Is This Okay?
How I came to believe that my body was not my own
During the summer, when the weather was warm and the commitments of school and sports were on pause, it wasn’t uncommon for my family to take a trip to the local amusement park. Large crowds and long lines were the norm, but I enjoyed the change of pace for a day. Soaking up the sunshine, watching all different kinds of people, and receiving repeated hits of endorphins with every long climb and swift plummet of the park’s most popular attractions.
There were only three of us and many rides were designed for two people per row, so it was not unusual for one of us to ride solo. Often, that one was me as I was the older and more mature of the two children in my family. Introverted and shy, I crossed my fingers every time that there were no other solo riders to shove in the seat next to me.
If I was not lucky enough to win that particular lottery, I would ride in silence — muting my screams and squeals of equal parts terror and delight.
Waiting in line for one of my preferred coasters, a wooden beast named for a particularly deadly snake, silence took on a whole new meaning. My two family members took the coaster train before mine. While they were speeding through the course, experiencing immense delight, I was being seated next to a stranger who would morph into a monster.
I was a pre-teen girl who had an early growth spurt and appeared several years older than my true age. He was an older teen, perhaps in his early twenties. If he gave his name, I didn’t catch it. We both buckled in and exchanged the very basic pleasantry smile of two individuals forced to share a small space. I was ready to get going and enjoy the two-minute tear through the course before rejoining my family.
The thing about roller coasters is they are very secure. If you buckle-in correctly, you’re not getting out. You cannot move. You cannot escape.
This strange man must have found himself intrigued by me. Or maybe it was just the situation. Maybe my shorts were too short. Maybe my smile was too shy, luring him in. Or maybe, just maybe, he was merely a bad man.
As the cart began moving, the man’s hand found my leg. I begged myself to believe it was just an accident. It was not. The warmth of his hand and the gentleness of his unfamiliar touch sent alarms blazing in my head.
Something was not right.
His hand crept up a small amount, screaming that his touch was intentional. With that motion, he asked, “Is this okay?” Being a child, strapped in next to this man, out of sight and earshot of every single person in the park, I froze. I couldn’t go anywhere. I could not get away from him.
If I say no, will he stop? If I say yes, will he be satisfied to keep his hand only there? I had to make a decision quickly.
I slowly and briefly nodded my head, giving my abuser a small smile. He moved his hand up a little.
Did I make the wrong choice?
“How about this?” he asked. Again, paralyzed by fear, I nodded slightly. His hand tickling my skin, I willed my body not to react. I shifted my focus to the track ahead, praying for time to somehow speed up. We were finally nearing the apex of the tallest climb; it was moments before the coaster would be moving too fast for me to hear him, too fast for his hand to continue gently caressing my skin.
As we fell down the steep decline, I realized that my calculations were off.
The coaster wasn’t rough enough. The ride did not go fast enough. The stranger kept his hand on my leg for the entire trip.
Suddenly, it was over.
We slammed to a halt at the end of the track and he removed his hand without a word. We pulled into the offloading area; we both unbuckled and got out. He disappeared into a crowd of others exuberant from the intensity of their experience. I trailed behind, quiet and confused.
He only touched my leg, I told myself. It was no big deal.
I’d heard stories of girls having their bodies violated in far worse ways. What I experienced was merely a miscommunication. I did say it was okay, after all.
I stuffed it away, forced a smile, and we carried on to the next attraction. I never told my family. In fact, I didn’t tell anybody for well over a decade. I tried to be nonchalant, to pretend that it didn’t affect me, but I have carried the weight of that trauma since the moment that man removed my agency.
That was the first time, as I can recall, that I was taught that my body was not my own.
My body was an object for others to use to satisfy their own desires. I have struggled with this many times over, but I am finally learning that what happened to me was wrong.
Only I get to decide what happens to my body.
Anybody who makes me feel otherwise is not a good person to have in my life, even if only in passing.
It is my body. It is my choice.
