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    • Hollye Dexter

      Blogger
    • October 2, 2018 in Columnists

    #MeToo: A letter to my children

    This is how old I was, the first time I was assaulted.

    .

    To my children,

     

    I am sharing something with you both painful and personal for me, and the reason why is that I want to break the cycle of abuse, so you, and your children, never ever have experiences like this. Holding these experiences in silence has only empowered sexual predators, and they are everywhere, in every industry and in the White House. And women aren’t the only ones who fall victim to sexual abuse. Young boys do, too. It’s more common than people would think. The problem is that those of us who have been victims of this feel shame and keep it inside. Not only is that toxic to us, but it protects the perpetrators, and allows them to keep abusing. The reason I’m telling you everything is because I want you to see how rampant it was in my generation, and I want it to end with me. Maybe by me finally releasing it, the monster loses its power.

    These are my experiences:

    Three years old: I was abducted by two older boys and locked in their apartment. I can’t tell you what they did to me because all my mind can see is darkness. My young mind tricked me into thinking I had passed out. Maybe I did. When my mom and stepfather found me, my stepfather lifted me in the air by one arm and started beating on my behind, shouting at me that I was bad for disappearing like that. I did not have the language to explain what had happened to me or to defend myself. I learned then that it was my fault if something horrible happened to me.

    Eight years old: A boy in my class trapped me behind the handball court and held me there for 20 minutes, holding a metal nail file to my throat and threatening to stab me if I tried to get away.

    Eight years old: Standing on a corner with my friends, a man pulled his car up to the curb in front of us. He was naked and masturbating. I told my mother but there was nothing we could do. The man drove away to terrorize other little girls.

    Ten years old: I was out rollerskating and stopped in the local deli to get a drink. The man behind the counter tried to get me to come in the back room with him. I said no. He grabbed my wrist and started dragging me on my roller-skates. I kicked him in the shin with my skates and got away.

    Eleven years old: We were at a friend’s house in Redondo beach. I was walking down the street with three of my friends to see the beach, which was only two blocks away. A man started following us, making kissing noises and saying things like “Hey pretty babies. Where you going?” We started walking faster but he did too. He ran up behind me and grabbed me but I got away and started running. We ran all the way home, and never got to see the beach.  I learned then that girls can’t walk anywhere, even in groups, even in broad daylight, without being subject to predators. And they will get away, and do it to other girls.

    Twelve years old: Walking home from school, my friends and I were on the railroad bridge when a man stepped in front of us, dropped his pants and started masturbating. We were trapped and terrified. We ran back across the bridge, away from our homes, and couldn’t get home for hours because we were afraid to cross the bridge. When we finally got home, I found my mother at our neighbor Susan’s house. We told them what had happened and they called the police, who were not able to find the man. Susan shrugged it off like this happens every day, and told me “Next time a guy drops his pants in front of you, just laugh at him. That’s what my sister does.” Then she gave me half a Valium and told me it would be fine. I learned then that men would drop their pants in front of you and it was up to you to learn how to handle it. We were never able to walk to school again.

    Thirteen years old: I was at a sleepover at my friend Laura’s house. I woke in the middle of the night to her 6’2” sixteen-year-old brother taking my pants off. He picked me up and carried me into his room and laid me down on his desk. I jumped up and ran. He chased after me and threatened me but I got out. I ran all the way home in the middle of the night. My mother woke to me pounding on the front door. She called Laura’s mother and told her, and that was the end of it. The brother never suffered any consequence for attempting to rape a child. I learned then that you can tell but nothing will happen to the perpetrator, so you better learn how to protect yourself.

    That was also the end of my friendship with Laura. She was too ashamed to face me after that. I learned then that if you speak up you will lose friends.

    Thirteen years old: I was at a sleepover at my friend Sherri’s house. In the middle of the night, her drunk father burst into the room buck naked and stood over us. I sat up and looked him in the eye. I think he was surprised to see me there. He turned and left. I never told Sherri, or anyone. I didn’t want to lose another friend.

    Thirteen years old: My mom’s boyfriend’s brother, Bobby Abbondante, who babysat me only the year before, said he’d take me to a movie I really wanted to see.  At the drive-in movie, he attacked me, ripping my shirt open, biting me, aggressively grabbing my breasts, hurting me, leaving bruises and hickeys all over me as I fought and screamed. After, he cried and begged me not to tell. This was the year The Wilderness Family had come out. He had made a bet with his friends that he could “nail” a movie star. I learned then that as a female, I had no value — I was just a bet, something to be “nailed.”

    Thirteen years old: Standing outside the library at night, waiting for my mom to pick me up. Some teenage boys rode up on bikes and started saying sexual things to me. One of them grabbed my breast and squeezed it hard, hurting me. I screamed and they laughed and rode away.

    Fourteen years old: The man at the deli who had tried to drag me away on my skates became a peeping tom at my house. I was home alone nights because my mom worked. His face would appear in the bathroom window when one of my friends or I was using the bathroom. My friend Greg went to his house with a butcher knife, tried to kick down the front door, threatened to kill him if he ever saw him around my house again.

    Fifteen years old: Late one night I caught my good friend and neighbor Keith watching me undress through a crack in the curtains of my bedroom window. That was the end of our friendship.

    Eighteen years old: On vacation in Bimini, an island where there is no law enforcement or government, my cousin Tammey and I walked past my uncle Dan’s entourage one evening on our way to dinner.  A creepy guy in the “entourage” who had been leering at us during the week loudly suggested to the rest of the guys that they ought to grab Tammey and I and have a gang bang. Tammey told the guy to fuck off but I was terrified. We told uncle Dan and he assigned two bodyguards to trail Tammey and I everywhere we went, and somehow had the guy kicked off the island that night. Imagine having to spend your vacation with two bodyguards because there are so many men on the island who might rape you.

    Nineteen years old: My boss, John Makhani, asked me to come out with him after work to discuss my possible promotion. He trapped me at his house, refused to let me go home, and tried to coerce me into taking my clothes off in front of him. For about an hour he bullied me and tried to get me to undress but I wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let me go home until the morning. After that, he punished me by criticizing and humiliating me in front of staff, making my job a living hell until I had no choice but to quit. I learned then that if you stand your ground, you will lose your job.

    Nineteen years old: My friend Diane and I were invited by a friend to a celebrity party at Larry Wilcox’s house. He was a star on the show CHIPS that was popular back then. We arrived at his house to find it was only the two of us, and three guys. Larry started making out with my friend Diane, and he tried to get me to make out with him too. He wanted us to have a three-way with him. I was disgusted. I refused and went outside in the backyard. His 50-year-old creepy friend followed me. He started hitting on me and when I turned him down, he became aggressive. I ran away from him. He literally chased me around the backyard swimming pool for an hour until I threatened to call the police. Finally a friend showed up and chased the guy off. I learned then that if you accept an invitation to a party, you are vulnerable to assault.

    And then there are the many times as an adult I’ve been “grabbed” Donald Trump style- once when I was a waitress in a crowded bar, holding a very heavy tray over my head. The guy grabbed my crotch and I couldn’t defend myself. Another time at a concert. Another time at a restaurant. Another time at a gig. Another time at a Christmas party.

     

    Donald Trump is the face of every vile man that has attacked me, of every man that has disregarded my humanity. I want this to be the generation that STAMPS OUT men like Donald Trump and Harvey Weinstein and Woody Allen. I want to see good men and good women seated equally at the table of life, and in positions of power. I want to see good men and good women as the stewards of humanity.

    How any man can grow up to treat a woman like she is nothing is a mystery to me. Those very same men grew inside our bodies. Their blood was created from our blood. We cared for them and raised them. I want my husband and sons to be aware of what it’s like for women — or what it has been like.  I want you to be aware, stand up and speak out when you see this kind of behavior in men. Speak up when you hear men talking about women like they are pieces of meat who have no value. Speak up when you hear misogyny, woman-bashing and feminist-bashing.

    Right now, with a vile predator like Trump in the White House, I have no hope for this country. But I put my hope in you, in your generation, to make this country and to make humanity decent again. I’m counting on my daughter to be strong and loud, and my sons to love and respect the women who gave you your life.

    May our future generations only know about the #MeToo movement from the stories they read in history books.


      • Terri Connett

      • October 7, 2018 at 9:14 am
      • Reply

      Jesus, Hollye. Thank you for speaking your truth. p.s. I believe you.



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