High school was a chum-filled shark tank.
I wrote in my teenage journal, “There are sharks in the water. It’s a fact, everyone knows it, and yet no one seems to care until they take a bite. People often say, ‘Most sharks are friendly.’ Well, yes, but not all sharks are. No one seems to be able to distinguish a nurse from a predator.”
But if you’re alone in the water and a shark bites you, people won’t believe it really happened.
My shark ‘bit me’ in 7th grade. I’ve always thought of him as a shark, a reflection of my worst phobia before he sexually assaulted me. Afterward, my list of greatest fears shifted — sharks became number two, and he shot up to number one.
I spent two years and some change of my life consumed by paranoia, glancing over my shoulder, flinching at the sound of a classroom door knob twisting open because I had no idea if the person behind the door was my abuser.
College has been an escape for me. Temple is far enough away from my hometown that I can inhale deeper, fuller breaths. I can walk through buildings all around campus free of fear and flashbacks. But now, the reality of what awaits me back home looms closer and closer as I enter my final semester.
I grew up in Washington, D.C. proper, a city full of protests and politics. It’s a city that rarely produces children without some penchant for social justice, no matter where they fall on the political spectrum.
My goal is to fight sexual violence, and Washington, D.C. is the number one place to be an effective advocate to produce and promote impactful legislation — but it’s also the place where my childhood was interrupted and destroyed. It is the double-edged sword of my existence.
When I was a 13-year-old 7th grader, I was sexually assaulted and abused by a boyfriend. No one at my middle school, teacher, staff or student, believed me when I came forward.
It wasn’t before the end of freshman year orientation at my new high school that I realized he was a student there too. On that day, he would tell anyone who would listen that I had lied about being assaulted. Before the first week was over, 2,000 or so people had formed their opinion and taken his side.
My reputation as a liar fueled my motivation to normalize conversations around victimhood and damaging stereotypes that threaten to hold survivor stories hostage in silence. But it also brought significant harm to my life each day.
In my Intro to Communication and Social Influence class, I learned the difference between fear and threat: fear is the unknown; we can handle a threat easily because we anticipate what is coming. For me, every day was defined by both fear and threat; fear was something I was unprepared for, and threat was something I knew was coming.
My peers routinely weaponized prank calls, inappropriate questions and finger-pointing, but surprises escalated to death threats, being followed home and social media accounts dedicated to highlighting my “lies.”
It wasn’t until the end of my junior year of college that I stopped receiving anonymous phone calls from my teenage classmates. A memorable call started: “Is your refrigerator running…why did you lie and ruin his life?”
I have spent the past three and a half years forming and finding a community based on belief and advocacy in Student Activists Against Sexual Assault. Philadelphia holds a significant meaning in my life for empowerment and growth. My understanding of sexual violence, of myself and of how the trauma of my assault impacted me has deepened.
Now, I wonder if the understanding of my old peers, who likely now face the same decision to move back home to D.C., has also improved. My mindset and capacity for empathy have shifted enormously since high school — and it’s a possibility that the mindset of my peers has too.
I must decide if I can disassociate the girl who told me to leave the first literary magazine meeting of 9th grade because I was the girl who “lied about being assaulted” from the mature woman she may have become. I must accept that the people instrumental in my mass discrediting may again become my neighbors.
There is no indecision despite my extensive existential panic. I know where I have to be, and I am confident in my purpose; I plan to expand the narrow scope of justice for survivors, and my living situation will just be a matter of unfortunate adjustment.
The choices brought by senior year are overwhelming, but for me, an additional choice involves moving back to the place I feel most unsafe to make it safer for the next person — even if it means potentially doing it with my shark around the corner.
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