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Chapter Thirty
Nala
We live in a world that turns on its axis, and on its people.
For all of the advancements we’ve made, all of the strides in technology and communication, for all of the programs we’ve begun to end hatred, to enforce peace and acceptance, the one thing we can’t do is teach people compassion. We can show them justice, we can tell them to accept everyone, and we can teach them to try. For the most part, they do. People try to accept other people, even when they don’t understand them.
Until something happens that we have no answer to, no reason for.
Until something happens that makes us ask the questionwhy. Why, in the name of all that’s holy, would someone do this? Why do we murder, rape, beat, steal, cheat, lie? And because we don’t like the answers we find, because we don’t always understand them, we give a simpler one, and we start looking for the scapegoat.
In the case of rape and sexual assault, that would be the victim.
We preach about the woman’s liberation: her right to choose, to entice, to work, to stand free of a man and break through the glass ceiling. But when that woman consumes alcohol, when she finds herself unsteady on her feet, and not of her senses or wits, unable to sayyesorno, unable to defend herself, we don’t defend her—we blame her.
When a woman makes the choice to go out, to wear something sexy, we believe she’s forfeited her right to defend her actions, to defend her morals, to even defend her innocence. If something happens to her, we don’t see her as a victim of a crime, but of her own choices. We don’t look at the man responsible for demeaning and raping her, for harming her and taking away her choice, and her self-worth, and we don’t ask him why, when she didn’t respond, when she cried out in pain, why for the love of God didn’t he stop?
No, we don’t ask him those questions. Instead, we look to her, and we ask why she put herself in danger. And then we ask her why she didn’t know any better.
The woman who is liberated must never cross the line in which we ask men to examine their actions; we are a country built on the ideas, ingenuity, canniness, and downright brutality of man—to question their motives is to question our existence.
I’ve been the girl Liza is now—the one sitting in the police station, telling her story while someone looks at her with a mixture of uncertainty, concern, and horror…and blended, but not hidden with these three, is resignation.
Another silly girl who thought he meant it when he said he loved her—when will they learn?
I see this question in the cop’s eyes, though he doesn’t say it.
Liza sees it too, because her head bows, her chin nearly hitting her chest, and her words dribble off.
“Do you want to press charges?”
His voice is gruff, and though I’m almost certain that’s just how he sounds, it makes Liza jump, her thin shoulders beginning to tremble.
Sick at the thought of what she’s going through, I place a gentle hand over hers, and look up. “Can we have a second, officer?”
With a sigh, he nods, heaving himself out of his chair and walking a few feet away to speak with another cop.
I feel Malcolm’s presence beside me, but I don’t look at him, because if I do, I won’t be able to say what’s coming, and Liza needs to hear it.
“He doesn’t believe me,” she whispers. “The way he was asking those questions…he thinks I deserve this.”
I shake my head, my hand still covering hers. And then I ask her the hardest question she’s ever going to answer. “Liza, did your ex-boyfriend rape you?” She shudders, but she doesn’t speak right away, and though it makes me sick, I squeeze her hand gently until she looks at me, and I ask her again. “Did he force himself on you, rip at your clothes, and touch you without your consent?” Her trembles are so hard my body begins to shake with hers, but we never break eye contact. “Did you tell him to stop, try to push him away, start crying when he invaded your body? Did you fall down crying when he was done, helpless to move or get yourself anywhere because the pain and shock of what happened was so much?”
We’re both crying, but finally—finally—she nods her head, a breathless, “Yes,” whispering through her chapped lips.
I turn my palm up and link our fingers, then almost breaking down when she holds my hand tightly. “Then you don’t worry about who believes you and who doesn’t. Because this cop? He won’t be the last to question you and what you did that provoked Adair. There will be more like him, more people who feel sorry for you, but assume you’re making it up because you regret sleeping with him, or because they think you’re mad at him, or that you want attention. There will be more people who will look at you and blame you for being raped because goddammit, you just should have known better than to go to a party and have fun.”
My chest is heaving now, and behind me, I hear Malcolm suck in a harsh breath. But I don’t stop. “But it doesn’t matter what they think—it only matters whatyou know. And only you know what it was like to be violated that way. Only you know what it’s like to sayno, and be ignored, to have someone take something from you that you will never in your life get back. And still, you’re not alone,” I tell her, and this time she leans over and sobs on my shoulder.
Wrapping my arms around her, I hold her close. “You’re not alone, Liza, because I know what it’s like, too, and I believe you.” My own tears are falling, my chest so tight it feels like there is a fist around it, but I keep going until it’s all out. “I’m here, Liza—until the end, I’m here, and I won’t ever let you down. Because I know.I. Know.”
+ + +
It takes almost two hours for Liza to finish. When the original cop came back, he had a woman officer with him, and she was far more compassionate. She talked to Liza about going to the hospital, and doing the rape kit, and though Liza said we didn’t have to, Malcolm and I went with her. He was silent then, like he has been since I told Liza I knew what she was going through.
Now, Liza’s parents are with her, and I’m driving us home. I want to look over and ask Malcolm what he’s thinking, but I don’t—can’t. A part of me is numb, that familiar sensation of retreating inside myself beginning. It would take nothing for me to check out, to step back, step in and close everyone else out.
But it wouldn’t be right.
