by Pippa Fleming
I laid on a twin bed just inches off the ground weeping, “how the fuck did I get here?” as a hurricane hot flash and the smell of cat piss abruptly awakened me. Tears, sweat and funk permeated my sheets as I looked around the cluttered room feeling like a motherless child. As I rocked and held myself, I thought “death of a beloved and sexual assault feels the same.” First comes the shock and numbness, then come the people expressing empathetic sorrow and gestures of help. The body is laid to rest, then comes the repass with all that good soul food, while folks reminisce about the departed. When the last guest leaves, the door shutting behind them sparks the realization that you are alone and everyone else is going to get on with their lives, business as usual.
Call it intuition, a hunch or hindsight, I knew nothing was going to be done. I am a black gender non-conforming lesbian. Even with a narcissistic apology email from my perpetrator (that I’m going to share for shit’s and giggles) what could a black butch lesbian expect? I was disposable, nor was I a famous “queer” woman with a powerful platform like Ellen DeGeneres or Roxane Gay, sharing their stories of sexual assault… nor was I the wife of a famous basketball player like Steph Curry, who had a man arrested after making lewd comments about sexually assaulting her.
Continue reading: The hierarchy of Sexual assault: A gender non-conforming lesbian’s struggle for justice (source)