mercy
I often wonder if you think about it too. If you feel like life is some boring, repetitive routine. I mean, not always of course. But if, on those days where life feels like a boring, repetitive routine, you think about it too.
I wonder if it ever crosses your mind; I wonder if you dream about it like I do; I wonder if you even remember.
I see you in all of them. Or maybe I see all of them in you?
I remember riding my brother’s bike. It was pretty obviously a boys bike. But it was smaller than my mountain bike and it was better for trick jumps off our homemade ramp. So, he rode his new bike and I rode his old bike as we did jumps with our friends.
It was red and I think I remember it having flames on it. I don’t really remember. I wasn’t very concerned with what the bike looked like. I just wanted to impress all the guys with my cool moves.
But the older kids rode by, ruining all our fun. One of the guys called out, “hey, look at that lesbian on the red bike!” I was 10. And I had absolutely no idea what that meant. I just knew it had to be insulting, based on the way he said it.
So I ran inside crying, and asked my parents what it meant. They didn’t really give many details. So I looked it up. And suddenly, the very idea of it was funny to me.
I LOVED boys. LOVED them. Every style, every haircut; Their smiles and their jokes and the very fact that they’d play video games with me till our eyes burned. Girls wouldn’t do that kind of thing. They were whiny and wanted to argue about everything and I preferred skinned knees and skateboarding.
And so maybe it was weird that I rode bikes with flames on them and played with the boys, but it got me closer to them than all the other girls so that was a score, right? I mean, it was me who all the boys hung out with, so I seemed to be the real winner here. Those older kids didn’t know what they were talking about.
Awhile later, school started again and I was riding the school bus. I had this friend who I always sat by. She was a few years younger than me. I saw her as a little sister and that made me feel very protective of her.
One day, when we got on the bus, she was crying. She had a bad day at school and her parents were getting a divorce. I felt terrible for her and wanted to make her feel better. So I stuck my tongue out at her and made a weird face. She started laughing and we laughed together, forgetting all the bad stuff that happened that day. One of the boys looked over and saw us and called out, “lesbians.”
This time, what he said stuck with me. It wasn’t as funny anymore. This seemed to be a word people consistently call me, even though I felt like they couldn’t be farther from wrong. So I played video games with boys and made the girls laugh? Did that have to mean anything? These were only the things that made me happy, and I KNEW I liked boys.
So I thought maybe it was best I made a few changes. I stopped wearing basketball shorts and t-shirts and replaced them with skirts and fedoras (it was the early 2000s, c’mon).
But that didn’t work out for me either.
That same year, at the age of 10, I was riding the school bus when a high school senior leaned into me: “I like when you wear that skirt. When the sun shines just right, I can see your underwear.”
My face flushed and I couldn’t stop shaking.
When I got to school, I went to the nurses office and immediately asked for a pair of sweatpants. I went in the bathroom and threw my favorite skirt away without telling anyone what happened.
That night I cried in my bed for hours, so embarrassed that a grown man saw my underwear and liked it.
At the age of 10 I had learned how to become uncomfortable in everything I wore—a practice I haven’t easily forgotten.
In junior high I wore a shirt that I suppose fit just a little too loose. At some point in the day, a boy got a glimpse down my shirt. By the end of the day, my 6th grade year, the whole class laughed at my flat chest. He told all the guys, “I mean she’s pretty but she’s flat. Girls are supposed to have boobs.” I remember thinking to myself, “I’m 11. Do any of us have boobs?” But they laughed and laughed and talked about my flat chest, amongst all the other girls they made fun of.
The next year, I guess you could say I filled out a bit more. But I worked my hardest to dress modestly, trying not to gain too much attention.
At this time in my life, I still loved the boys. But all the other girls were becoming women too and the boys took notice. I heard the way they spoke about the other girls, and I didn’t want that. I wanted their attention, yes. But I wanted them to notice my funny jokes and my unbeatable high scores.
So far I had counted out basketball shorts, skirts, and loose fitting shirts. So jeans seemed like a safe alternative.
That year they called me a prude.
In high school, I tried not to care too much. I wore whatever made me feel like me. And I guess, that year, he noticed. He was my best friend, but he often pushed for more. He would rub my shoulders in class. He would whisper to me about the curvy shape of my body. He would tell me to be with him, as he gripped my thigh. He would hold tighter if I pulled away. He would put his hand on the small of my back and tell me I looked nice that day. He would rub his hands along my sides. He would comment on my outfits and the way they fit me. And I was always uncomfortable with it. We were friends. I just wanted to be his friend.
He would make advances, I would ask him not to. Until one day I had enough and I told him to leave me alone. If he wasn’t going to respect my boundaries, both verbally and physically, then I couldn’t keep being his friend.
And that was the end of him touching me.
But it wasn’t the end of us. Somehow, he still came up everywhere.
Weeks later a guy approached me in biology class. He said he’d give me $15 for a blowjob behind the cabinets in the room. I said, “No way.” He then offered $20. I said, “Stop talking to me.” He said, “listen I know you’re a C cup. We all do. Jacob told us all about you. What you look like, what you do with him. You’re not the prude we thought you were. He’s told us all about what you’re like. So just take the $20 and do it.”
I had my first anxiety attack that day. He told the whole school about my body that he had never seen. He told them, as if he had, in punishment for not letting him touch me anymore.
I left the school that summer, only telling my closest friend. But I made up some sorry excuse about wanting to finish school faster.
That summer it still followed me. Boys who never even noticed me, saw me now. They would snapchat me pictures I didn’t want, as I would throw my phone across the room. They would text me and ask me to come over and swim in their hot tub, asking what my swimsuit looked like. They followed me, until they realized I wasn’t coming back.
As I got older, I got a job. I worked in fast food for a few years. Our uniform required us to wear slacks. So I wore the only pair of black slacks I owned.
A new guy had started. His first day, he happened to accidentally grab my butt as he walked by. He said, “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. You just look so good in those pants.”
I went out and bought new slacks that night.
I’m 20 now. And they love pointing out how modestly I dress. But I’ve learned that boys don’t notice that sort of thing. They don’t notice that sort of thing unless they’re waiting for the day where I decide not to dress as modestly.
I wore basketball shorts and they noticed. I wore skirts and they noticed. I wore loose-fitting shirts and they noticed. I wore jeans and they noticed. I wore slacks and they noticed. I dressed modestly and they noticed.
They always noticed.
And it wasn’t just what I wore. They always had something to say. They always had something to prove.
I saw you in the male teachers who leaned in just a little too close. I saw you in the strangers who touched me as they walked by. I saw you in the people in the street who called out to me. I saw you in the cars that tried to follow me home. I saw you in the boys who hid under the stairs. I saw you in the guys sending pictures of me walking away to their bros. I saw you in old men who asked for a hug and the customers who asked me to smile. I saw you in the parking lots, as I gripped my pepper spray tighter. I saw you over my shoulder as I walked the street alone. I saw you in the boss who was only nice when I wore makeup. I saw you in the gentlemen who held the door open claiming they, “just liked to watch me walk away.”
And the most unfair of all, I saw you in the first time he, as innocent and blameless as could be, kissed me. I saw you and my heart pounded and I couldn’t breathe. I asked him to leave. I needed to be alone.
I had my second anxiety attack that day.
It felt like every day was a new scary encounter. I couldn’t escape it. Old men, teenage boys, strangers, mentors, friends, coworkers, it was everywhere.
I remember eating a meal with my friends at a nice restaurant on the beach-side. I looked up and saw him staring. Not breaking eye contact for even a blink. I look away, hoping he would too. I tried to forget about it and just have fun with my friends.
But I could FEEL him staring. I was so uncomfortable. And every time I glanced up again, he was still staring.
He was working, so he was holding a broom. And yet, he wasn’t sweeping. Only staring.
Staring.
Staring.
Right at me. I look down. One hand holding a broom, the other in his pocket, moving. I was terrified. We just kept staring at one another. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I couldn’t be sure. But I knew. I knew. We all knew.
So we left.
And they all brought me back to the same place. They all made me think of you.
This one, I remember most.
We were so so young. So young I didn’t understand it. We were just playing a game, right? Riding the bus home and playing a game.
The first game you introduced me to, you called “mercy.” One player would slide their hand up the other player’s leg until he said “mercy.” It sounded pointless, but the time would fly by faster so I agreed. Plus, you were the coolest guy in school and I was just thankful you wanted to sit by me.
You went first. You slid up my leg. The higher you got, the harder my heart pounded. You got about mid-thigh and I said, “mercy.” You called me a p*ssy. I didn’t want you to think that of me. So I let you keep going. You got to the top of my thigh and I couldn’t breathe. I said “mercy” again. You said I could do better. So I closed my eyes, held my breath, and let you keep going till you decided you were done with your turn. I was squirming in my own body, but trying to hold still because you told me to. I didn’t understand what happened, but I remember it made me feel dirty.
Then, you said, it was my turn. So I put my hand on your knee. I slid up as slow as I possibly could..scared of what might happen. I kept waiting for it to come, but you wouldn’t say “mercy.” I reached the top of your thigh and my heart pounded and I shouted,“mercy!!”
You said, “that’s not how the game works. You can’t say it. I have to say it. You have to keep going till I say it.” So I started from your knee again. And I slid up slowly, praying you’d say it. But you never said mercy. Even as I pulled my hand away, you jerked it back. You forcefully guided my hand as I kept shouting, “mercy! mercy! mercy! mercy!” So I closed my eyes and held my breath until you were done.
Then you said, “mercy.”
We played similar games for the rest of the school year.
By the time I was old enough to understand what had happened, I was also old enough to understand that you were probably confused by it as well. If I was too young to understand, you probably were too. We were the same age. So I gave you the benefit of the doubt.
But it didn’t change the fear in my interactions.
It’s not that all men were bad, but all the bad people I knew were men.
And that made it so much scarier to be around them.
After I graduated, I spent most of my time with girls. Getting to know them. Their interests, their dislikes, their experiences.
And through that, I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
I heard of their stories, stories that closely resembled mine.
Some had a harder time talking about it; others were open and ready to share. But the common ground was that they were all scared. They all felt threatened.
I finally had people to connect with. Boys didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. They either contributed to the problem, or didn’t understand how terrifying it could be.
But girls understood. They understood a lot of the things I felt.
Soon it was them who made me laugh. Soon it was them who made me blush. Soon it was them who made my stomach turn in a way that was exciting and real. I craved their attention. I wanted to give them mine. I wanted to hold their hands and listen to their stories and support them in everything.
But as pretty as they were, as understanding as they were, as smitten as they made me feel (the way the boys once made me feel), I came to the realization that it wasn’t ever really about girls.
I think it was always about men. About you. About them. About wanting to stay as far away from that as possible.
I’m older now. I understand more now. And I have met many good, good men. I have met a guy who loves me and respects me and helps me grow. He takes interest in my interests and encourages me in my pursuits.
But when I dream I still dream about you. I wake up in a panic. And no matter what happens, what memory I relive, they always have your face.
I saw you two months ago. I saw you, and in you I saw all of them.
The nightmares are back.
And I’m not angry anymore. I’m not confused anymore. But I’m still scared.
And I still wonder.
I wonder.
Do you remember it too? Do you remember it like I do? Do you see me in everyone? Did you see it in my eyes in the grocery store two months ago when you asked me, “hey, you work here right? Where are the hotdog buns?” Does it eat you alive? Or have you forgotten? Have you forgotten through your growth? Or through your carelessness? Are there more? Or do the memories make you squirm like they do me?
Do you remember?
I often wonder.
I wonder.
Mercy.
