#MeToo
When I Was Ten
Wayne was a boy that was my friend. As ten-year-olds it’s important to note the difference. He wasn’t my boyfriend. Sure he was cute, smart, athletic, funny, popular, but did I mention I was ten? My only interest was training for the Royal Ballet but he was always a friendly distraction. We’d been friends since we were five. I would listen to his soccer aspirations, he was being recruited to secondary schools and was full of promise.
I had never had a boyfriend. Had never felt the butterflies of a crush, or found any appeal in boys other than friends. There’s a sweet memory I have when Wayne brought a book with puppy pictures to school. He showed me and said he thought I’d like it. I did. I also remember him telling me he used mouthwash that morning and every morning.
Another memory was from Valentine’s Day. Wayne brought a card to my home. I was so thankful for his friendship but a card seemed over the top and I felt embarrassed with the attention. I just brushed it off. I still knew nothing of crushes.
The next memory isn’t my memory. Decades later my friend, my former ten-year-old bestie, stumbled upon Pandora’s Box.
“Guess who I saw on the 2B?” she offered nostalgically, as I hadn’t lived in London for ages but was very familiar with our means of transport and bus route.
“Wayne!” she finished.
“Oh! How is he? Tell him I said ‘hi’ next time” I said sincerely.
That wasn’t the reaction she anticipated. I could feel it. Even though we were on the phone from London to San Francisco, I could feel an intense energy from her, and then collapse me. I came to hearing her on the other side, “Silvy! Silvy!” — she knew she had inadvertently triggered a deeply repressed memory. Over the next half hour she tearfully shared with me my own history. Apparently it was quite the scandal, and something that still ignited raw emotion as she shared the details.
When I was ten I walked six long, dodgy blocks twice daily. My school was by the Sweet Shop, but past two boys secondary schools that earned their reputations and have since been closed down. Usually I would try and catch up with my friends so we could walk home together, a whole crew lived in the Counsel Flats behind my house in Tulse Hill. But many days I had afterschool practice, and those days I walked alone. The area was rough in the 70s. I was street wise at a young age, getting jumped was always a likely scenario so I was hyper vigilant about stranger danger.
But that day I wasn’t hyper vigilant. Wayne “coincidently” was leaving at the same time and offered to walk me home. He didn’t live far from me, just down the road, a Council Flat in Brixton.
Wayne was more playful than usual that day, circling around me as we easily talked and laughed walking home. We were on the second block, about 50 yards from the school corner. No one in sight.
He asked me to be his girlfriend. I laughed from embarrassment. He got mad, instantly attacking me, I now remember him groping me and repeatedly kicking between my legs.
Then I went blank.
As my parents filled in next during a teary phone call as I struggled to put the pieces together, they said I came into the house a bloody, beaten mess. I have no recollection of this or how I got home.
My parents made me go to school the next day marching me straight into the Head Master’s office. They wanted to parade the evidence of my black and blue face, fat lip, and ripped uniform. Shortly after arriving the school bell rang and I was told to go to class, it was up the stairs and to the left. I hid amongst the coats and backpacks until I couldn’t any longer, and took my place at the table. I sat at an eight-person table, all facing each other. No one said a word.
My dad’s rage could be heard very clearly throughout the school halls, even with Mr. Richard’s door closed.
Wayne was called downstairs. The whole school heard the crack of the dreaded cane and Wayne’s ten-year-old cries.
Everyone knew it was because of me.
The part of the story my mind chose to remember was “it was because of me” — I had carried this guilt that Wayne was hurt because of me. What had I done? All those years my mind chose to remember his pain over my own.
Now I know my “because of me” is my first #metoo.
#FemTruth
