he tracked down my book when it was in someone’s else’s hands. It reveals a confusion rooted in his incapacity to understand loyalty and empathy. “What happened to us was weird, but I hope we both learned something.” We did. He learned that girls like me could be shamed and shocked into silence. And years later, I learned that I deserved better than someone who would use my efforts at helpfulness and generosity didn’t have to cost me my safety or my humanity.

See? Yearbooks are full of timeless wisdom. Sometimes it just takes a few decades to understand it.