Well, I’ve been dreading writing this and yet keep coming back to it. I know I’m late. I know nobody cares what I have to say or what I think, or what I went through, or why I am who I am, and I really know that Valentine’s Day isn’t the best time to write this but here we are. I guess I feel like I have to put it out there anyway, but maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow to post it. I had planned on keeping this page solely about my art — writing at least once a week to keep myself motivated to continue to create, but this year (and it’s only February!) has been so full of horrific things that I’m NOT motivated to create and I cannot NOT address these things. So, here goes.

Trigger warning CSA.

Kimmie and I in the back of my mother’s car

The side of the house - I thought the stairs were much taller

The first time - that I remember - I was a scrawny four or five year old I think, and Kimmie was my little blond, pig-tailed best friend who lived up the street. As I recall it Kimmie and I were inseparable and spent most of every day either at her house or mine, playing barbies or swinging on my swing set. Those are vague and very impressionistic memories; I only have a few very clear images of my friendship with her and I’m pretty sure most of them are from the end of our time together.

One memory that is particularly clear is that Kimmie wanted to run away from home and she wanted me to come with her. I didn’t know why, and I’m not sure I asked or if she told me why but I didn’t want my best friend to be alone out there in the world, so I decided I would run away with her. Remember we were five, so we ran away to the side of my house where we set up blankets and hid under the wrought iron stairs. When my mother was looking for us (I have an image of us giggling and that being what got us caught) she was confused and concerned that I wanted to run away with Kimmie. I assume a story was told, but I don’t remember what was said.

My most vivid memory of being Kimmie’s friend, though, involved her older brother. He was 19 I think. I can’t remember his name. He babysat a lot, so he was there pretty much all the time. I remember when I would visit Kimmie’s house, he would require me to sit on his lap for a time before we could play. I wasn’t afraid - it was like a game - though sometimes I remember being annoyed and just wanting to play with my friend. He would hold me for a little while, then I would try to get away, then he would pull me back saying we couldn’t play just yet, and I’d laugh! He was so funny. I remember that he used to hold me around my middle with his left arm and rub the inside of my right thigh, sometimes for quite some time. How long? I don’t know. I was five. In this memory, Kimmie is waiting impatiently from a few feet away, and sometimes telling him to hurry up. I don’t think he touched me beyond that, but I don’t think Kimmie was as lucky, and now I’m pretty sure I know why she wanted to run away.

I’m not sure how it came out what he was, but it did. I remember hearing my mother and father yelling at each other about him through a door; my father was so angry! I remember that clearly. I think he wanted to kill him. I don’t know if the running away episode was a catalyst, but I don’t think I saw my friend anymore and I think Kimmie’s family moved soon after.

When I was somewhere in the six to seven age - I really can’t remember, but we were in Germany for a visit so it would probably be easy to verify, though I don’t think it really matters - we were visiting some family friends or something from my mother’s youth. I don’t remember who these people were and I don’t think they were blood relatives, but my mother had known them all of her life or some other such bullshit. “Very close family friends,” — you know the type.

*I believe this was taken at the house with the pigeons, but I may be mistaken*

Anyway old Oncle whatever his name was had homing pigeons in the attic, and yes, of COURSE I wanted to go see them! My cousin who was about the same age as me came up too, but got bored after a little while and left us alone up there. It was fine and we were talking about the birds. I remember him sitting and me standing I guess near him. All my life, I’ve cracked my knuckles — I think when I’m uncomfortable or don’t know what to say or do. Anyway, I cracked my knuckles and he asked me something about why I did it, and I said something about my finger hurting and that making it feel better. The next thing I remember is being on his lap with his hands running over my non-existent chest and him saying, “this doesn’t hurt, though, does it?” I think I just got up and ran down the stairs. I’m guessing my cousin had fled early for a reason.

I recall vaguely that I must have told my mother because she blew it off (at least to me) and said that he had tried to stick his tongue down her throat multiple times throughout her life. I don’t blame her for not doing anything. It was a different era and maybe she thought that was normal.

When I was about nine or ten I spent the night at a friend’s house. This was a friend that was another of those “our families have known each other since way back in the day” thing. My mother and her grandmother were literally best friends, and she had much older children who had children of their own. The friend, whose name I cannot recall, was a few years younger than me and we were friends only because of our families’ relationship. Anyway, the girl had a stepdad named Ted. Yes, that’s really his name; no, I don’t remember his last name.

Two main memories of Ted the stepfather with no last name. One — both of our mothers were in the room, I think, as well as her grandmother — the friend and I were practicing handstands in the open living room of an apartment the family had just moved into or something, and Ted was helping us by “holding our feet” for balance. Except it wasn’t my feet or legs he held. He put one hand over my ass and one hand over my groin and held there, claiming more stability. Hmm. Maybe. But why did it feel so weird that I remember it nearly 50 years later and it still makes my stomach lurch?

Two — and this one’s gonna be harder to write about — Ted was tucking us in and telling us a story. He sat on my side of the bed next to my left leg while he told us a story. He also tickled my stomach under the covers which made me giggle. One of my favorite things in the world was for someone to tickle my back. Anyway, it was all fun and games until he slid into the side of my little girl panties with his hand. Honestly, I do not know what happened. I think I kicked his arm away. The next memory I have is laying on my left side, the light off, staring at the wall and quietly crying, and him leaning down to kiss me on the cheek, whispering that he’s sorry he made me cry.

I told my mother and said I never wanted to go back to their house. At least I think I told my mother. I don’t know. I do know I never went back to their house, though I did go to the grandmother’s house and everything else continued as before. Actually, I think I made something up about not liking the girl because she was younger or mean to me or something, and years later told my mom the real reason (I believe this only because I think I was on the phone with her and I was driving when I told her, so I had to be over 16 at least). Memory is a strange thing. I don’t recall anything ever being said, but I wonder about the girl whose name I have forgotten and how she fared growing up.

*This may have been taken the day of Superbowl 1980*

My father died when I was twelve, and soon after we were staying with a couple that had been friends of my parents for years. My father died in November of 1979, so I believe it must have been a Super Bowl party in 1980 at this couple’s house. There were a bunch of men who were friends or in business with my mother’s friends, along with some of their family members. Honestly, I don’t know how many men it was, but there were more than three or four, and I don’t know if there were any other family members than the ones I’m getting ready to mention. I know one man named Lee was there. He was very tall, loud, obnoxious, and he owned a car dealership. I can’t remember his last name but it doesn’t matter. He had a daughter my age whose name was Leigh as well, and she was there. I’m not sure if this was the first time Leigh and I had met or not, but I do know I went to their house a couple of times. Anyway, at some point during this party, the men were standing around in a bunch, and I don’t know if something happened in the game or what but Lee just grabbed me, dipped me (like that obnoxious sailor in that famous picture when he assaulted that woman in the street) and kissed me like I was his wife. When he released me, I looked around at a bunch of laughing grown men, high fiving each other and patting each other on the back and I guess I just left the room. I’ve sometimes wondered how Leigh-Leigh did growing up with her father in the house. Or how her actual friends did.

We lived in that house for almost a year. I had a sleepover one night — I don’t even remember who was at the sleepover. But I remember the 17 year old nephew (or cousin or whatever he was) trying to slip into my sleeping bag.

I could go on for days. But I feel like that’s enough to prove my point, which is this: not one of the people who took liberties with my body was a stranger. Not one of the people who took liberties with my body was a trans person. Not one of the people who took liberties with my body was an undocumented immigrant. Each and every one of them SHOULD HAVE BEEN someone I could trust to protect me. Let me say that again.

EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM SHOULD HAVE BEEN SOMEONE I COULD TRUST.

I know it’s not current, but this is the reason so many women choose the bear. The bear doesn’t make us trust him first.

And my memories are not unique, people. Nor are they particularly “bad” as these things go. I was one of the lucky ones, I guess. Women don’t come forward because we’re brushed off or called liars, and they’re everywhere.

They. Are. Everywhere.

Your church.

Your school.

Your neighborhood.

Your street.

Your house.

The days are getting longer again and that always helps me feel more hopeful. Light is starting to shine on a lot of things that need to be illuminated. I hope it keeps getting brighter and hotter for those people that need to be seen.

If you’ve read this all, I thank you, and I’m sorry this wasn’t uplifting, or about art, or creating something. I am working on some ideas, but I’m having a hard time getting going. Please be careful out there. I love you all.

P.S. I’m sorry the pictures are so huge. I tried to make them smaller and I’m inept.

Trust Issues…