I decided to write this blog and to do so in such a way as not to harm anyone who may be innocent; someone who doesn't deserve to be hurt. I'm not talking about the man that raped me, no, he probably hasn't changed much but he may be married or have children - - even grandchildren. They don't need to be stigmatized or feel the need to question the man after nearly four decades. I won't say his last name, but I won't change his first; his name is Dale. Dale raped me on July 2, 1981, in Norman, Oklahoma. I was 19 years old. I was a virgin. He had no right, and I don't regret my actions - - just maybe their result. He should be dead.
In the summer of '81, I was dating a sweet and loving soul named David, and we were about at that stage where I may have thought about being intimate with him. We had known each other a few months, he had dated a schoolmate of mine and was no longer on her arm, so I questioned her about it. With her permission and approval, I asked David on a date; he accepted. This may have been March or early April of the same year. Just after finishing a 5K run/walk with David at a park near his home, he brought me to his place to meet his mom and dad; again, very traditional, very sweet, very normal. During the evening David mentioned that he had a good friend at the University of Oklahoma (where he was attending) who needed help with his English project before he graduated. This being late June, I wondered how it was even possible that the friend was in school, but of course, universities have summer classes. Apparently, this guy needed to make up a credit to fulfil his end of the graduation packet, and yeah, I guess English professors can hold up the process if you owe them work. I told David I'd help his friend. I mean, in 1981 I wasn't a professor of English (not yet), but I certainly knew my way around an essay!
I remember so many things about that day; things that shouldn't really stick in my head this long after the fact. I remember I didn't have a car, it was in the shop, so I literally walked over two miles to a friend's house to borrow her car! It was a red 1977 Oldsmobile 442; wow, what a dreamboat, and powerful too. It blew the doors off my little Volkswagen Beetle bug. Cops didn't really pull people over for speeding down I-35 from OKC to Norman, not then, I could have simply dropped my foot and hit over 80 or 90 miles per hour easily in that machine, but no; I drove like I do now, slow and smart! I've been driving since I was 17 and I don't have a speeding ticket - - knock on wood! It was truly an experience to be in this magnificent car of hers. I made it to Norman in about 30 minutes, normal time.
I knew then, exactly where the man was living because David had lived with him for about a minute at the beginning of our new relationship and I'd visited him a couple of times in his dorm; an outside sort of cottage really, not the typical highrise unit on the proper campus. It was more outback you'd say, more on its own with a small group of other units. I think they've been removed since then, and an entirely new academic building has been built in its place. That's the one thing in my mind that I can't pin down; where exactly did this happen. I just knew how to get there, but couldn't tell you the address now to save my life. I let that slip out of my memory, and I don't know why. Too much maybe?
I remember knocking on the door, I remember Dale answering. I remember him being polite. I remember him asking me to sit down at the desk and go over his notes. I remember doing just that. I remember the way he grabbed me, the way I fought. I remember the screaming, I remember him laughing. I remember him being naked. I couldn't for the life of me remember when he took off his clothes. I didn't see that, I didn't hear him. I didn't realize this was even a ploy - - there were notes. I was reading notes. I was sitting at the desk, reading when I was abruptly grabbed from behind and lifted off the ground. I think on that day I may have weighed 120 pounds if I was wet and carrying my dog; in other words, I was not the robust woman I am today. I think I earned the nickname "Stringbean" from my high school years. I stood 5'7" tall, but had absolutely no defense against this man; he was not that tall really, only 5'10" I think, but he was buff, and he was strong, and believe me, he had the advantage of both surprise and force. He hit me. He hit me squarely in the face, and he landed that one punch perfectly. I was out.
When I came to I was not completely naked. I still had my purple and white striped Polo buttoned-down dress shirt draped around me, but my bra was undone, my jeans and panties missing, and I had one shoe on my foot, the other I think was just under my thigh, I could feel it. Maybe he tried to take them both off, I will never know. I know that I woke up, I know that I was feeling pressure both on my body and inside my body. It was not just painful it was confusing as I had never been sexually active, I'd never even been intimate at this point; what was happening felt foreign and combative. I know that I knew I was being attacked. I immediately resisted until I felt a calm come over my soul telling me to think, not push, not scream, not react, but think. I put my greatest strength to work - - my brain.
Deciding to pretend I was interested in what was happening was my weapon of choice until such time I could find another more physical and tangible weapon. It wasn't long before the brutish base asshat on top of me, inside of me, decided to relax a bit, thinking the sounds I was making and the moves I was showing were both submissive and engaging - - his folly. My left eye caught a glimpse of a whiskey bottle, perhaps a Jack Daniels bottle, I don't know. I wasn't a drinker, I wasn't into bottles, but I saw it. It was half full, but it wasn't half full of liquid. I saw pennies, dimes, I think I saw quarters, but maybe not, maybe they were nickels. I saw the change. I saw an opportunity. He didn't see anything. He didn't see it coming - - he felt it. I'm absolutely certain that he felt it. I was free - - I was still pinned under his now more impossible weight, but I was in fact free.
Because I was nervous because I was scared and no longer using my inner strengths, maybe just a whole lot of fear-driven adrenaline, I picked up his jeans and my other shoe, my keys, and my little purse, and I left as fast as possible. I don't even remember putting on his jeans but I had them on when I arrived at my friend's house to return her car. We didn't have cell phones in 1981. I could have, if I had thought about it, stopped at a gas station and used a payphone. I'm also sure there were about six different police stations between the OU campus and Bethany, Oklahoma. I didn't stop at one of them either. I made it to Carol's house in under 20 minutes - - I wasn't driving my usual slow and easy steady pace I suppose. I don't even remember if I remember the route, but it must have been one that I had taken in the past, and it was probably the same one I took going down to Norman, but I just remember pulling into Carol's driveway and running up to her door with Dale's blue jeans falling off my waistline and hitting the porch! Carol wasn't home - - we didn't have cell phones in 1981. I walked over two miles to my house - - again, not stopping to call my mom, not stopping to call the police, not stopping to call an ambulance for Dale; though I was absolutely sure he needed one.
When I did arrive home I was met by my friend who had been called by another friend of his at a gas station who said he saw me walking home, that I was about a mile away and I was not looking too good. The guy thought maybe I was drunk. It was in the middle of the afternoon -- and I didn't drink, but this man didn't know that. I call my friend my brother; he and I were raised together. My brother knew that I didn't drink. He knew something was wrong. My brother walked up the hill from our houses just as I was making my way to the same hill to walk down it. It didn't take me very long to explain to my brother what happened; the bruise on my face, the fact that I wasn't wearing my own jeans, both were enough for him to use his greater strengths - - he didn't use his brains, he used his fists. Maybe it was wrong of me to do so, but I told my brother exactly where to find Dale.
Years have passed obviously, and though I never sought medical treatment or anything remotely close to psychological assistance to overcome any post-traumatic stress disorder due to the attack, I have come to grips with two solid facts about myself; I am a survivor, and I will kill if I have to do so. I wasn't trying to hurt Dale that day, I was trying to kill him. I wanted him dead - - I was hoping when my brother found Dale he would be lying in his own blood and not breathing, but that's not what he found. He found Dale sitting up at the desk, holding my jeans, but he was dressed. He found blood on the sheets of the bed but it wasn't Dale's it was mine. My brother found himself facing a man about the same size as himself, but the advantage went to the man whose friend and sister was abused - Dale spent the next few days at Norman Regional Hospital fighting for his life. At the time, I wished he had lost it. I checked the papers every day to see if he had in fact died.
Jesus is the great physician. He healed my soul, He healed my body, He healed my spirit, and He healed my heart to the point that I eventually, years later, was able to pray for Dale and hope that whatever it is that he's doing he would do it with repentance and without hurting another woman. I'll not ever know the truth about what happened to him. A day or so after the attack, because he had reported a completely different story to the medical staff at Norman Regional, I was questioned. The fact that I had Dale's jeans in my possession and my brother found my jeans at the dorm, was enough for the detectives to start an investigation. I just wanted to talk to David, to let him know what happened - - his mother refused to let me speak to him after she was told what happened. She told me to my face that I went there, to the dorm, knowing what was going to happen and that just because I changed my mind didn't make it rape! Are you kidding me? David didn't argue with his mom. Imagine. Just imagine.
The pain of the event is still very chilling. I remember as much as I remember, but my mind and my heart is always settled when I think about what took place. I know I wasn't asking for trouble. I know I was trying to be helpful and was taken advantage of. I also know I was right to fight back and to get as far away as I could. You'll have to forgive me if I don't apologize for my actions - - today I would have hit him three or four times and stood over his bloody corpse to be damn sure he was dead. I wouldn't need my brother, but I may still explain myself to him. He would understand. Today, I pray Dale has accepted Christ, but that doesn't excuse his actions from before he did; I am a survivor, and I will kill. These two things I know about myself. I hope to God, I never have to prove it.
To anyone who has been attacked, who has been violated, I commend every effort on your part to survive and to cope with the aftermath of what is left in our thoughts, our dreams, our lives after having experienced such hardness; it should never happen, but it does. I pray for peace, and I look for peace. I believe through the years I've found it many times over. I know I raised my girls to think before they act, to be strong and forceful when necessary, and to be mindful of their surroundings. It's the least we can do to create a better tomorrow.
Me at 19. This was taken in May, 1981.
