In 7th grade, I was molested repeatedly by a group of 8th and 9th grade boys on the back of a school bus. This abuse took place several times a week for a couple of months. I’ve never told this story or talked about how it’s affected me but in light of recent current events and the world we are living in, it’s a story that won’t stop nagging. I would like the nagging to stop, so here goes.
I grew up in El Paso, Texas and in 7th grade, I joined the tennis team. My junior high was far enough away that an activities bus was provided in the evenings for students participating in afterschool sports. It was on the back of this bus that I was groomed and molested in broad daylight.
It started with being invited to the back of the bus, (translation: to hang out with the cool kids). The boys were all in grades above me and by virtue of the color of their skin and their athletic abilities, were deemed the popular kids; the untouchables. You see, we were the minority where I grew up. Almost all of my friends and acquaintances were hispanic. Even then, surrounded by another race, we were different. I got in more than one fist fight with hispanic girls over hispanic boys because I was a Huerta, or white girl. So when a group of older, white, football players invited me to the back of the bus, I was flattered.
The abuse didn’t start the first time I was allowed to mingle with the men-children in the back. They flirted, teased and got to know me for a couple of days. There were three of them and I can still tell you each of their names. They laughed and smiled a lot, often touching my shoulder or arm while doing so. I don’t remember exactly how long it took, but one evening as we rode home, one of the 8th grade boys reached over and slid his hand up my shirt and under my bra. I sat there frozen, unsure of what was happening or why. I was confused because it felt good, but I also knew it was wrong - so in my confusion, I said nothing. His friends stood in the row in front of us, both gawking and acting as a screen from the bus driver. He kept his hand there, sliding from side to side until we got to my stop. Then he smiled and said goodbye like nothing had happened at all.
I remember going home and feeling sick to my stomach. I remember brushing my teeth and wondering what I’d done wrong. I remember feeling like I couldn’t say anything because shame was a powerful tool in my devout Mormon home and I was afraid I would be blamed for the incident. I wasn’t making the best choices at that time in my life, afterall. I had already started sneaking out at night and walking down a long, dark street to my friend’s house to get drunk after our parents had slept. I’d already been called to the principal’s office for fighting. I’d already had teachers call my parents because I was caught making out with a boy in the halls before class. My track record was shady and exposing this incident would only make me look worse.
The next evening, I braced for the worst as I boarded the bus. But this time, instead of touching me, the same boy pulled down his pants and exposed his erect penis. He grabbed my hand and made me start rubbing it. I never said no. I never pulled my hand away. Again, the other boys gawked and sheltered us while I was forced to fondle the first penis I’d ever seen.
Again, I went home sick. Again, I felt ashamed. Again, I stayed quiet.
The third time the incident happened, it happened with all three boys. This time, they forced my head down to their exposed crotches and told me to “lick” them. They took turns standing guard and laughed and joked like they were watching an arm wrestle. I didn’t resist. I didn’t say no. I didn’t stop going to tennis.
I’m not sure how long this went on exactly, but I know it was over the course of 2-3 months and it was consistent. It got to a point where I didn’t have to be told what to do. It was just easier to play along, act like the cool chick who didn’t care; didn’t ruffle feathers. It ended when the season ended and I started going home after school. It was never talked about. I’ll never know if the bus driver or kids at the front of the bus knew what was going on. The only souvenir I have is a cryptic yearbook signing saying how it was too bad I was moving (I moved to Utah the summer between 7th and 8th grade) and maybe they could get [another girl] to start again. With a heart. And his name.
Over the course of my life, I’ve seen dozens of therapists and each time was asked if I was ever abused or assaulted as a minor. I always said not to my knowledge. I held onto those months of abuse as a series of bad decisions I’d made. It wasn’t until this last year that I started to remember how violated I felt, even though I never spoke up. I started to realize that this wasn’t something I would have chosen for myself. I didn’t say no but I never said yes. Silence isn’t consent. Fear isn’t consent. Acceptance of my fate isn’t consent.
I spent YEARS of my life just “going along” with what various men wanted because I felt like I had to. I didn’t ever feel like I could say no. I found myself in horrible situations after long nights of drinking and even though I wanted to put a stop to sick and perverted behaviors, I felt like I couldn’t because MY bad decisions had landed me in that situation to begin with. How do you claim to be violated when you never resisted? Never declined?
My abuse started in the 7th grade on the back of a public school bus. It was watched by other boys. There were at least a dozen other kids on that bus every time. I was passed back and forth between three boys, over and over again because I never felt like I could say no.
Sexual abuse and human trafficking aren’t things that only happen in inner cities or third world countries or behind a bar in a dark alley. It isn’t JUST the missing children posters all over the world or the fake furniture being sold with a code name for a stolen human being. Sometimes it is a grotesque act happening right in front of your face because someone doesn’t know how to stop it.
As women, we have been raised to go with the flow. We have been trained to do it all while looking pretty and staying pleasant. We have been told that rape is what happens when someone yells no and then is violently attacked while the victim resists. We aren’t told that being coerced into a behavior we are uncomfortable with by someone with seemingly more power than us is still rape. It’s still abuse. It still affects us FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES.
It’s easy to get fired up and sucked down a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories when big stories about possible corruption break. It’s easy to share posts and tell your neighbors to get involved with vague causes to stop the madness. But what are you doing about your own kids, your neighbors, the victims in your lives who are suffering because they didn’t think they could say no? Are we educating our daughters - empowering them, reassuring them of their worth and value OUTSIDE of their bodies every chance we get? Are we teaching them that staying silent in a horrific situation does not make them dirty or evil? Are we making sure they understand that their bad decisions don’t ever give someone the right to violate their bodies? Are we making a safe space for our daughters, our sisters, our friends to come out and say “I think I was abused” without the fear of being shamed? And what about our sons and brothers? Abuse goes both ways. Do they feel safe enough around you to reach out for help?
We need to stop pretending this is someone else’s problem. It’s not. It’s yours, it’s mine. You know someone who has been abused. I guarantee it. Even if you don’t know about the abuse, there is someone close to you who is suffering. Be proactive. Have conversations. Empower the people around you to have a voice, regardless of whether or not you agree with what they have to say. Show love; unconditional love to those you come in contact with. As Brené Brown once said, “Move in. It’s hard to hate up close.” Move in. Open up. Listen and be heard.
“...and love is love is love is love is love is love is love, and love cannot be killed or swept away.”
-Lin-Manuel Miranda
XOXO,
Ames
