Anatomy of a Rape in a Small Town.

  I was fifteen when it happened; a wild and free beautiful young girl.

 It was midnight, the beginning of the end of summer There were two of them and I was hitchhiking, " asking for it" as the town's people would later say.

  I was a fifteen year old runaway and they were two black men, off from work at the local factory.
 I've tried my best to block out that night. those three hours that introduced me to living carefree and the consequences of living wild. I think about their choice to kidnap and rape me. Was this their plan? Were they planning to kill me? I think so.
 I got into the backseat, which I  knew to never do, but I did, reluctantly. I heard a distant voice, my instinct screaming no.

  Yes, they were going to kill me. Why else would they keep me for over three hours on some desolate, backwoods farm?
 Periodically, I could hear the clicking of a gun from the younger one. There was a rope tied around my neck, more for show. Yes, they were going to kill me.

 After hours of torture, my mind going blank, a deputy's car pulled up. I was told to put my pants on. That's all I had on when I ran from their car to the deputy. It took a few moments for the other cop to realize what was going on. Mean while my attackers sped off, leaving a wallet on the ground.

 I was hysterical, screaming, well alive. I was taken to the hospital for a rape kit. My fingernails cut, hair combed and examined.

 Everyone knew. The entire town. My mother tried to convince me not to press charges. Even as young as I was, I knew what that was about. My mother was ashamed that I was raped by two black men. I was ashamed, publicly punished for my sin of hitchhiking.

 There were also an underlying emotion of anger from the town's people. How could I get into a car with two black men? Why did I allow them to rape me?  Why didn't I fight back.?  I could see the whispers, the pointing of fingers, the newspaper clippings.

 My mother never understood how terrified I was, my fear of them coming back and finding me. They turned themselves in, after all the wallet was evident of who they were. I trusted the system to put them behind bars. My mother still kept trying to convince me to not press charges. She tried to explain in her bitter voice that I was "wild" and that no one would believe me. But, I still clung to hope that they would be punished. She was only worried what people would think.
  I was left alone most of the time. I did not return back to school. I cried oceans of tears, afraid of the dark, staying numb at times.
 My sixteenth birthday was spent in court. They were sentenced to two years probation for assault and battery. They were represented by a rich, white lawyer, old enough to be my father. He had a tape recorder, frying me with his eyes.
 My mother left me at the courthouse. I had to call a friend of hers to come pick me up.

  My mother and I never spoke about this until 2003, many years later. I had questions, of course she had no desire to answer, accused me of some type of new therapy. I asked her did she blame me for my rape. She screamed " yes I do, you got in the car with t wo niggers". I replied back " would it be better if they were white?" She ran into her bedroom and slammed the door.

 That confrontation was more painful than the rape. She was my mother. How could she hold me accountable?
 
 Now I realize, it was always about her, not me. She became the victim, acquiring the town's sympathy for having a wild daughter.