The Time I Was Sexually Assaulted and Everybody Just Watched
Apparently, it’s my fault for not having been born a totally different person
Growing up, everybody looked at me as “the oddball.” During a recent visit with my family, one of my aunts verbally recalled how I was “a weird kid” (and I told her she was right!). There were many reasons for this.
I had undiagnosed autism. I felt intense self-consciousness over my body image. I was a closeted gay boy. I simmered in constant anger over my family’s economically-poor status. I hated gym class — for a variety of reasons (some justified, some irrational).
That last one was probably what did me in.
The boy who would eventually become My Assailant probably picked up on a lot of these cues about me. He then proceeded to weaponize them against me, all at the same time, during a Physical Education class we had together as high school freshmen.
How It Started
He first moved to my hometown when we were in the Sixth Grade, around November or December. We both had Mr. Wester as our “core” teacher for most subjects in the morning.
I remember the first time I interacted with My (Future) Assailant. Our teacher wanted us to work in trios for an activity, so he picked one-third of the class to choose triad partners.
Most kids partnered up pretty quickly. There were only about half-a-dozen of us who hadn’t found partners yet. Mr. Wester instructed My Assailant to pick two partners.
First, My Assailant chose a boy named Vincent. Then, he chose me. I suspect he picked Vincent first because they shared a common racial background. I suspect he chose me second because I was the only other boy out of the “unpartnered” choices remaining.
My Assailant and I had Phy Ed together on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I remember, while we were showering after gym activities one afternoon, I could see him checking out my fully-nude body. He had a rather salacious gleam in his eyes.
This didn’t bother me. We were both naked, and we were both boys. I actually felt kind of flattered.
In fact, even though I hadn’t come to terms with my homosexuality yet — on some level, his mischievous stare might have made me feel “seen” (literally!). That it’s natural and brotherly for guys to look at each other’s naked bodies and share mutual camaraderie.
A year later, we had homeroom together in Seventh Grade. On one specific occasion, My Assailant started physically shoving me while Mrs. Staffon was out of the room. Several of our classmates cheered for him.
Keep in mind: My Assailant literally had to get up from his assigned desk near the back of the room and scamper all the way to the front of the classroom, where my assigned desk was.
In Eighth Grade, he and I were in the same quarterly rotation of specialty classes (Foreign Language, Tech Ed, F.A.C.E., and Art). When we began Art during the Fourth Quarter of the school year, we sat together at the same worktable. One day, he started asking me about my masturbation habits.
Did I “jack off,” ever? How often did I do it? How big was my penis?
“Why do you want to know my size?” I asked him, bewildered.
“I want to compare,” he replied, somehow both devious and nonchalant in his tone.
So I denied masturbating (although I could tell he didn’t believe me). I told him I wasn’t going to answer his questions.
He admitted that he masturbates because “it’s fun.” (Well, he was right about that!)
Even though the only other kid sitting with us was a fun-loving boy named Chris — I was afraid other kids at the tables around us might overhear. I felt uncomfortable sharing those facts about myself…especially when girls were within earshot.
Another time, he directly asked me if I was gay.
Trying to play innocent, I responded to him, “Do you mean ‘gay’ like if someone says ‘Oh, that’s so gay’…or ‘gay’ as in homosexual?”
“‘As in homosexual,” he confirmed.
“No,” I said, denying it even while having internally convinced myself that I was *merely* bisexual and needed to hide it from everyone.
He didn’t seem to believe me.
If any of these incidents had been standalone, one-time events — I probably wouldn’t have dwelled on them.
But, in hindsight, I now can see a premeditated thought process to My Assailant’s psychology, based on his occasional bullying of me in middle school.
A Sexual Harassment Pattern Develops
Freshman year high school Phy Ed, Second Semester.
It started off mild.
My Assailant would touch my butt in the locker room. Other times, he would reach out and pinch my pecs; usually, I had a shirt on. He was able to do these things to me without Mrs. Rykken noticing, because there was no supervision in the boys’ locker room.
Another time, he impishly pulled down my gym shorts. Fortunately, we were in the locker room when it happened. None of the other boys cared, one way or the other. I tried to laugh it off, as I pulled up my athletic shorts.
If he’d done it in front of the girls, I would have been utterly mortified.
Soon, he became slightly more brazen. He would touch me in this manner during random times while we were having class activity. Other kids would giggle.
Magically, it always happened when Mrs. Rykken was in another area…or looking in another direction from where we were.
Then, My Assailant realized that he could get away with a lot more without much consequence.
One afternoon, Mrs. Rykken timed each of us, individually, to see how many push-ups we could quickly do within one minute. When it was my turn, I closed my eyes so I could concentrate better on my form and speed without glimpsing at the distraction of all my other classmates watching me.
About halfway through, I heard a chorus of snickers from a multitude of classmates.
I opened my eyes…only to see My Assailant, who had scooted over to me and craned his neck underneath my torso. He was pretending to suck my nipples (even though I had an athletic shirt on).
“Brandon!” I exclaimed, trying to keep my shaken voice as calm as I possibly could. He slid out from underneath me, and I rested my knees on the gym floor.
“Okay, Brandon…that’s enough clowning around,” Mrs. Rykken said to him, in her detached, monotonous voice.
Later, My Assailant came up to me and grabbed both of my pectoral muscles underneath my shirt. He squeezed them.
More of our classmates laughed. This time, Mrs. Rykken saw it happen.
From across the gym, she made eye contact with me — probably to gauge my reaction. I remember her facial expression almost resembled that of a deer-in-headlights.
Mrs. Rykken’s reaction, here, was very abnormal for her. She was known for being a swift and matter-of-fact disciplinarian when she needed to be.
But it felt almost as though she was telepathically seeking my permission for her to discipline My Assailant.
I didn’t react the way I’d wanted to. If it had been up to a totally uninhibited Teenaged Eichy, I would have screamed at My Assailant, at the top of my lungs…
“Get your fucking hands OFF OF ME, you fucking pervert!!!!!”
…and then fled from the gym, in tears.
But I knew I couldn’t do that. I had to swallow my degradation and put on a brave face.
Being gay (but closeted), average-looking, unathletic, gender-nonconforming, antisocial (undiagnosed autism), working-class, and having offbeat interests/hobbies was already enough of a collection of strikes against me, in my school district.
The last thing I needed was to add “melodramatic brat” to my tainted reputation.
The Fateful Day
During the very next class period, Mrs. Rykken had us all running laps around the gym.
My Assailant intentionally ran alongside of me…and then PUSHED ME.
Several times.
“Brandon!” came Mrs. Rykken’s voice, now extremely fierce, from across the gym.
This time, she noticed what he was doing…and couldn’t ignore it.
My Assailant shoved me even harder — slamming me into the wall.
“BRANDON!” Mrs. Rykken barked, finally getting him to stop.
He didn’t bother me for the rest of the class period…until us boys headed into the locker room to get dressed.
I had opened my locker, and was holding my combination lock in my hands…
My Assailant approached me, a big shit-eating grin on his face.
At first, I thought he was going to do something goofy…like try to have a mock tickle-fight with me. I guess I was still in denial about his nefarious soul.
He grabbed my pecs, again.
And then he shoved me.
My combination lock clattered to the floor.
No, he actually wanted me to fight him. He was trying to physically accost me!
I didn’t want to get into a fight with anyone. I’d already been in a traumatic playground fight, as a Third Grader. I was getting too old for this!
Each time my assailant advanced toward me, I kicked him.
I didn’t make very agile contact. I wasn’t a skilled ninja, after all. But it was enough to get him to back away. But then, he’d advance back toward me…and we’d repeat this dance.
I was consciously and mentally channeling my inner Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which happened to be airing its freshman season on The WB, that spring).
The other boys just stood around, watching. In silence.
Not even actively cheering for either of us. Just observing me and My Assailant — almost dumfounded as to whether or not they should intervene.
Eventually, My Assailant backed off. I guess he’d had his fill of embarrassing me — and reducing my humanity to a stereotype — in front of multiple people…yet again.
Once everyone, fully dressed, had gathered out in the hallway to wait for the dismissal bell…some of the boys were cracking jokes about My Assailant’s naughty overtures toward me. A few of the girls (including one particularly sadistic classmate named Leah) joined in, even though they hadn’t been there to witness our locker room altercation firsthand.
At this point, Mrs. Rykken realized something “really serious” had happened (thank you for finally snapping out of your trance, Coach!). As the final bell rang (with this being the final class period of the school day), Mrs. Rykken took me aside in private and wanted to know what my classmates were talking about.
I told her exactly what My Assailant had just done. My face was red. Verbally, I tried to put on a brave front and downplay the wounds it was opening for me.
I could see that she was horrified, but she didn’t know what to do about it.
“We’re going to have to tell Mrs. Weber,” said Mrs. Rykken, concern finally audible in her voice.
Mrs. Weber was our vice-principal, in charge of handling all student disciplinary problems. She was not-so-affectionately known around the school as “Warden Weber” (due to her no-nonsense approach, as an authority figure) or “The Penguin” (a mocking of her short stature and facial features).
Somebody FINALLY Stands Up For Me
Even though I was a “good kid” who rarely ever got in trouble, being brought to Mrs. Weber was the last thing I wanted.
Even though I knew I’d done nothing wrong, I’d intentionally spent all of my freshman year consciously avoiding Mrs. Weber because her demeanor intimidated me.
But Mrs. Rykken was giving me no choice. Obediently, I let her escort me to Mrs. Weber’s office.
When we first arrived there, Mrs. Rykken told Mrs. Weber that I had some harassment to report.
Mrs. Weber turned to me, receptively; her demeanor actually seemed soft and eager to listen. I’m assuming this was because she probably knew who I was, even though she and I had never directly interacted during the school year (again, because I’d intentionally avoided her).
From what little Mrs. Weber knew about me, I was “a good kid” who’d never been sent to her for disciplinary problems before.
So I told Mrs. Weber the whole account. Every sequence of events related to Mrs. Rykken’s gym class.
Her eyes kept getting wider, each time she heard about an additional way in which My Assailant had tortured me.
She was absolutely appalled.
“And then he squeezed my chest,” I capped off for her, having recounted the locker room incident from earlier that afternoon.
“You mean your breast?!” Mrs. Weber gaped, almost choking the words out of her mouth as though it was unfathomable.
“Yeah, my nipples,” I admitted lightly, trying to hide my shame.
Mrs. Weber looked at Mrs. Rykken.
“He’s out of the class” Mrs. Weber stated. “He” obviously meaning My Assailant.
Then I finished telling her about our locker room “fight”…or, at least, my assailant’s attempt to goad me into a fight.
“And none of the other boys did or said anything?” Mrs. Weber clarified for me, sounding disgusted that our male classmates had treated the skirmish almost like a casual spectator sport.
“No, they didn’t,” I admitted.
Mrs. Rykken piped up. “You’d think some of them could have spoken up and said something as simple as, ‘Hey, Brandon, knock it off!’ when it happened.”
You mean the way you FAILED TO, the first couple of times you saw it happening? I silently — and bitterly — thought to myself.
“That’s it. He’s out of the class,” Mrs. Weber repeated, again — I’m guessing more for Mrs. Rykken’s benefit than for mine.
“And I don’t know if he’s just experimenting with his sexuality…” I said, awkwardly — trying to cover for the fact that I, myself, was gay…and inadvertently engaging in internalized orientationism, in the process.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Weber reassured me. “That type of behavior is never acceptable, no matter who the student is.” She turned to Mrs. Rykken, sounding regretful. “And Sadie BEGGED me to get him into that class…”
I’m assuming My Assailant had failed a previous gym class, during First Semester.
Then, Mrs. Weber turned to me again, remorseful. “I’m so sorry this happened,” she said to me.
“It isn’t your fault,” I responded, lamely. I didn’t know what else to say.
“I know,” Mrs. Weber replied, clearly preoccupied. She probably didn’t know what else to say to me, either.
After I went home, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Weber had privately reprimanded Mrs. Rykken herself — once I was out of earshot — for having failed to intervene earlier.
When I got home, I didn’t tell my parents about any of this. I was too ashamed.
I sat in front of the TV and watched Judge Judy (which, like Buffy, was also in its first season). In fact, Mrs. Weber sort of reminded me of Judge Judy, in terms of personality.
How It Was Resolved
The next day, Mrs. Weber found me in Mrs. Hornby’s English class (during Second Hour) while we were in the school library. She updated me.
My Assailant would no longer be in the class. Furthermore, he would be instructed to stay far away from me.
“Is he mad at me?” I asked Mrs. Weber.
Although there was really no need for me to be concerned about My Assailant’s feelings, here — in hindsight, I was probably just asking this because I was worried about future reprisals from him toward me.
“I don’t think he is,” Mrs. Weber told me, assuredly. She seemed to be implying that My Assailant knew he’d been caught, he realized he was in hot water, and, for that reason, he’d leave me alone in the future.
I also just realized, years later…he and I never had any additional classes together, during subsequent semesters of high school. I wonder if that might have been a conscious effort on the part of the Guidance Department?
So, a whole 25 years later, how do I feel about this traumatic chain-of-events?
I believe that My Assailant knew exactly what he was doing. He strongly suspected I was gay (and he was right!). He used that assumption, along with several of the other attributes I possessed that made me an “outcast” in our school district, to bully and intimidate me for his own twisted pleasure.
Was he a closeted bisexual dude? Who knows? I wouldn’t be surprised. But, either way, it doesn’t matter. His individual behavior shouldn’t reflect negatively on bisexual people as a whole. Neither should it reflect badly on boys/men as a whole.
I also suspect that part of the reason why Mrs. Rykken was hesitant to discipline My Assailant, initially, was due to the fact that he’s a member of the Ho-Chunk Tribe. With my rural district being predominantly White, there was a subculture of “political correctness” amongst some teachers that conceivably made them hesitant to be “too harsh” toward Black, Indigenous, & other Students of Color.
Along with still being mad at My Assailant for his individual actions…
I’m mad at the boys who appeared content to let him pummel me right there in the locker room.
I’m mad at the girls (especially Leah) who openly laughed in amusement along with the boys when witnessing My Assailant’s torment of me.
I’m mad at Mrs. Rykken for initially “making an exception” for My Assailant, ostensibly due to attributes that had nothing to do with the transgression he was committing.
And I’m mad at our society for upholding patriarchal standards of machismo, sissy-shaming, barbarism, misogyny, heteronormativity, and the warped dynamic of misandrist neofeminism (not to be confused with ACTUAL feminism!).
At that juncture of my life, Mrs. Weber was the ONLY person willing to truly stand up for me. I’ll be forever grateful to her, for that.
But none of us should “have to” be “grateful” for any of it. No one should be treated in this way.
We’re closing in on the five-year anniversary of #MeToo (October 15, 2017). Consider this Exhibit A of how #MeToo represents me, as a masculist and a human being, as well as millions of other underrepresented men/boys — in addition to the millions of women/girls who are already being acknowledged for enduring frequent trauma.
My Assailant’s actions were the exact type of thing I was afraid would happen to me throughout a majority of my childhood and adolescence.
And, as a high school freshman, it finally manifested.
Painfully and flagrantly.
I still live with the imprint of this fear — and I carry it with me, day-in and day-out.
Even when I try my best not to.
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