I was seven when I started third grade. Because of elementary school consolidations, I was bused to a new school across town, with a few neighborhood friends and a lot of kids I didn't know. I was an anxious, sensitive kid who liked to curl up in our living room wing chair to read Nancy Drew mysteries and block out the world. The year was already shaping up to be a difficult one, for a shy child who disliked change and was anxious in new situations. To the outside world, however, I looked like a kid in an advertisement for milk or white bread or something quintessentially all-American and wholesome. And there was a boy in a different third grade class, who apparently had a thing for all-American, wholesome-looking little girls, because he (without ever speaking to me) developed an immediate obsession with me. This was not a harmless crush or a fleeting schoolyard romance that starts at the beginning of recess and ends before the bell rings. Throughout the year, it became clear that he was not going to get over his interest in me quickly or without collateral damage.
Every day a classmate would approach me with the novel news, "Henry* likes you. He wants to talk to you." I would react in one of three ways, depending on how emotionally strong I was that day. I might cry or physically lash out at my classmate or I would just shrug and walk away. Once on the playground, Henry's friend gave me flowers that Henry had picked for me. "I don't want these," I said throwing them back at Henry's friend. "He just likes you. He just wants to talk to you." I didn't want to talk to Henry. I wanted to be left alone. I wanted to fly by anonymously and unmolested under the radar. Once my classroom teacher allowed Henry into our empty classroom and he left flowers and a note on my desk. I blushed furiously and rushed into the class to grab the offerings and throw them in the trash before anyone saw them. My teacher (a man) told me, "he just has a crush on you. It's a compliment. You're really hurting his feelings by not talking to him." When I still refused to talk to Henry, my teacher frowned in disappointment.
As the year went on, my emotional strength waned. I wasn't sleeping and my anxiety ratcheted up to a painful degree. There was more kicking and yelling and less walking away. I pretended to be sick so I could stay home. I didn't pay attention in class. I was deeply depressed, but I didn't tell my parents what was happening because I was ashamed. I was embarrassed that I had done something inappropriate to attract all this attention. As it turned out, the school took care of the issue and someone - a counselor, my teacher, I don't know - called my parents to express their concerns that I was acting out. It was enough of a problem that I was dragged off to a therapist for a screening appointment to start group therapy, so I could commune with other "troubled" kids.
Never once, during this ordeal, did anyone tell this boy to stand the fuck down. No one blamed him for harassing me or sending his friends to pester and cajole me into talking to him. No one told the other kids, who weren't even his friends, but enjoyed getting a reaction out of me when they mentioned Henry, to leave me alone. No one said to Henry, "it is wholly inappropriate to have strong romantic feelings at age eight. Leave this poor girl alone, get some therapy, and go play four-square." How did he interpret the adults' reactions to this situation? I have no idea, but I can imagine he assumed that it's okay to doggedly pursue girls who repeatedly rebuff your advances. If you've listened to Harvey Weinstein, and the recording of his advances on actress Ambra Battilana Gutierrez, you can see the result of that type of lesson. The lesson to me was clear: Just be nice. Just talk to him. Your reaction is the problem. Be more compliant. Be a better victim.
This experience has impacted my entire life. Looking back at a vantage point of nearly 40 years, I can see a patterns in my behavior and reactions with roots in third grade at Irving Primary School, where I learned passivity and submission. There were times when I wasn't really interested in a guy, but I would still go out with him because I had been stripped of my own agency at such a young age. Then I'd get called a slut because I was dating around too much. When I was harassed at work or school, an all-too common occurrence, I never made a big deal about it. I'd been taught that I couldn't prevent unwanted comments and advances, so the best thing to do was to act like a good sport about the harassment and remove myself from the situations that felt most dangerous. I never reported anything or complained to people in authority. Why would I when my experience with authority figures was them siding with my tormenter?
So, that's my first story. There are others, but the origin story for all of my experiences is right there at Irving School with a little girl who learned early to pipe down and deal with abuse because no one likes a complainer.
So, that's my first story. There are others, but the origin story for all of my experiences is right there at Irving School with a little girl who learned early to pipe down and deal with abuse because no one likes a complainer.
*Name changed because I don't like to think about his real name. Yes, still.
