[This is a rare time when I feel I hit "publish" too quickly. Besides a bit of formatting glitchiness, something I usually check before posting, the thoughts feel incomplete. Specifically, I breezed over the most important part: I went off script, I was disloyal to the story, and even as the words left my mouth and someone gave me an out, I'd already snapped back in line. That... bears exploring. But for now, this is what happened.]
I was in middle school, most likely, though the precise year eludes. The occasion was Thanksgiving, lunch, better to make the day last. I remember the sprawling house in the marshes, one of few early havens. Luxe pale earth tones, a length of driftwood here, a basket of shells there, cozy nooks, as many windows to the outside as a house could hold. Tables filled with beautifully prepared and dressed foods, both traditional holiday items and those offered simply because they were delicious. The assortment of relatives and friends, the eclectic gatherings that took place here.
I remember a stiff concoction of black velvet and tweedy grey, pants and a sweater perhaps, digging into my belly, scratchy, reminding me of my unacceptable skin. Watching the table of complicated desserts ribboned with baroque curls of icing, a bit of loving competition between talented bakers, hoping to make a move when my critics’ backs were turned, from a small chair near the home’s main entrance.
The grandfather was… not holding court, exactly, but creating a focal point, as he always did. The particulars blend, as such gatherings do after the passage of decades. But I remember my vantage point near the front door, watching, wistful.
A man separated from the crowd, this family friend with tight gold-brown waves and kind eyes of a similar color. My crush on him was benign, consistent when he was present, but not the stuff of adolescent journal entries or wandering fantasies. I would learn later that this was a near universal response to him; I find that comforting, entertaining even.
He took a seat next to me, a small plate balanced on his thigh.
I don’t remember most of the conversation; lengthy exchanges with adults were commonplace then, especially in this house. But I do know that when he raised the subject of the grandfather, I had a flash of flags and hurricanes, hoisting steadily, hand over hand, waiting to see how the wind would catch. His words were neutral, bland, his tone equally so.
He’s quite a piece of work, it may have been. Something like that. A test. Something open-ended; an invitation to say more.
I might have agreed the grandfather was funny; that seems like a thing I would have done. I agreed to something, I do know. I don’t think I considered what I said next.
“…but I hate it when he grabs my butt.”
I don’t know if there was a pause.
The friend turned to face me, eyes steady, focused, intent. Calm. Careful.
“You know you don’t have to put up with that.”
You know you don’t have to put up with that. You know you don’t have to put up with that. You know you don’t have to put up with that. You know you don’t have to put up with that. You know you don’t have to put up with that.
I’ve tried on the memory so many times, searching for inflection. I can’t recall any emphasis.
I’ve wondered what would have happened next, had I been able to hear him. Would he have set down the plate of treats, walked me into a quiet room, talked me through how we were going to confront those who needed confronting? Would he have enlisted one of the women I know (now) would have surrounded me, gathered me close, to see this through? What storm would I have set in motion, through this accidental betrayal?
I won’t ever know. After the briefest moment in which I envisioned shelter, I chuckled at him, attempting worldliness.
“Ohhh, no… it’s not like that.” And I walked away.
The stories we’re told, the stories we learn to tell ourselves, are deeply ingrained. It would be years before I remembered this exchange. I haven’t seen the man in decades. I’ve no idea what he was really thinking that day, whether it was a calculated attempt to offer protection, or simply a casual observation, forgotten in moments. A young man then himself, surely attuned (I realize now) to the attentions of admiring females, would he have feared some backlash, some accusation? It doesn’t seem plausible, but I won’t discount any possibility.
I only know that at some point later on, I remembered. And I hear him, now.
More than any other memory, this exchange is a touchstone. A confirmation that I’m not dramatizing, crafting a version of a story, subconsciously seeking a home for anger, pain, fear, helplessness. (That’s the question I ask myself, when fear leads me to self-doubt, though others have long since confirmed what I know, intellectually, to be true.)
You don’t have to put up with this.
And I’m not. Not anymore, and never again.
Neither do you – that’s why I’m here. So many of you are talking to me, sometimes to say “tell my story, but leave me out of it,” and other times in private torment, words I will never publish without your consent, just to speak, just to be seen, just to be heard. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m staying.
Much love,
Jess
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