I remember that night, and my insides tremble.
It was twenty-six years ago, about this time of year. A cool breeze brushed against my skin as my best friend and I walked down the street, to a friend’s party just around the corner. Anticipation jogged my heart beat faster because I knew he would be there. It was that guy — the one who flirted with me in Spanish class, the one who threatened guys in the hallway that I stared at a little too long. He was handsome, funny, forward, and like no one I had ever known. My fifteen-year-old-self was taken with him for all the wrong reasons, but taken nonetheless.
We walked through the front door of the “party-house,” my friend and I, and we were greeted Cheers-style by a room full of familiar faces and Hellos. The soiree had been partying for hours already. Music blared, hip-hopping from the stereo’s speakers. A faint hint of cigarette smoke from the patio had made its way inside the living room. Crushed Bud Light cans littered the trash can almost to the brim. Lively conversation filled the house, and everyone had a drink in their hand.
The Room Upstairs
The only other thing I remember happening that night was the upstairs part. The part where he asked if he could speak to me, alone, away from all the noise. It was something really important.
I imagined he wanted to have the conversation, yes, the DTR that most fifteen-year-old girls believe locks in the relationship, but also locks in the security, identity, and self-confidence that high school relationships promise. It was the conversation I had been waiting to have all summer, the one he had dodged successfully for over six months. He wanted us to talk. Really figure this out. Fifteen minutes into my walking inside, he found me, convinced me quiet was necessary, and we made our way upstairs.
What happened in that room is not an experience I want to detail, even today.
But I breathe a sigh of relief, twenty-six years later, when I recall the moment that helped me escape from that room. I stiffened when I heard the sound. Ten feet away, the forceful jostling of the brass door handle shook the door. The party’s host, pounding loudly on the other side, yelled angrily.
“HEY, all these doors are supposed to be open! Who’s in there? I’m coming in!”
“NO, NO, we’re great!” he said, surprised, his wide Joker-smile beaming.
“Who is that in there? This is your last chance…speak up!”
Speaking louder and turning his body toward the door to be heard, he asserted, “Go back downstairs, dude, this is none of your business!”
The simple turn of his body shifted his weight and allowed me to move my mouth away from his cupped hand. Simultaneously, I attempted to scream over him in the loudest voice my pressed-down chest could manage, “Cal, Cal, come on in, Please!” Attempting to wrestle away, ” Yes, everything’s fine!” I tried to say.
As a teenager, that was the best that I could do, overcome with shame. I could eek out, “Everything’s fine” when all I felt was shame for not being a good girl. After all, I had put myself in this situation.
Cal successfully picked his bedroom door open, and the threat was immediately dismantled. We walked downstairs, away from each other, he to his group and I to mine. Minutes later, I begged my friend, “It’s time to go,” and I didn’t speak about it to anyone for twenty-six years.
Dr. Christine Ford & Brett Kavanaugh
I don’t know what happened that night, thirty-six years ago, between Dr. Christine Ford and Supreme Court Justice nominee (R) Judge Brett Kavanaugh.
I know they were both teenagers. It sounds like they were both at a party where underage alcohol consumption was taking place, clouding already immature, hormonally driven judgment. And I know that she is risking the safety of her family, which is the greatest risk any mother might ever take, to tell her story about what happened to her as an adolescent young woman.
