While I feel like I’m going to extraordinary lengths to distract myself until I can figure out a plan of action (full time job, freelance writing, mother of two, dog mum, dinner party guest, Funk Fitness addict, Netflix binger… the list continues,) I can’t stop thinking about Christine Blasey Ford and Brett Kavanaugh.
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The result of his trial, the apology Donald Trump gave him, “on behalf of the nation,” (cue involuntary gag face) and the thought that after finally getting the courage to speak up, Christine Ford was not believed – terrifies me.
As a woman I am scared for myself. As a mother I am scared for my children. As an American citizen I am scared for my country. As an Australian I am embarrassed. But as a victim, I am now brave.
When I was 17, I moved out to Los Angeles to “make it” in Hollywood. While I may have been young and naïve and had a bit too much chutzpa for my own good, I was honest, hardworking, generous and trusting.
After landing a role in a small student film, I was absolutely ecstatic to get in front of an actual camera and director. It was a piece that took place in the 1950s and I played the racey teenager at the drive in diner who wore high waisted pants, Cinderella flats and a cashmere sweater that accentuated my very pointy bra.
My character was a feminist and I loved that I got to bring a bit of sass to the screen. My love interest, who I shall call Danny (think Grease,) was played by a baby faced man a bit older than me. Twenty years older to be exact.
He was charming and adorable and our on screen chemistry carried on between takes as we’d laugh about The Simpsons and the crazy things we’d seen on Hollywood Boulevard.
After filming wrapped, we all attended a cast party together and someone brought out a huge bottle of vodka.
Even though I was not of drinking age or even legal age for that matter, I partook and became very intoxicated.
My harmless flirting with Danny suddenly turned into a not-so-harmless blur. I recall waking up in a bedroom in a compromised position and felt Danny pressed against my body. I panicked. My legs felt heavy. My eyes were burning.
I managed to push Danny off of me, get myself up, get my pants on and stumbled out of the room. I found my friend, Annie, and explained that I desperately needed to leave. She got us swiftly into a cab and held me as I began to cry.
The main question playing over and over in my head was, “Was this my fault?” I kept asking myself what I did wrong. Was it drinking vodka? Was I too flirty? Had I asked for it? What if I hadn’t woken up? The fact that I don’t remember going into the bedroom, consenting for any sort of intimacy or could even barely form words made me feel disappointed with myself. I had let my guard down.
At no point did I think – gee that 37 year old man behaved badly and he should be punished. For nearly 15 years I simply felt ashamed. I felt like I was in the wrong. But as I watched Christine Blasey Ford testify against Brett Kavanaugh I realised that I am most definitely not in the wrong.
As a decent human being in this world, I deserved to be looked after that night – not humped.
And if I saw that Danny was about to be voted into one of the highest political positions in ANY country, you best believe that I would go to any length to let the world know that perhaps they should consider someone else because now I’m telling myself something very different: You were a child and you went to a party with adults who encouraged you to drink vodka.
When you became legless, the man who seemed like your friend didn’t safely get you home or nestle you on the couch with Saltines and water.
He took you into a bedroom, pulled your pants off and put his body onto yours.
Summer Land is a writer and author of Summerlandish: Do As I Say, Not As I Did.