SILENCE

Dear my 17-year-old self,

If only someone had taught you to identify the sound of a condom wrapper in the dark.




Recognizing the sound — that specific sound — might have prepared you for what happened next.

Yes, young modest me, you were a late bloomer with several mild crushes at the time. But in the ebullient victory party that followed a league championship game, you never considered that night would result in a romantic interlude. Cheeks flushed from victory, the dazzle of the packed bleachers made you unaware of the faint diadem of salt you wore across your forehead as you left the gym. You were still dressed in a warm volleyball jersey and Burley shorts, my dear girl.

The sound of that condom wrapper, heretofore unheard, was a curious sound in the quiet. That unusual commotion, following what had been an endearing amount of joking and laughter, and completely innocent kissing in the dark. So sweet it barely seems possible now.

And then you froze. Not another word was said. Canoodling ceased. Your hands fell away. You could not make a sound. There was no suggestion that you were breathing at all.

You knew about the fight-or-flight recess generated from the amygdala, my young self. But like the sound of a condom wrapper, or the particulars of coitus for that matter, you knew nothing about the physiological response of freezing.

You froze, dear girl. Your trachea betrayed you. Your vocal chords were paralyzed. Your athleticism was suddenly worthless. You gave no consent. You still had knee pads at your ankles and shoes on your feet. And then, stunned, you pretended everything was fine. Silence borne to spare EVERYONE. The way women do.

And you never said a thing.

Until now.

#metoo