It starts like it always does: she comes home and says, Mama.
A boy grabbed her butt on the football field. It’s just a game, he said.
It’s not a game, I tell her. It’s assault. His hand, his words, both wrong.
I email the principal and show it to my girl: we do not have to take this.
A boy grabbed my daughter’s ass on the field, told her it was just a game.
I don’t write this is sexual assault (because he knows that, we all know that)
in my email to her principal. I’m trying to show my girl: we do not take this.
We wait an hour, then another hour, then a day. Then a week.
I didn’t write this is sexual assault, because he knows this. We all know this
right? He wouldn’t ignore assault, this man, who is in charge of safety?
We wait another day, then a week, another week. Then a month.
This is what we show our girls: their bodies belong to men, who protect men.
Is he really ignoring this? Then I learn: this man, in charge of student safety,
is a candidate for superintendent. And the board member running the search is a man.
This is what we show our girls: their bodies belong to men, who protect men.
I call the board member and say: this man did not protect my daughter,
this candidate for superintendent. The board member running the search, this man,
says: There’s really nothing I can do. You can fill out this form.
I say to this school board member: do you not have a daughter?
I am not filling out a fucking form. Why are you not outraged?
There’s really nothing I can do, he says. Just fill out the form.
This is not a game, I say. It’s assault. His hand, your words? Wrong.
I am not filling out a fucking form. Why am I the only one outraged?
This ends like it always does: a girl comes home, and whispers: Mama.
Photo by Tom Caillarec on Unsplash
