“ I
am here today not because I
want to be. I am terrified. I
am here because I believe it is
my civic duty to tell you what happened to
me while Brett Kavanaugh and I were in
high school.” - Dr. Christine Blasey Ford
On a Thursday afternoon late in
September, these words were spoken but
not heard. They fell on the deaf ears of
blind men sitting just feet away, the Kings
of the Hill — Capitol Hill. Reverberations
of these words were felt through television
sets in living rooms, and through car
radios, and through newspaper headlines
and through conversations between
couples behind you in coffee shops. While
these words were not heard, they were
felt. Half of the committee room felt them,
half of America felt them and I felt them.
For two full days of “hearings,” a week of
an investigation and finally a vote, things
carried on pretty much like this.
Time is truly, as they say, of the essence
when it comes to these kinds of things,
like when healing time sometimes
exceeds that of the statute of limitations.
And while time may seem to be working
in your favor, it might actually be working
against you. How much time did it take
us to get here? Depending on who you
ask, you’ll get different answers. Many
point back to a letter, which Ford sent
recounting her alleged sexual assault
by Justice Brett Kavanaugh. Others
point back to his nomination itself as the
impetus. Others still look over 30 years
back, to the summer of 1982. Some look
a little closer, to about this time in 1991
when another woman, attorney Anita
Hill, fought the same fight only to lose.
Have the rules changed since then?
Personally, I’d say it took about two
years.
“Have you heard anything about this
whole Kavanaugh thing?” he asked.
I hadn’t. But, two weeks into school I
was still actively trying to fit in with my
boyfriend’s new “law school” friends.
“She’s not like other undergrads.” I’d
imagine them thinking after I wooed
them with my eloquence discussing
current events. Of course, such a facade
could not be maintained for long.
I nodded, adding, “It’s a real shit show,”
every bit as eloquent as one might expect.
Thinking I’d entered this Buffalo Wild
Wings to pretend to watch the Lions
game, I fell, ill-prepared, into a political
arena I’d been hoping to avoid.
So it began: “Do you think she made it
up?” No.
“When do you think she might step
forward?” Why should she?
“Why’d Feinstein keep it under wraps
so long?” Who?
“Could it really be any different from
Anita Hill?” There’s been so much
progress since then, hasn’t there?
“Can I get out? I have to pee.”
The last one was from me. My thighs
stuck to the seat as I slid out from the booth.
My now red and slightly sticky thighs
carried me to the bathroom. Pants up, I
sat down on the toilet, arms outstretched,
hands pressed into either side of the stall.
My breathing slowed, and only then did
I realize that I’d been breathing quickly.
I had heard of Kavanaugh. I knew he’d
been nominated to the Supreme Court.
And, living in Washington, D.C. over
the summer had indirectly taught me
a lot about his opinions on everything
from presidential indictment to the
maintenance of precedent. But I hadn’t
yet heard the 50 yes votes and 48 no
votes. I hadn’t yet seen him sneer and spit
through his testimony. I hadn’t yet read
the Washington Post article outing Ford
as the accuser, or the Wall Street Journal
op-ed where he too claimed the status of
“victim,” and I certainly hadn’t yet heard
of a letter being passed hand-to-hand that
would change the course of Kavanaugh’s
nomination.
At this point in time, I had only heard
thoughts on an attempted rape from
the mouths of first-year law students in
between slurps of Canadian beer and
bites of mozzarella sticks. They liked
beer.Sliding back into the booth, they
were once again talking about the game.
The Lions actually won. In retrospect it
feels like a sick sort of foreshadowing.
For that entire week, I was besieged by
the Kavanaugh hearings. Being a fairly
politically-active person, and associating
with similarly politically-active friends,
it was the only topic of discussion. Like
a dance we’d begin slowly, circling each
other from across the room to start with
small talk. The music begins, with a soft
introduction: “How’d your meeting go
this afternoon?”
“Did you end up getting that summer
job?” then, like a sharp note to switch the
tone we clasp hands:
“So, what do you think about all this
Kavanaugh stuff, huh?” A tango. For the
most part, I let them lead. Some push the
tempo, “Timing was way too fishy, she’s
gotta be lying.”
Kicking up my heels, in, out, step back
and one, two, three…
Others slow things down. “Really, I just
never watch the news anymore,” an open
embrace.
But eventually, we get there, their hot
take I didn’t ask for, or a tempered position
that I could’ve gone without. Since tango
is
highly
improvisational,
personal
and impulsive, it is not strange that it
has managed to quickly evolve from its
traditional form into dozens of styles that
are today practiced all around the world.
So too, is it not strange that the simple
topic of the Kavanaugh hearings has
evoked dozens of different conversations,
following me, one leg wrapped around,
gancho-style in a closed embrace. Friday
ended and I was granted the temporary
reprieve of an empty dance card.
During that break, I, and the country
waited. And it is in this in-between, this
schism of time, that I put pen to paper.
Like Ford had told the Washington
Post before going public, “Why suffer
through the annihilation if it’s not going
to matter?”
For me, the Kavanaugh hearings had
crumbled a wall. The reverberations of
Ford’s testimony were felt in a part of my
brain that had gone untouched for nearly
two years — dormant and undisturbed.
I had built a wall in the back of my mind
and forgotten what I’d placed behind it.
Then in sleepy September a voice came
knocking, cracking and crumbling the
wall I’d maintained for so so long.
During her five minutes, Sen. Amy
Klobuchar,
D-Minn.,
asked
Judge
Kavanaugh whether or not he had ever
blacked out from drinking.
Quite famously now, he retorted “Have
you?”
I had.
While I heard a lot of questions over
the two days of hearings, many listed
above, the one that rose above the rest,
that resounded the loudest and hung
in my mind was; “What would have
happened if I had reported?” and “If
not then, will I have to later?” Fickle
time reared its ugly head once more. I
didn’t speak up when it happened to me.
I didn’t know how. I wasn’t ready, and I
didn’t want to. I needed time to process
what had happened. To sober up and
straighten my clothes. I needed healing
time, both physically and mentally. Later,
I needed therapy, 55 minutes at a time
but sometimes we went a little over. I just
needed time. But, as written, and pinned
on the black dresses among the protestors
in the Senate building, “Time’s up.”
Looking
back,
the
evidence
is
undeniable. Not that Kavanagh was guilty
of anything or even guilty of attempted
anything, but instead that truth is placed
at a lesser premium than politics and
privilege. When it comes to reporting
rape and attempted rape, the burden falls
wholly on the shoulders of an already
broken woman. We don’t give time credit
for how ruthless and unforgiving it can be.
Time will not wait for you to be ready. I will
never be ready to report. I don’t know if
anyone is ever actually ready. Sometimes,
something just forces you to — a desire for
justice, the hope to prevent a perpetuation
of pain, or in Ford’s case, the recognition
of something bigger than the self. For me,
this piece was not written, it was born: the
bastard child of two unwanted affairs.
Wednesday, October 31, 2018// The Statement
3B
Aftershocks
BY B.A. BACIGAL, CONTRIBUTOR
ILLUSTRATION BY VALERIE CHRISTOU