My #METOSTORY: 'Mo Boobs, Mo Problems' - The End
To read part one click here.
I walked into my house feeling dirty, and used. I’m not sure why I felt this way. I know I did nothing wrong. But, these are the stains, the scars left behind from these kinds of intrusions. They leave you feeling tarnished. I remember sitting down on the couch and wondering if I should tell my parents. I knew what their reaction would be. My step-dad, the strong, noble NAVY man would be pissed. And, I’m sure the ghetto in my suburban Mother would have reared its ugly head. Plus, who wants to be a tattle tell? The punishment for testifying on someone’s wrong doing in middle school was public shame, jokes, and the dreaded tattle tale label was hard to shake. Could I bare the social backlash? I couldn’t hold it in. I felt angry, sad, wronged, and I something in me felt I had to release these feelings to someone.
I finally decided to tell my mother. Some girls may blush telling their mom that two boys felt them up on the bus. I have never been coy around my mother. For goodness sake this is the woman who showed me pictures of penis’ and vaginas when I was young. There was no holding back. We were like girlfriends, and when I told her what happen she assured me I did nothing wrong. It wasn’t my fault she said. I assumed our girlfriend bond meant she wouldn’t tell my father. I didn’t intend on him getting involved, I just wanted someone to share this ugly wound with. Mom betrayed me. She told my no non-sense step-dad and as I anticipated he was furious. He came into my room, and demanded to go to the school and talk to the principal. My mom standing behind him almost sheepishly patted his back as he interrogated me.
“How could the bus driver let this happen?” he asked in his deep voice.
Sometimes my step-dad's voice was so strong, so powerful I’d feel my palms shake when he gave me lectures. When I was younger I feared my step-dad's more than I respected him. He never hurt us, and truth be told my Mom was one the handed out corporal punishment. It's just my step-dad's He has this very imposing stature, and intimidating presence. He didn’t share his feelings with me or my siblings and when he did it was usually to express disappointment or anger. I was not close to my step-dad as a kid. In that moment of my step-dad started cross-examining me about every minute detail of the breast invasion, I remembered in that moment why I didn’t talk to my step-dad. I never felt like he really listened, and I knew there was nothing I could to change his mind. I was going to be the girl who tattled on Beavis and Butthead. I know now as an adult my father was just trying to protect me, but in that time all I wanted was for the whole situation to go away.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I remember tossing and turning scared of the social fallout I would endure for telling. I dreamt of my step-dad storming into the school, and yelling at the principal for justice. Now I no longer felt the sting of being unwilling fondled, I was afraid of being branded a snitch. The next day my step-dad dressed up in his Navy browns, and my Mother curled her hair. Why were these people getting dressed up for the demise of my social life? We all packed into the mini-van and headed to school. My step-dad did not storm in the school like I dreamt, but he did insist on speaking to the principal. The three of us were ushered into the principal’s office were I had to re-tell the breast invasion on the bus. In the years of zero tolerance there was little leeway for the perpetrators. Beavis and Butthead were kicked off the bus and suspended. Turns out I wasn’t their only victim. The boys had been in trouble for fighting, stealing, and had been accused of other fondling incidents. Luckily they never told anyone why they were suspended or at least not who was responsible for putting them there. I had dodged some sort of social bullet. A few years into high school I saw Beavis and Butthead in passing one day. I looked at them horrified they would remember what I did and yell some obscenity. But I could tell from the way they looked at me, they had no clue who I was or how their actions tormented me.