These Breasts are Off-Limits!
The Un-Silencing of Me
The first time it happened we had been married ten years. We had three children. It was in the middle of your cousin’s wedding reception in Delhi. Your uncle, on the dance floor, grazed his hands all over my breasts.
I told you the next day, maybe a day too late. It was one of the first times I saw you that angry. How can you say that about my uncle?!? Then you became petulant. You know he was the only father figure I had when my father died! Then to pitiful. I was only three when my dad died.
Why can it not be the same person, the person who was a father figure to you but who also touched my breasts in such a public place in such a public way? I was 35. And silenced. By the man who was socially approved to protect me.
The second time it happened was at your office party in Podunk, Midwest at someone’s house. Kevin walked right up to me and rubbed my breasts. I told an Indian female physician that very night, one who worked with you and who I thought of as a friend in our new town. She asked what I had done to provoke Kevin’s response to my breasts. I told you the next day, maybe it was a day too late. You didn’t get angry, said only, He’s my colleague, he’s my boss, this year he’s the president of the practice, his revenues are more than mine. And then the stunner: His wife is my patient, she’s dying, you said.
What did any of this have to do with his touching my breasts so brazenly, his touching me so intimately and inappropriately in public? Later, when Kevin was having an affair and I brought it to your attention, you said, Well his wife has cervical cancer. That’s it. Implying what? Did it mean that his not having a place to put his dick made it okay for him to cheat on his dying wife? What the fnck? From that encounter I should have learned more about you than I did about Kevin. I was 37. And still silenced. By the father of my children.
The third time it happened I was 57 and already alone. I was at a big SouthAsian LGBT event at a fancy schmancy restaurant. At the end of the evening, when the music became too loud and the dancing became too raucous and the drinking was having liquor effects, all of this too much for me, I prepared to leave. I came out of the restroom and leaning next to the women’s restroom door in the carpeted hallway was this man. Brushed my breasts and blew his cigarette breath in my face. I smiled and simply walked away dumbstruck. I told my bestie the next day, I thought maybe it was a day too late.
Why didn’t you slap him across the face? my bestie said. Why didn’t you tell me yesterday when we were together? I would have slapped him! Then he held me on the phone with his indignant words of support. Who would have believed me? He’s a gay man. Who would have believed me? He’s a published author. Who would have believed me? Everybody knows him. Who would have believed me? He was the one being honored yesterday. Who would have believed me? He’s so much younger than me. Who would have believed me? He’s so good looking. Said my bestie, also a good-looking gay man half my age I believe you. And he did. Maybe no one would believe me if I told even today. Maybe he would deny it. Or say he doesn’t remember it. I continue to attend annual gatherings of the organization where this happened. This month they are honoring him in their book club reading. I will not be attending. Maybe I never told because I thought I didn’t believe me.
I was huge that year, not knowing my heart had stopped working, my head shaved, my front teeth broken, my husband absconded. In my own head all these reasons must have run by like the backs of dirty towns seen from a fleeting Amtrak window, but I don’t remember. Because not remembering is my coping mechanism for survival. I was 57. And I was heard. By a man who has nothing to gain from believing me, or believing in me. My bestie.
Who would have believed me? Carrying the unseen stamp I wore on my forehead that all survivors of childhood sexual assault and violence seem to share, an unpoked tattoo of shame the size of The Rock’s Polynesian chest tattoo we wear on our cheek, the unspoken/unheard cadence in our voice that says If you molest me nobody will know. And even if I tell, nobody will care.
I have rubbed out that stamp. I have had that tattoo surgically removed along with my cardiac valve. You are not welcome to come uninvited to rub your crotch up against me or touch my breasts or in any other way molest me. Because I’m not a little girl who can’t fight back anymore. My hands are strong, my teeth are filed down to points, my claws are sharp now and I know where your balls are.
©JkMansi Juhi Kalra 2018. All rights reserved.
Thanks to Stephen M. Tomic at The Junction
