Ashamed No More

I was 12 years old when it happened. I was wearing my new two-piece swimsuit with a bronzy-orange floral print; the bottom piece was cut like boys’ boxers. The top had tiny peach colored buttons and lacy folds of cloth on the bodice- a new suit just purchased by my mom at the Boston Store. I loved this suit and the way it looked on me at Inwood Pool. My two friends had gone to the refreshment stand for some orange pop and Jays [potato chips]. I stayed in the water, relishing the few moments I had left before we kids we forced to evacuate the pool for the adult swim. I practiced a handstand, but my nose hurt too much from the pressure. Pretty soon, my fingertips were starting to crinkle and I headed for the ladder. But on the way, a lifeguard in a red suit stopped me and blocked my path. He reached down and grabbed my crotch- hard. I was too embarrassed to even look him in the face. I was too ashamed to tell anybody.

The summer I turned 21, I worked as a cocktail waitress in my hometown. I was a lousy waitress- couldn’t remember the drink orders or how much change I owed customers. When my old Maverick wouldn’t start one night, the bartender drove me home after my shift and grabbed my breasts before I could get out of the car. I was too ashamed to tell anybody.

When I was 33, my husband and I were having dinner with a group of clergy at a New York City restaurant. Before the entrée arrived, the Episcopal Bishop of Milwaukee put his hand on my thigh. I was six months pregnant with my older daughter. I was too shocked to say anything.

Me too.