it was all about a boy - the prequel

As an adult, there are things I know about myself, without understanding how or why they came about. Some things are benign - like why the sight of the prairie horizon never ceases to stop me dead in my tracks and take my breath away or why nectarines are my favourite fruit in the whole wide world. Others are more malignant - little bits of negativity that haunt me without me really understanding why. We're about to venture to the land of TMI - so anyone with a weak stomach should skip over to the column at the right and look at some pretty pictures - Tasha just put a few new ones up, with her spanky new watermark...

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I changed from the Catholic to the public school system in Grade 6, but even after many years in the mainstream I was still very much tied to my desire to be considered a 'good girl.' I wasn't a teen from the 'wrong side of the tracks.' I didn't live in squallor or poverty with abusive parents who rented me out to the stoned pimps who came a-calling. I didn't smoke or do drugs or drink. I bathed every day, wore clean clothes, and tried to do my hair and put on make-up (though I never did master the perfect cascade of the 'waterfall' hairdo.) I was proud of my grades which never slipped below honours or at the very least honourable mention (you have to cut me some slack - it was hard to muster enough enthusiasm for an 'A' in social studies every term) and babysat LOTS, so I always had my own spending money. And I certainly didn't put out.

I liked looking at boys when I was a teenager - they were interesting enough - but I was never boy crazy for anyone other than maybe Michael Hutchence and Simon Lebon. Oh, yes - and George Michael - mustn't forget him. I wasn't even into Madonna back then - I was morally opposed to the little tramp and couldn't understand how people could stand listening to her when their mortal soul was on the line. Damnation was sure to follow, wasn't it?

But a lot of my friends were completely boy-crazy. I'd listen with indignity to their tales of how many bases they'd made it with which boy on how many occasions. While the other girls would gasp and ooh and aah, my heart would curl up into a tight ball as I silently prayed I wasn't going to go to hell on the premise of guilt by association. However, it didn't take me long to figure out that part of 'belonging' meant issuing a gag order on the Queen of Prude, and at the very least pretending I was way more experienced than I was. (Translation: never been kissed - and I had been tricked into touching a penis, so that did not count...)

As unluck would have it, we were seated alphabetically in almost every class, which put me precariously close to one of the most arrogant, popular boys in the school. He wasn't my type at all - in my eyes he resembled nothing more than a neanderthal, especially when he opened his mouth to speak. Invariably, everyone laughed at his crude jokes and participated in his lame antics, while I invariably cringed at his lack of sensitivity, bad grammar, and general disregard for acting like a decent human being. When he and I were given a project to work on together by virtue of the fact our last names were alphabetically aligned, I was ready to cry.

In an effort to be cordial, I remember passing notes with him in class for a couple of days, which no matter what the subject always turned into some smart-ass pseudo-sexual comment. When the time came for us to actually set up a time to work on the assignment together, it was arranged that I would go to his house. I went home, ate, grabbed my books, and reluctantly headed over. I arrived at his house, at which point he proudly announced his parents were not home. Goody. Unsupervised homework - woot woot - did he expect me to congratulate him?

Oh, how naive I was, as he took me by the hand and led me downstairs, looked deep into my eyes, pressed me against the wall, kissed me deeply, and jammed his hand down the front of my pants...

I remember pausing only briefly to weigh the consequences of what I was about to do before fleeing - grabbing books, shoes, papers - pedaling my bike home at a furious pace. I remember getting home, bursting into my room, and crying for hours on end. How had I let that happen? How stupid was I? As a social outcast, I had to wonder - was I more stupid for a) putting myself in that position or b) for not taking advantage of the potential it had to elevate my social status? I hated myself for wanting it to happen even more than for letting it happening, and was terrified of what damage I knew would come the next day after he'd had a chance to tell... to tell what?

The day started off normally - everything seemed OK. I made it through the morning, and lunch break... and all the way to afternoon gym class. *Whew* I thought - maybe I'll be OK. I changed into my gym shorts and runners and went to go sit down with the other girls. As I approached, I flushed. Their beady eyes all peered up at me knowingly, and I knew the cat was out of the bag. What could he have told them? I wondered. I didn't do anything. I didn't touch him, he barely touched me, I ran away - no harm done, we'll just laugh it away. I wondered, Is he was more the type to make fun of me for running away like a baby, or lie and say I had sex with him? Then, very quietly, I hear them whispering at me, following me with their eyes as I walk past them to sit alone, the girls who had been my friend that morning. "Fishy fishy fishy... here, fishy fishy..." Apparently the story was, he turned me down for sex because I smelled like fish. The weekend following this event would mark one of 3 suicide attempts, though in retrospect it was in the spirit of, Oh, he will be sorry when I turn up dead...

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For what it's worth, my suicide attempts were pretty lame. The first two times it involved a bunch of Tylenol - only enough to give me a royal belly ache the first time, but enough to make me really ill the second time - cold sweats, racing heartbeat, vomiting. The third time involved a complicated procedure employing a combination of Tylenol, a pink Bic lady razor, and a crochet hook... laughable, but not, I know... *sigh*

I think it's funny to point out that I had NO IDEA what the 'fish' reference was until right around the time I moved out a few years later. I only remember it because at the time I was overcome with hurt and shame all over again. I wore my chastity like a badge of honour, so to have people thinking what they were obviously thinking was almost more than I could handle. Though my mind can deal with it, my body hasn't forgotten that single invasive act - to this day, I feel squeamish and genuinely uncomfortable when even my husband, whom I love and trust unconditionally, puts his hands anywhere near the front waistband of my pants.

My mother never knew about this. Had she found out, there would have been one more eunich in the world. In fact, I'd bound and gagged that skeleton WAY at the back of my closet. No one ever knew about it - not friends, not family, not anyone - until 3 years ago when my daughter was born, and all the fear and pain and humiliation I lived through were suddenly put on her innocent little minutes-old head. I alternately wept and prayed for her in those first few hours. I felt totally unprepared to raise a daughter, completely undeserving of her, and yet utterly and hopelessly in love with her.

Babzy - this is why I am telling you to rouse your skeletons gently, and only one at a time. I've once again run into a blast from the past - one whose path or present conclusions on the meaning of life aren't so different from my own. Only she is now in daily contact with the aforementioned Popular Guy. However, we are in agreement that there are no accidents, and so I guess the Powers That Be have simply decided it's high time I dealt with being Fish Girl.

I spoke with my husband about this, and other events, that took place in that dreaded school - the name-calling, the sexual harassment, the constant threat of being beat up, being dragged into the back hallway and having your shirt lifted so the boys could see if your boobs were real. I expressed a sentiment something like, "I wonder if any of them feel the least bit guilty or bad for what they did?" My husband replied with something like, "They probably don't even remember..."

I don't know if that's a good thing, or a bad thing. The fact that it was insignificant to them brings comfort only insofar as it means I wasn't necessarily singled out. On some sick level that soothes my paranoid mind. But of course believing throngs of little girls (not unlike my daughter) may have been groped and teased and humiliated without the aggressors (please God, let me have taught my sons better) even once stopping to think what affect it would have on them isn't really very comforting. I suppose the boys had their own insecurities, though - their own need for superficial penis strengtheners like lies about possessing the strength of virility to turn down the loose girls who smelled like dirty old sex.

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I know, I know - after the Tyler post, you might have some romantic notion that this particular boy will be invited to read this post and magically resurface at least long enough to beg my forgiveness. I would not hold my breath for a happy ending this time - unlike Tyler who got to step up to the plate as the boy I had a crush on, this boy would have to step up to the plate and out himself as the boy who molested me and then lied about it at school. No retribution is sought here - though the 'I hope he led a horrible life' sentiment holds. I write this for my own benefit, and maybe to the benefit of someone else out there who was ostracized for something completely beyond their control. So, now, let's all hum a little tune - off you go, little skeleton - you're free - go play!

I suppose the best thing that could happen would be he reads it, and he does a good job of teaching his own sons to respect girls, and teaches his daughters to speak up and point out the boys he should be turning into eunichs instead of waiting 20-some years to talk about it.