Little Johnny Flinn

Ding, dong, bell,

Kitty’s in the well.

Who put her in?

Little Johnny Flynn.

I feel the familiar sensation rising up. 

My stomach tightens, cringing at the thought. 

My chest like glass, cracks under the weight of secret pain. 

The memories are like scars in my brain.  

Some people called them healed, but I know the truth.  

I know the truth every time someone hugs me from behind. 

I know the truth when the stare goes a little long, or a little too low. 

I know the truth when a friendly kiss makes me cringe. 

I know the truth when a once innocent face makes my heart race.

In class they told me that 90% of women know their attackers. 

So they teach us to punch, but not how to break your professor’s nose.

So they teach us to run away, but not how to walk away from a drunk family friend. 

So they teach us to report, but not what to do when your others laugh while you cry. 

Where is my voice? So eager to be heard, yet imprisoned in the painful memories. 

I thought I would be the one to press charges. Yet, I have walked away. 

Not once, but twice. 

Some women have it so much worse I say. 

Nauseated at the cliche I have become. 

I try to brush away the questions, calling them dirt. 

Not worthy of my time or my attention.

But some dirt just sticks. 

Was it my clothes? 

Why didn’t I fight? 

Is it all in my head? 

Am I now used and discarded? 

What did I do to deserve such a thing? 

Ding, dong, bell,

Kitty’s in the well.

Who put her in?

Little Johnny Flynn.

Who pulled her out?

Little Tommy Stout.

What a naughty boy was that,

To try to drown poor kitty cat,

Who never did him any harm,

But killed all the mice in the farmer's barn.

*Note parts of the original piece have been changed to cover the identity of the people who harassed me and those who “laughed while I cried.” I have never been harassed by a teacher or professor. However, in 2015 the Association of American Universities surveyed students at 27 prominent research Universities. According to that study, 10% of female students had experienced sexual harassment from a faculty member. While it is not my story it is the story of many women.

I understand that there will be some people who do not understand why I would “cover” for my attackers. This is a very complicated issue and the ripple effects of such a public uncovering would affect more than just them. Victims of sexual assault may never tell you what happened, but that doesn’t mean that haven’t told others. My encouragement is not to judge them, but instead ask, “What do you need from me?”