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After she was raped, why did she call me? A True Story.
Current mood:  thoughtful
Category: Romance and Relationships
After she was raped, why did she call me? A True Story.
(A prelude to "Hearts of Bed-Stuy: Home Is Where The Hurt Lives" - coming this week)
I love you.
I love you too.
Be safe in LA.
I will babe. I will only be here for a few days, and when I get back I'll give you a call.
Sounds good.
…four months later…
I answer the phone, and hear a familiar voice. Her voice. "Kalimah? It's me."
I'm bad at auditory messages, so I asked her who she was. She revealed that is was an ex-girlfriend of mine. I took a deep breath, and decided not to hang up. I'm friends with mostly all of my ex-girlfriends, so hanging up wouldn't be me.
Me: "What have you been up to?"
Her: "I'm okay. Just, you know, just making it - you know."
I noticed the anxiety in her voice.
Me: "Is everything okay?"
She started crying.
Her: "He hurt me, Kalimah. He raped me."
I knew the drill. Growing up in the 'hood, domestic violence prevention training by Day One, and a load of "Crisis Communication" courses under my belt, I asked the right questions.
Me: Where are you? Are you safe?
I grabbed pen and paper along with my coat as I continued talking to her over the phone.
Her: I'm at Penn Station.
My shoes were now on.
Me: Did you call the police?
My keys were now on my person and I was ready to go.
Her: No.
Me: Why haven't you called the police?
Her: I don't know.
Me: There are police at the train station who will help you. I will be right there!
Her: Please, please don't come.
Me: Why?
Her: I'm going over to my friend's place and I will call you when I get there.
Me: Okay. I'll be by the phone. In the meantime, talk to the police.
Her: I'm not ready to yet. I'm so scared. I'll call you when you I get there. I love you…
I hesitated a bit, but I knew she needed to hear those words, and maybe I wanted to give them.
Me: I love you too…be safe.
She hung up, and I stood there, staring at my phone - completely baffled. I asked myself what I should do so I called a good friend of mine with expertise in the area. We spoke briefly but I wasn't able to confide in him as much as I wanted as he was in a rush. I kept it to myself and told no one for the rest of the day.
The next day she called me and I agreed to her coming over to my place. She got here, and she was different. Not the girl I knew, she was darker - much darker. I asked her if she needed anything and she said she was fine. I sat next to her and she cried and laid her head on my shoulder. I didn't know how to respond: as an ex-boyfriend, a big brother, a friend, the flamboyantly gay friend? (we used to watch a lot of Will and Grace together. She loved Jack. LOL)
I asked her to start from the beginning, and strangely enough,
...it started in L.A.
She met a guy. Her friend introduced her to him while she was in New York and we were still together. We had our problems then but nothing too severe that we couldn't handle, or at least not for me. She's in her early twenties and the guy is fifty-seven.
My eyes opened up as she told me.
Her: Oh, but he looks like he's in his mid-forties!
I rolled my eyes and continued listening. They met at one of his wild parties on the West-side of Manhattan. He's wealthy. With several real estate in New York, California, and Florida, he's a Studio 54 has-been with a Midtown penthouse that attracts both business and pleasure. He saw her and told her that she would be the one for him. That impressed her enough to exchange emails with him.
Living with her family away from New York, she witnessed the devastation brought on by her parents arguing and fighting and the domestic violence that ensued while she was there those couple of weeks for the holidays. There was a lot of drinking, a lot of hospital visits and lot of lying and hiding. When she told me that she needed a break, some time to herself, and that her friend offered her a nice weekend stay in L.A., all expenses paid, I encouraged her to do what she felt was right and enjoy herself.
As you may have already guessed: she didn't pay for her ticket, old boy did. Old boy flies her to L.A. and they are having fun, binge drinking, cocaine, weed-smoking, all those things that she couldn't do while we were together, she did. Eventually he made a pass at her, and they kissed.
Me: Hmm…interesting.
Her: I'm sorry for…
Me: So you did this while we were still seeing each other?
Her: Yes, but we were having problems!
Me: We were having problems because of the drinking.
Her: I know.
I wanted to know the whole truth, and she was crying again and I didn't want her to feel worse than she already felt. I still didn't know why she hadn't called the police, but I guessed I'd learn why.
So she stopped taking my calls and my emails after it happened L.A. She didn't want to face me knowing what she did. She was still angry at me, because of how I felt about drinking.
My biological father was and still is an alcoholic. I was never raised by him, but I remember as a two year old kid, the odor of beer and I remember the fear my biological mother had of him. One day, when I was around two, I remember vividly when she was giving me a shower, and I slipped and hit my head on the bathtub. My head was bleeding uncontrollably. She was scared and frightened and I wasn't crying. I was just observing her panic. She bandaged me up, probably applied some Haitian home remedy to my forehead, and waited for my biological father to return home.
He did. They had their usual conversations and for an hour or two everything went fine, until he noticed something wrong with my head. Like the super-macho functional alcoholic that he was, he confronted her about it. She panicked and she explained the accidental nature of - wham! He smacked her. I grabbed my Incredible Hulk toy and threw it at him. He pushed me aside and I hit the floor…but that wasn't going to stop me. My biological mother pleaded me to stay away, "Kal, timoun, ale, ale Kal! I cried "no", and attacked him again with my green and purple figurine. He told me to stay away, "Kal, go go, this is betw'in your mudda' 'n me. Go away!"
He grabbed her and took her away into the bedroom and shut the door. I tried to listen in and all I could hear her do was apologize and plead him to stop. I went outside to get help, but stopped when the prickly plants surrounding my plush Miami Florida backyard pierced both my feet. I fell as the painful sensations overwhelmed me but I knew I had to run, get help, and save her. I could see the power lines outside my home and knew if I would get to them, help would be there. I sat and tried pulling each and every thorn from the bottom of my feet.
"Are you okay?" a mysterious voice crept towards me. I looked up to see a girl. I didn't see a lot of them, especially around my home, but I'll never forget when the sun sat brightly behind her, its rays giving her an almost angelic appearance. She helped me pull out the thorns, and when we were done, I told her that my biological mother was in trouble. She rushed to get her father, and after they spoke in Kreyol for about five minutes, her father rushed to my home, through the kitchen, and banged on their bedroom door. She asked me to come into her house. Later that night, I returned home and a group of guys were around my biological father talking with one another. He's the one with the support group?
I went into the bedroom and saw my biological mother battered and bruised. She asked me not to approach her so I remained outside the door. I remember looking at her and the look in her eyes wasn't that of shame, but blame. She blamed me, and I felt that it was my fault throughout my childhood up until I was eight and entered the group home system. At two, everything changed that day. It would be decades later that I learn that not only did he beat her, but my brother was conceived that day when he also raped her. I wasn't too surprised because my brother was two years behind me. Knowing "those kind of guys" I assume he told her that she had to give him another son since she screwed up the job of taking care of the first one.
Also, after that day, I stopped talking. From the age of two to six, my linguistic skills were years behind my peers. I phased out of the world after that day and felt better being an observer than interacting with others. I became a thinker and not a talker. My hyperlexia developed to such a degree that it would have a lasting impact even till this day when I communicate with others and have to transcribe visually what they say, sort of like a live closed captioning in my head. Perhaps an "open captioning"?
I started school in special education classes in Brooklyn after my biological mother left him and fled to Bed-Stuy, where there were no Haitians or Caribbean people to meddle in her affairs and privacy. Though my brother spoke English fluently and even some Kreyol, it took two years of speech therapy at Woodhull Hospital near Bushwick Brooklyn for me to form complete sentences. Nonetheless, I was reading much earlier than I could speak. Both came together just in time when I stood up against my Catholic school teacher/nun when I was seven. But that's…another story.
When I decided to go into the alcohol import and supply business during my early twenties, I was very hesitant about going into the industry. Eventually, I wanted to learn more about how a company of just over a hundred people could net billions of dollars. It was like hating gun violence, but learning how to handle a gun at a firing range. Learning business strategy in the premium wine and spirits industry changed my life by nurturing my strengths and reinforcing my discipline. But I still hate the smell of beer…
Me: You went to go live with him after L.A.?
Her: Yes! I just thought,...I don't know…
Me: That he would take care of you?
I said it with my left eyebrow raised, and didn't know whether exposing the truth made me selfish by possibly trumping her recent horrifying experience to me. I felt like I deserved the truth and every time she spoke, I wondered if she had become my biological father, and if I had become my biological mother. I avoided become the beast that was him, but did I end up being the victim like she was?
Her: He has this large penthouse in mid-town and he gave me a job. We would make me coffee and breakfast in the morning, and we would have wine in the evening, and I liked it. I loved it.
Me: You love him?
Her: I don't know. No. Maybe. I loved what he had. The first three weeks was great, but after that he became such an asshole. HE never wanted me to leave his place and kept asked me where I was going and told me how long I could stay out.
Me: Is that why you didn't call the police? Because you love him?
Her: Yeah and that I would lose my home and my job if we were to break up, and right now I don't even have a pot to piss in.
Screech! Stop the car! Yep, all of my friends and family voices, I could hear them going, "No. Don't save her! She's just trying to move in with you!"
I didn't want her back in my life knowing that for those months I hadn't heard from her, she was screwing some Greek sugar daddy (or discount daddy since he never bought her anything) sick son of a Neanderthal bitch who can't take no for an answer.
Her: I'm sorry for bringing you all of this. I'm so f*cked up.
Me: You don't have to apologize.
Her: But I cheated on you with some asshole and I'm such a loser with nothing!
Me: How did it happen?
Her: He doesn't like Black people. He likes Black art and African arts and some music, but he looks down on Blacks.
Oh, I forgot to mention. She's White. Moving on…
Me: What does that have to do with you?
Her: He knows about you and he's got insecurities about it.
Me: How and why am I mentioned?
Her: I once called your name out when we were together.
Left eyebrow raised…
Me: Together, together?!
Her: Yes. I don't know if he heard me.
Me: Why were you using my name? He and I are total opposites.
Her: Because I don't like the sex, so I have to think about you.
I couldn't help but laugh. So here she is, in this situation, and she is demonstrating immaturity that I've never experience an ex-partner; Nonetheless, I needed to focus on what happened.
Me: How did it happen?
Her: He first asked me what the difference is between kissing a Black man and a White man is…
…and the rest I can't write about, and I'm sure you readers understand. In fact, there's a lot I have omitted to protect her, and even her ass-wipe of a boyfriend. Describing rape isn't why writing this. It's not important what happened before and after the sexual assault but what happened after she confided in me…
Me: …and that's what happened.
Female Friend 1: Wow, that's crazy. What are you going to do?
Me: I don't know. She even washed up after her hurt her so there's no evidence that they could use if she just reported him after it occurred, AND said she needed to handle things her way. It's like with all this CSI and ABC afternoon special stuff out there, she totally ignored all of that! What's the use of all this stuff if certain girls and women are just going to do what they want to do even with the information?! These producers should just save their money and do a white type on black background that reads, "Rape…if it happens to you, you're going to do want you want to do anyways, no matter what happens. If it does, YOU choose to call us, we won't choose for you. Best of luck."
FF 1: You are crazy! *laughing*
Me: I'm for real!
FF 1: I know you want to help her, but be careful. As long as I've known her she's always seemed like the type that wanted you to save her from herself. If she is going to mess up her life, you can stop it!
Me: But it's rape though…I mean, I have to do something…right?
Male Friend 1: How do you know she's telling the truth?
Me: What? I mean, she wouldn't make this up.
MF 1: She has made stuff up in the past to get your attention.
Male Friend 2: Sun, don't do anything. Don't do anything to that man. Don't go back to your old ways.
Me: Imma be 'ight sun. Tha' old me though…
MF 2: I know sun..
Me: Since he likes touchin' and destroyin', I'd make sure he won't be touchin' anythin' for a long time. Not wit' his fingas.
MMF 2: She ain't worth it. You doin' good being you. Don't let her get you in prison because of her sh*t.
Female Friend 2: She deserved it!
Me: Stop. Stop. Stop! You can't say that. Don't say that to me!
FF 2: I'm just telling you what I think. I know you. You've brought plenty of girls to my place and introduced them to me and she's the only one to pull off some sh*t like this! I could see it in her eyes! She didn't know what she had. White b-
Me: Don't go there! It ain't about race or color. Women who are screwy are massively represented in all societies, just like men are. What I don't understand is…
FF 2: What?
Me: How do you go from sleeping with one man on one week and then messing with another man the next week? How do you do that? I mean, sometimes it can be a double standard with men and women - yes, but she fell in "love" with him?!
FF 2: Kalimah, it's these women out here thinking every rich old man they find is Mr. Big from Sexy and the City. They want some man to solve their problems and make them feel safe and secure like they their father, and they don't have to do anything but give up their bodies and self-respect and think they have something real or an "arrangement" and don't think that sh*t won't follow them and that these guys just aren't going to give them up! They be out here trickin' and don't call it that. All these wannbe models. Kalimah, if they ain't working, who is supporting them? Their parents? Oh, so they livin' at home and want a man to be have this and this. If I was a man I'd F*ck them and leave them alone too, because they are so trifling. Then they are going to say they are "independent" women?! Sometimes it's their boyfriends and sugar daddies supporting them. Some of them strippin' and act like they are angels. Wait on tables like a grown adult! Work at Macys! Do something! Don't put your ass on PayPal! They are so stupid!
Me: What's stopped you from being like them?
FF 2: I almost did! Remember homeboy?!
Me: I think so.
FF 2: He was married and everything and I didn't want to see it for almost two years because I couldn't accept it.
Me: But I told you he was married. I picked up on the clues.
FF 2: I know, you told me and you called me up on it, but I wasn't ready to listen to you. I wanted to be saved. He was stable, had a car and had a house. I wanted him to be the one and wanted to be everything for him.
Me: You also gave him everything, your body, mind and soul.
FF 2: He even introduced me to his daughter. That's how good he was at convincing me!
Me: Still. No one deserves to be raped.
FF 2: She want to be grown, let her be grown!
Me: No one "deserves" to be raped. Still I have to do something. I won't rescue her, but I've got to do something…
I tried to understand my female friends and why any woman would condone what happened to her. It seemed like their expressed was for political correctedness and not because they feel that the asshole attacked all women as a result of attacking her. Sometimes I feel like they didn't empathize with her so much because they were women of color and they judged her as a confused immature gold-digging White girl. I just saw her as a victim with little support, but she was a very dangerous victim.
When she left my apartment, I suggested she see a doctor in the morning. She promised me she would. Then next day I called her,
Her: Hello?
Me: Hey, is everything okay? Did you see the doctor?
Her: No, I couldn't get an appointment with my OBGYN until next week.
Me: Next week? Wait did you tell her what happened? Where are you?
Her: I'm at work.
Me: You mean you're back where the man who hurt you is?!!!!!
I was dismayed and appalled at the same time. I didn't know what was going on in her head.
Her: I need the money and he won't hurt me again. We are over!
I didn't know how to respond. I just took it all in and decided to just let it go. In the weeks following we talked over the phone and it did seem like the experience matured her in some dark and twisted way. Our feelings for each other resurfaced, but I secretly objected the idea of we returning to each other. She was different - darker. Old boy introduced to his particular world of sex, drugs, drinking, materialism - a world that wasn't mine. I spoke to her later that day in person.
Me: So how serious were you with him?
Her: I wanted to marry him and have children by him and if anything happens, I know I'll be alright.
Me: You really want to live your life like that? Not go to school? Not follow your dreams?
Her: I do, but, I'm just confused right now. I don't know what I want!
Me: Do your parents know about him?
Her: I told my mom, not my dad, and told her that I was seeing someone new.
Me: But not the part wherein you live with the guy and work for him and he's never paid you how much you've earned because he reminds you that he's taking care of room and board? That's not even okay legally by labor standards. He's older than your dad. He seems more like a discount daddy than a sugar daddy.
Her: *laughs* That's not right. You didn't have to have to put it that way. So what are you, Captain-Save-A-Hoe?
Left eyebrow raised.
Me: You're calling yourself a hoe?
Her: No! I'm just kidding...
Me: Mm hmmm…well I'm not trying to rescue you, but I had to do something. What you do from here on is entirely up to you. I just don't want my daughter to come to me one day and ask me if I ever did anything about a woman that has been raped, molested, or experienced an inappropriate and unwanted sexual experience, and then lie to her. I'm doing this for all women. It isn't even me t have ignored this….and that's why you came to me, isn't it?
She smiled and blushed. I felt manly about helping her but I knew she was dangerous and that most things she would say may end up a lie. Did he really rape her? Because of the situation, I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
Me: When do you plan on leaving your job?
2:07 AM
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