I am here, in a motel room in San Jose, California, where in an hour my high school reunion is to take place.
Coincidental with my Class of 68’ 50th high school reunion, the reports of Republicans bullying Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, who question her memory of the attempted rape by Supreme Court nominee, Brett Kavanaugh, it has thrown me into a bit of depression. I’ve been triggered.
Earlier this afternoon I drove to the two location where I was sexually abused and raped. I remember all the details. I may not know the name of my attackers, but my body and brain remember how it felt to be force to masturbate a man who was one of my paper route customers. I was 12 years old.
I resist to compulsion to go wash my hands for, God only knows, the millionth time.
Then there was the rape when I was 15 years old. Someone who purported to want to help me audition as a rhythm-guitar player in a garage band and had offered to drive me to a house in Willow Glen, a neighborhood in San Jose. But he had other plans. He took me to his apartment and, well, it happened.
I do not know the names of the two predators. But I remember what they looked like. I would not be able to pick them out in a line up if my life depended on it, but I can draw you the floor plans of their apartments.
I drove to each of the crime scenes today and took pictures of the outsides. The abuse took place in a 2nd storey apartment—number 33. And the rape took place two miles away in a downstairs unit, G6.
I will keep the street names secret.
I’ve detailed these two events in my book, so I won’t get into the details here.
I felt compelled to write this post because the sheer stupidity of those who are suggesting Dr. Ford’s memory should not be trusted is beyond words. Anyone who has been a victim of a sexual assault remembers.
I remember with painful detail.