This thing is bigger than Kavanaugh.

And it's been going on forever. What's different now is that people - women - are talking about it. Women are telling their stories of sexual abuse and violation. This still often leads to, “Why didn’t you tell the police?” (Your parents, the principal, your boss, whatever.)

And that, is the very crux of the story. We have been taught not to tell.

My mother – basically – said all the things mothers said to girls. “It’s a man’s world,” “Men only want one thing,” and of course, “Don’t go into the woods with boys and pull your pants down.” 

Umm, maybe that last one was unique to Till.

At any rate, what was drilled into me was fear. And it was a complicated, layered fear! When the my very first male teacher told me I was “dense,” I was destroyed! He had asked me to get the globe (this was in fifth grade) and I, apparently, looked all around but didn’t see it.

You know - the stuff I do constantly now. I’m 65.

But at that moment I was surrounded by boys who ALREADY knew something I didn’t know and had just seen it in action: men rule. I was just a girl. 

Boys could be intensely dismissive, as if I were invisible, or worse. They seemed to definitely be IN CHARGE. There was never a doubt who the kickball captains would be, or who would be class president. Boys got those spots. So even at that tender age, it was clear to all of us – we boys and girls were learning our roles.

So, the idea of telling about abuse seemed, well, sort of like standing in rain and proclaiming it wet.

It certainly didn’t occur to me that I could’ve told Principal Bixler about Mr. Sekelsky’s “dense” comment, and get this, my mom taught at the same school! (The MEN-ARE-SCARY mantra had been drilled into me so thoroughly that my familiarity with the school and staff didn’t change the “don’t talk” rule. I’m sure that’s why girls don’t tell their mothers or often, even their best friends about how they experienced this it’s-a-man’s-world thing.)

So flash forward to 1971. Sort of a hippie, I liked the devil-may-care attitude exemplified by hitchhiking. It was fun. And, duh, it was free.

Besides, our family had always picked up travelers with a thumb out alongside the road. (I think it was from Dad’s Navy days. Before he shipped off to the Pacific, he hitched home on "leaves" and so, later on, as a family, we'd spot the Crackerjacks with their sea bags. Plus, being country folk, we also might have been more inclined to help a stranger on the road because it really could be such a long stretch between approaching cars back then.) So although the idea of a young girl hitchhiking around on her own is not something my mother would have okay-ed, she did, in fact, approve of giving hitchhikers a ride, even when she drove alone.

I don’t remember what I needed in Squirrel Hill, but it was always easy to get a lift on Forbes Avenue. I had hitchhiked from downtown Pittsburgh (alone) at 3 AM along that route before. This was daylight and sometime in the fall. I was wearing what we – hippie chicks - all wore: blue jeans and a top made from tied bandannas. I was probably barefoot.

The car stopped for me and I jumped in. As soon as I did, the driver sped up, with the help of a green light on the way. I looked over to see the man – I have no recollection of his face - with his engorged penis in his left hand while he steered with his right. Without hesitation – as if I’d done it a thousand times – I jerked open the door and tumbled out into the traffic. I remember running into an art gallery immediately, for no apparent reason except that it was there.

I shook all over for a few minutes, looked at bad student art for awhile and then went about my day. I have no recollection of getting to Squirrel Hill that day or anything else of that day. Of course, I told no one.

Why did I not tell? Well, first off, it seemed ludicrous. DID THAT JUST HAPPEN?

Secondly, I was “asking for it,” right? A young girl, hitchhiking alone?

It never EVER crossed my mind that I’d suffered sexual abuse or assault. What I’d done was not be clever enough to assess the situation before I jumped into the car. Lesson learned; be more AWARE.

The subtle layers of this – and every other assault, from catcalls and demeaning comments to physical threats or violence – are now rippling through me and every other woman on the planet, I suspect.

Because, I was “groomed” for this! 

I was “groomed” to not value myself, to not respect myself. The voices I’ve heard supporting Dr. Ford tell me that I am not alone. I was groomed to be a victim of gender inequality and whatever came along with that. Most importantly, I was groomed to not imagine that things could ever be different than they were.

My brother thought he was helping me when he said I couldn’t be a veterinarian because “Girls can’t do that.” My high school guidance counselor said I could not be a film director because “Girls can’t do that.” My mother – who had taught physics – feigned ignorance when we had car trouble, gushing at the truck driver who stopped to help. (The Academy Award goes to Till Farber for Helpless Female.)

I saw, I learned and I believed it all.

Of course, the woman’s movement in the 60’s and 70’s opened my eyes in major ways. I never, ever said I was “not good at math” because that seemed silly; how could my vagina impact my algebra aptitude? I took industrial arts classes and learned “manly” arts like woodworking and printing. I treasure those skills to this day. 

But I now have a chance to challenge the deeper ways I was unconsciously accepting this “man’s world”. As an adult woman, I learned the role of the female in sex. The bottom line is that men pitch and women catch, and no matter how unsexy the interaction is, men “have to finish what they start”. Frankly, it’s a little confusing – we women get this one second of complete power over men WITH THE IMPLICIT AGREEMENT that there is no “No” after a certain point in a man’s arousal. (If my children are reading this, I apologize.)

This is why women will sometimes take the moment when a man is transfixed and adoring to say, “We have back-to-school night on Thursday” or something else as peculiarly out of place. For that second, we have your complete attention and we know that when you are drained, your interest in us will be too. 

That’s probably why Dr. Ford’s recounting of Kavanaugh’s hand on her mouth felt so threatening. We are just now beginning to find a voice we never even knew we had been missing. 

His smothering of her is symbolic – and real - for all of us.