Sexual Assault: My Account

 

“I want to be able to say I was with Kjirsten Randall”. He actually said that.  

I’m looking around like “Who? Me???"...Apparently I was the shit in high school and didn’t know it, so I found that quite an odd statement to direct to a miserable, skinny, pimple faced girl with low self-worth, who was bullied all through school and couldn't wait for it to end. Going to school each day activated my undiagnosed anxiety disorder. I was never prepared for whatever unwelcome scenario lie ahead of me each day and lived in a constant state of fight or flight mode, and it affected my concentration, my grades and how I viewed myself; these things factor into why I believe this happened to me. 

The day started out typical, just the end to an ordinary high school day and the beginning of track practice. I remember the day as vividly as anyone who has gone through such trauma. I was on my period, in the gym, laying on a stack of mats, dressed in my track gear, willing the intense cramps to leave my body, and knowing full well I wasn’t going to be excused in spite of them, and also trying to gather up the mental fortitude to run laps, with serious cramps, while wearing a thick maxi pad under a flimsy pair of track shorts; “running will make you feel better” my track coach Lisa said. Lies. 

Getting back to the day; there was this kid named Anthony, and for the record, this is not a made-up name, and if I could recall his last name, I would have added it. This blog post is a just snippet of my life story, and this particular story began in Evansville, IN., 1981, junior year at William Henry High School, home of the Warriors. Today the Indian warrior mascot would be deemed racially insensitive and politically incorrect, but no surprise for a place like Evansville, home of radical right winged, neo-Nazi, Grand Wizard of the KKK, David Duke. After consulting with Google, I learned that the warrior mascot still exists today at Harrison H.S. This part ties into my story. 

A little background on Anthony; super shy, quiet, introverted, seemed very sweet, not a troublemaker or intimidating in any way; he was well liked. 

So, he sees me laying there dying and suggested we get some ice-cream from Dairy Queen, which was right across the street from the school. I tell him I'm in too much pain and ice-cream would only make it worse due my lactose intolerance, and besides, practice was going to begin in 10 minutes. He tells me he works there and perhaps an icy drink might help instead. 

After several minutes of coaxing, I reluctantly gave in (back then it was a lot harder for me to say “no” to people, today it's my most treasured word), "let’s hurry though" I say, he volunteers to drive, which should have been a red flag because Dairy Queen was literally across the street, we could have easily walked but I'm thinking it's because we only had 10 minutes. So, we’re driving, and my Spidey senses immediately kick in as he drives right past Dairy Queen and I yell "where are we going???".  He says he’s going to the Dairy Queen uptown, the location he works at and drives for maybe ten miles, parks in an alleyway (which turns out to be behind his house). "I’ll be right back" he says as he goes into the house and comes out in elastic waisted, stretchy, basketball shorts (initially he was in jeans), I quickly realize the shorts were for easy access because he gets back in the car and immediately tries to kiss me, which sparked my immediate protest. As he became more forceful with the kiss and is attempting to push me down on my back to climb on top of me, I’m kicking and mashing his face, trying to keep his hot, unwanted breath off me, and when he begins fumbling to pull down his shorts, I immediately bite down on his neck as hard as I could, sending him into a rage, his once kind face eclipsed into an unfamiliar darkness. Like who is this kid?? After punching me in the face, he opened the passenger car door and pushed me outside, I landed in some bushes with thorns, I remember getting scratched, I guess the thorns were thrown in the mix for good measure and very fitting for the moment. He drove off and left me there stranded on the side of the road. Yep. Good ole' nice Anthony. 

I got up and frantically began waving down cars, when after a few minutes I was able to flag down a police officer, thank God, I had lucked out (so I thought) and was taken to the police station, and I'll never ever forget this; the white officer looked at me and said, “you don’t look like you’ve been assaulted” as I stood there disheveled, tear stained and red-faced with my shirt ripped open and whelps on my neck. It was in that moment, my lack of self-worth was completely validated. I didn’t matter, I was just a little black girl who meant nothing. This was a black-on-black offense not to be taken seriously. How many minutes would they have knelt on his neck had I been white?? They let him go, no scolding, no consequences, nothing. He was able to get right back to the business of being a regular kid and I was forever changed. 

 I wasn’t just affected by the actual act, but everything surrounding it; the way he rushed back to school to tell everyone that he was falsely accused of rape, trying to beat me with news that I had never planned to share in the first place, and then being ostracized and labeled a liar in a place where I already didn't belong, providing more ammunition for the bullies, and more fuel to my depression and anxiety. 

I can't pinpoint this as the moment I began to spiral out of control and into depression, because I was already there, but it certainly didn't help, and it wasn't the last time I was assaulted by someone I thought I knew. There is a significant gray area when your perpetrator is an acquaintance and I think because of my naïveté, my underdeveloped teenage brain couldn’t grasp the severity of the situation, because not only was I was assaulted, but also kidnapped, that part didn’t register until late adulthood. 

Sad fact is that more women than not, have gone through similar experiences, reverse victimization is more prevalent now than ever, so sharing these experiences are important and cathartic, the things that were intended to break me have been converted into strength, self-awareness and character. The pain ended up being my superpower. Holding venom inside your soul can be so damaging if not released, I believe unashamedly sharing my pain with the girls and women in my life unlocks the door of vulnerability. We give hope when we share our stories, but more importantly we give HELP by sharing experiences that are a part of our DNA. 

At no fault of our parents, who are merely trying to shield us from the evils of the world, I think we have a hard time rolling with life as it comes because we don't expect there will be such traumatic experiences along the way. Little girls are sold a fairytale early on. Instead of banning books about black history/true American history, Cinderella stories should be banned. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty and other fairytales were written by men and intentionally portray women as helpless, unassertive and fragile by projecting the false notion that magical and supernatural outside forces play key roles in rescuing us from abuse, no different than the way a pimp shows up in the life of a lost soul under the guise of a knight in shining armor. The whole damsel in distress thing is utter and complete bullshit, we need to change this false narrative. To blossom into the strong women God intended for us to be, we need to reassess, reacquaint and reprogram what we've been taught. Sharing this story is my way of recommitting to women and girls. 

Stay safe. Be strong. Kick him in the nuts. ~

Wishing you Peace ☮️

Kjirsten Randall aka Concerned Hippie Chick 

Copyright @2023 Kjirsten Randall