The Courage to Remember
College was a blissful adventure. I entered George Washington University in the Fall of 1986, wide-eyed, and full of dreams and plans. Attending school in the pulse-beat of the Nation was a gift that I was lucky to share with several classmates from my hometown. For them, and for so many of my high school friends, attending college well away from home was a given. For me, going away to school required a campaign, which I started in 4th grade.
You see, I am the third girl born to Roman Catholic parents who were not inclined to let their daughters live away from home before the age of 21. My oldest sister attended what was then called secretarial school, and moved from my parent’s house directly into the home she shared with her husband. She had a wonderful job and shortly thereafter, a family.
My middle sister had very much wanted to attend a prestigious University but, from my parents’ perspective, that was not in the cards. I can still remember the arguments. “Parents who love and protect their daughters do not send them away to school,” my mother said. That is how I figured out that I needed a plan, and a purpose, if I were ever to attend college beyond a reasonable commute from my home.
At every turn, I spoke to my parents about the things I would do if I attended Boston College, or any other school emblazoned upon the popular college-themed book covers we all had in the 1970s. I’d casually mention any tidbit I heard about my friend’s siblings enrolled at Cornell, Lehigh, or Michigan.
“Mom, did you know that Alison’s sister joined a sorority at University of Georgia?”
“Dad, I heard that Liz’s oldest sister is doing a semester abroad in Italy this spring.”
My parents would laugh and say, “Let’s get through 6th grade, and then we’ll talk.” The first time they uttered those words, I knew I had them.
As I got older and spoke more poignantly with my mom, she shared her fears about my pending enrollment in a school where I would live away from home. She confessed that she would miss me, but more than that, she would worry. Having gone straight from her father’s home to her husband’s, she had never lived alone and she wasn’t sure I would be safe far away and on my own.
When we eventually took mother-daughter road trips to visit the schools I was accepted into, my mother continued to warn me that living away from home was potentially dangerous. “Dad and I have ordered you mace,” she said on one occasion. “You’ll keep it in your purse, right?”
And she confessed things like, “Today we got you a special bar to barricade your door at night.”
And finally, there was a very specific warning: “No matter what you do, never set your drink down and leave it unattended while at a party.” She’d learned this from attending fancy cocktail parties in California with my father, when it was all the rage to slip a little something in someone’s drink and, well… you get the idea.
My mother’s warnings made sense to me. I had no reason to argue; I’d gotten my wish. I was off to attend GW, along with 7 or 8 of my high school classmates, which helped calm my parents’ nerves.
Rest assured, however — I packed the mace.
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Freshman year was fantastic. I had a single room and a key to the city. I joined my beloved AEPhi Sorority, made friends, went to fraternity parties, and explored DC hotspots. I was particularly fond of a campus bar called, “Odds,” where I over-indulged on cheap beer. At that time the drinking age in DC was 18; a distinct difference from the age of 21 back in New York.
By Sophomore year, I had the college scene under my belt, or so I thought. My social calendar was filled with fabulous nights with my sorority sisters, and serious study in preparation for becoming an educator. I lived with roommates in a building called “The Everglades,” and we moved our drinking and dancing nights to a club dubbed “The Twenty-First Amendment.” It was there that I met the first real college boys I would date.
David* was handsome, and a bit of a bad boy. We only went out two or three times, as he was still in a relationship with a girl back home, and he ultimately chose her.
Jason* was the spitting image of a grown-up Huck Finn, though shy. Our relationship ran its course within about three weeks.
Finally, Peter.* He was different. With blonde, tousled hair, like Owen Wilson, he looked the part of a surfer-dude dressed in Benetton and Brooks Brothers. Those who remember the late 80’s will recall those bright cotton, argyle sweaters. Peter sported tan trousers and what looked to be $400 leather loafers. He had style. And when he invited me out for dinner, I accepted.
As a college girl in the 1980’s, I wore the common uniform for girls from Westhester and Long Island: distressed jeans with holes in the knees, (complete with straggling denim threads) high boots, a loose, cable knit sweater, and a scrunchie on my wrist. I carried a cross-body Le Sportsac and I had poofy-permed hair, that wasn’t too high; I swear.
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Peter met me in the Everglade’s lobby, held the door as we exited and together walked from Foggy Bottom towards Georgetown. It was a beautiful night and I’d like to think we made a good-looking pair. We enjoyed outdoor seating at a Japanese restaurant where I tried sake for the first time. We laughed as we ate shrimp tempura, and I smiled as he held my hand across the table. It was perfectly lovely.
Afterward, we decided to head to a local club, where I fell in love with live Jazz and the swirling aroma of cigar smoke. We enjoyed a beer together before heading home, enjoying a slow, romantic walk under the stars back to campus. When we arrived at my dorm, I thanked Peter and we kissed goodnight. I closed the door to my apartment, or so I thought, before completely blacking out.
The following morning, I woke up in my bed, a little disheveled and still in my clothes from the night before. I was unexplainably cranky, and when asked by friends about the date, I said I had no interest in seeing Peter again. All of this was odd, and in spite of the fact that I remembered having a good time. I also remember advising others not to date him, because something in my gut told me he wasn’t the right guy for my friends. And I told my RA that Peter was a jerk.
To be clear, it wasn’t until decades later that I realized I had been date-raped that night. For years I’d had repetitive dreams about lying in my roommate’s bed while the silhouette of a male with a blank face, straddled me. As much as I tried, I could not push him away. The dreams were unsettling and unfolded in slow motion. Grateful Dead music was always in the distance, and my head was propped up by too many pillows. Most clearly, my dreams included the smell of cigar smoke and beer, which I could also taste. They disgusted me.
So why the dreams and why the unexplained agitation the day after the date? Why didn’t I recall what had happened the next day, and why did I never see Peter on campus again?
Trauma can cause memory repression, and while we may not remember what occurred, it is stored in our minds and bodies. It can be our brain’s way of distancing us from unbearable moments and is sometimes released in small flashbacks or dreams.
As I continue actively processing depression and anxiety through cognitive behavioral therapy, I am beyond grateful to my therapist. She is a genius who’s created an environment for me in which we simply, “trust the process” and follow wherever my thoughts lead. Coming to terms with the fact that I am a rape survivor has been particularly confusing, since I believed my husband was the first man I’d been intimate with. But it’s also liberating in terms of helping me understand the reasons that I’ve selected two husbands who were emotionally unavailable to me.
My mother and I cried together when I eventually told her what happened at GW those many years ago. Her greatest fears had come true, and yet I told her I was happy not to have understood what had taken place. It likely would have sent me packing on the next train home and might have ultimately thwarted my dreams about college and teaching. For those reasons, I am glad to have repressed the events of that evening. My brain was braver than I may have been and ultimately bravery mattered. I’m also happy to know that my father never had to know the pain associated with these events. He would likely have blamed himself for allowing me to go, and I would have missed out on the gleam in his eyes on the day I graduated.
“Good job, kid” he said when I handed him my diploma senior year. “Good job, indeed.”
Why tell the story all these years later? Unfortunately, college sexual assault is real and so is being drugged, or roofied, as I believe I was that night before we left the jazz club. Many of my peers have children on their way to college, and some of you reading have grandchildren headed off as well. COVID is far from the only danger lurking out there. Remember to have the “talk” with the young adults in your life. Remember, date rape happens to guys, too. And if you need help finding words or broaching the conversation, I’m here. Remember, I’ve got your back.
*Names have been changed.
