The Strong Black Woman by Marita Golden

Author:Marita Golden [Golden, Marita]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mango Media
Published: 2021-08-06T22:00:00+00:00

Me Too

Studies reveal that 40–60 percent of African American girls are sexually assaulted before the age of eighteen.

I have never been raped or sexually assaulted. But as a girl, as a woman, I have been surrounded by the possibility of it all my life. During a Thanksgiving dinner one year, when I was eight or nine, a distant family member, a man with a large horse-like head, a poised yet leering smile, drew me closer to him as he sat on the stool before our upright piano in the den. The rest of the family, my parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, sat around the dinner table, amidst laughter, jokes, stories, as they recovered from the multi-course holiday meal. I don’t remember how I came to be alone with this family member, a distant relation who attended family gatherings only rarely. I was a curious child and often found myself in places where I should not have been. But why shouldn’t an eight- or nine-year-old girl stand in a separate orbit, a segregated space, with a male distant family member? I wore a frilly dress that day, and the crinoline slip beneath it made the skirt flower around me. As he pulled me closer, his hand rubbed my thigh. The shock of that touch sent me scurrying to my mother, who sat at the corner of the dinner table. I sidled up beside her and whispered in her ear that I had been touched. I told her who had done it.

With the skill of a diplomat, my mother turned her attention back to the table, where a story told by one of my uncles was winding down. She laughed heartily, and then rose from her seat and told me to sit down in her place. She slowly walked into the den, where the family member who touched me sat on the piano stool. I could see a mixture of guilt and fear map his face as my mother, formidable no matter her mood, approached him. She said something to him that no one could hear and he rose, walked to the sofa where piles of winter coats lay, found his jacket and his hat, and walked to the front door and left the house.

As I prepared for bed that night, my mother told me that I had done the right thing and that I was to tell her or my father any time anyone tried to touch me like that. I felt safe. Protected. By my parents. But I knew even then that there was something about my body that consigned me, because I was a girl, to the danger zone.

One of my girlfriends was raped on a date by a graduate student at the college she attended. Another was raped at a party. As is common in most cases of rape, neither woman pressed charges. They felt too much shame. They doubted their rapist would be convicted. They didn’t want to relive or even remember the violation. One friend was impregnated by her rapist, had an abortion, and moved on with her life.

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