Recent events have caused many women to revisit the past. I know none from my age group who have not had an abusive encounter of a sexual nature by some man; boundaries were violated in a frightening way. It is disgustingly ubiquitous. I have been trying to collect my thoughts about one event which was a shared experience with my sister. It occurred around 1966 or 1967.
It seems nearly impossible to pierce the mind closed to examination. I am sure that many men of my generation (as well as those that came before, like Grassley’s), have never probed the manner in which they have been schooled to dismiss women as fully possessed in and of themselves — equal beings. The longstanding ‘weak vessel’ characterization plays on the conventional propagandized view of women. Flawed creatures really don’t rise to the bar of equal treatment do they? They can’t ever earn it, either. They are faulty. They are not even 3/5ths worth in hallowed and inspirational documents. It became a bit more of a trend with some men of my generation to consider these things, but not the majority. It would seem heart-breakingly possible that things have not changed much in half a century.
My sister and I were new to the area in 1966. We had spent most of our early stretch in Southern California; San Gabriel, a Mission town near L.A. Franklin Township, New Jersey was another universe. The all important social norms completely different — gym socks like anklets in the West, pulled up in Jersey, that kind of stuff. But there were bigger things going on. It had been a stretch ushered in by Kennedy and the want for an inspirational, we’re-all-on-board, we can change the shitty stuff kinds of ideas. Segregation was breaking down, Viet Nam protests had begun, ‘Love-Ins’ and ‘Happenings’ had cropped up, the Stonewall riot would occur before the decade wrapped. Life was opening up. It was an exciting time for the curious and daring. What kid isn’t all that? As the “New” girls in the small burg and attendant high school [and from iconic California, to boot] my sister and I were invited to attend absolutely everything. Like frat parties at Rutgers University, which was a stone’s throw away.
We liked to dance and would scout the options for that activity as primary. A girl at school had a friend at a dance frat and lots of us went to cut the rug. Sis and I were in the company of another pair of sisters. We were fiercely underage but I don’t think we did much drinking, if any. We were all virgins and, as far as we knew, that was not odd at 15 or 16, though we were on the verge of societal “free love” promotion, it hadn’t arrived. We were not supposed to be there and had not been granted permission to attend the party, so we started our walk to a theater nearby where a parent had dropped us off for the movie we did not see. We’d call the other girls’ Dad to collect us. He was a cop in the Township.
Along the way to the phone booth by the theater, a car began to follow us. Several obviously bombed guys were in the car which they demanded we ride in. We disagreed and moved faster. The car moved faster, laying rubber and the guys got louder. We were several blocks from the campus so the noise broke the silence on the residential street. The car nearly pulled onto the curb and one guy got out telling my sister to kiss him while grabbing at her. He caught her coat, she pulled away shouting, “No!”. He got her again, yanked her around and slapped her with an audible crack that knocked her off balance. I slugged him in the back with my shoulder bag and tried to yank his arm away as the other sisters tried to avoid being pulled into the car which now had three open doors. Suddenly there were flashing lights. Someone had called the police. [Ironically, I have only one crystal clear bit of recall, a vivid image of my attempt to tear that guy’s arm off of my sister, the texture of his coat fabric and hers, watching my purse come into hand control again for another swing at his back — then red and blue lights blotting that out...weird how crisp it is]
Eventually, daughters were collected at the New Brunswick police station by the Cop Dad, and the bow-tied Republican Dad who did indeed press charges, in spite of their shame of Jezebel offspring; they were men and honor was involved. None of us girls would have dreamed of doing this. The beat reporter for the local paper picked it up. It was scandalous news and our names were legally excluded in the salacious report which promised coverage in the courtroom. Everyone at school knew who we were, of course. My sister and I were already celebrities, as I mentioned, this incident burned us into a generation of Township gossip.
The day of the, I’m not sure what it was, … Hearing? Trial? I guess the latter because all but the girls had lawyered up. In short order all but one of the guys was let go due to inability of the girls to positively identify all but one party; the slugger. And “nearly certain”ly by the woman who had called the police. Soon, it was revealed that said positively identified young man was a law student, as were his companions. They had partied at an entirely different frat party which we had not, it was agreed by all, attended. It was also put into evidence that the New Brunswick PD did not suspect us of drinking, let alone drunkeness, though we had not been tested, as the young legal student’s lawyer made sure to elucidate. Photos of my sister were entered into evidence by NBPD, as well. It was slam dunk as to the guilt of the charge of assault and battery.
On the other hand, the judge had been a young man himself, you know. He knew what it took to apply yourself to the rigorous study and strain of law books against the wont of youthful spirits! He hoped that a bright young man who had come to an understanding of how it could all be lost with behavior so out of bounds that it came to notice in the very halls in which he aspired to practice, would never stray again now that he understood what was at risk. The girls were lectured about the seeming wantoness of their dancing with young men three and four years older than they. They otherwise seemed like decent young ladies who would make good wives to the right kind of man who didn’t care for the “easy” type. And so on and so forth. They should never have been there. Had they not, the young man certainly would not have behaved in this way. Case dismissed.
This was how that game was played nearly a generation before Brett Kavanaugh diligently applied himself, went to mass at Little Flower, and did service projects, but his own was still a long time ago on the cultural clock. I hope I don’t see the same moves now on more sanctified turf that ought to have higher standards. I think I might.
My heart goes out to the women who have been brave enough to rock the boat. To cause critical thinking. To help us all. But, particularly, my daughters and my new grandbaby who will wrap her first orbit of the sun in a hair over 2 weeks. We all deserve better than this.
Now that I got all of that out, I am going to sleep.