Don't ask me if I remember being that age (trigger alert - rape)

So, in case you ignored the title, let me make this as clear as I can...
This piece includes subject matter that might trigger those who are sensitive to allusions to sexual violence candy coated in the phrase "date rape".  If you are one of those wonderful and trigger-able persons, please wait for another post. Thank you!

I know that people mean well when they offer their advice in light of my hyperbolic (and often insincere) complaints about parenting a teenager. Most often, I am chided for being too hard on my charming, gorgeous and age appropriately indolent teenager. When I complain about her music choices or her failure to wash dishes, I am often met with this comment, "Oh, just remember what you were doing at that age!" I know that my friends mean well but charging me to remember what I was doing at that age is of no comfort to me as the mother of a 15 year old.

So, although it feels like it happened several lifetimes ago, I do remember being 15. I remember permed hair and tight jeans. (Well, they were never all that tight because I was so skinny.) I remember walking to school with the boy down the block and I remember learning to drive...by driving to church on Sundays with my dad...unlicensed and without a permit! I remember being the smart black girl who was the poster child for "the good girl." I remember youth choir rehearsal and running to the store between Sunday School and 11:00 service. I remember being not quite black enough with the black kids and I remember having to hide in the closet when my friend's fiercely racist father came home unexpectedly one day when I was there. I remember going to the movies with my friend and meeting those cute boys. I remember giving my phone number to one of them. I remember waiting for the powder blue teen phone to ring and I remember the excitement I felt when he finally called. He was 17 and he had a car and he wanted to take ME to a movie that next weekend.

The week flew by and when the time came, he pulled up to the house in his '17 year old boy fixer upper car'. He came to the door and smiled at my parents and even shook my father's hand. Everything seemed like it would be just fine. A movie and probably a burger and I'd be home before the sun went down. We left the house and hopped in the car and off we went into the next town where the movie theater was located. We chatted throughout the ride and he indicated that he needed to stop home before we went to the movie and he wanted me to meet his mom. Wow! Meeting his mom already? Hmm...this seems like a winner!

He pulled into the gravel driveway, and the crunch of the small black stones announced our arrival. His mother came to the screen door to meet us. She opened the door and welcomed me into her home and we walked quickly through the door to the basement where he spent all of his time. There were no chairs down there, so I sat gingerly on the edge of the twin bed and waited for him to finish what he was doing so that we could get to the movie theater as soon as possible. Then, he walked over to me and just stood there for a moment. The next thing I remember is that my shorts and panties were being pulled down to my ankles and I was flat on my back on this boy's bed. My brain tried to make it make sense but my body was frozen. I was an honor student. I spoke French. I made straight A's. I was skinny and not as cute as the girls with the 'good hair'.  I had braces.  I was the Sunday School Secretary. This could not possibly be happening to me...but it was...and I was the same age that my daughter is now. I remember being in a state of shock as he stood up and walked off to the bathroom. He tossed, "What movie do you want to see?" over his shoulder and I pulled my panties and shorts up and wondered what I was going to say when I returned to my senses and found my voice again.

I said not a word. I just walked up the stairs and opened that screen door again and walked out. I walked out that door and down the stairs and stumbled across the same crunchy gravel that had announced my arrival just a few minutes earlier. I walked down the driveway and continued waling down the block. I walked and walked and walked until I found myself back at my house. I walked past my mother and walked to my room. I picked up the phone and called my best girlfriend. I told her my story and she quickly informed me that no boy would just ever want to take me to a movie just for the sake of going to a movie. Boys didn't spend money on girls without expecting something in return. I should have known that. The conversation ended and oddly enough, life went on. Life as I knew it had come to an abrupt end. I was a 15 year old girl who should have simply known better. I didn't even know that I was allowed to call it rape or how to explain what had happened...because I should have known better. At 15 years old...I just should have known better.

Now, I am the mother of a beautiful girl child who has access to technologies not yet dreamed of when I was her age. The teen phone has been replaced with hand held cell phones with video capabilities. No one is subjected to screening by the gruesome parent on the other end of a house phone. The field on which teens play these days is a virtual one and the effects of 'the game' are far reaching.  Cute boys with loud cars are still cute boys and girls are still expected to know better. So to answer your question, yes, I do remember what I was doing when I was her age and I'll be damned if history will repeat itself. Thank you for your concern. If you are really concerned, then the best help that you can give me as it pertains to raising a girl child is not to ask me if I remember being her age. That's not helpful. The best help that you can give me and her and girls everywhere is to help us dismantle rape culture. We can start by telling all of our children that if we all would just 'do better' then we won't have to tell our hurting children that they should have 'known better'.


Shalom