|Photo Credit: Allan Wong Photography|
I was 12 and he was my swimming instructor.
We had lessons every Saturday.
He taught me the breaststroke, freestyle and how to somersault underwater.
He also taught me how to rub sunscreen on his shoulders, back and thighs.
He corrected my diving form and strokes.
He also corrected me when I refused to hug him.
The first time he tried to put his hand down my swim trunks, I did not know what to do.
I did not know that it was wrong.
I was 12 and he told me not to tell anyone.
I was 14 and he was my classmate’s older brother.
We were there to celebrate my friend’s birthday.
Somebody put on a movie and we all sat around, popcorn in hand.
He sat behind me, almost casually – playing the part of protective older brother.
Thirty minutes into the movie, in the pitch black room, he rubbed his boner against the small of my back.
When I felt his hands beneath my t-shirt, I did not know what to do.
I remembered someone telling me that it was wrong.
I was 14 and he told me not to tell anyone.
I was 18 and he was my driving instructor.
I was learning how to do a three point turn and balance clutches.
It was a quiet evening and we were alone in a secluded area.
He told me that I was not changing gears right and put his hand around mine.
He made a offhand remark and gestured by putting his hand on my thigh.
He told me stories about the prostitutes he frequents and asked me if I wanted to have sex with him.
I knew that it was wrong.
I was 18 and he told me not to tell anyone.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a similar situation.
I don’t know if your sister, girlfriend, nieces, or someone that you love have ever been in a similar situation.
But what I do know is this:
It doesn’t have to be rape for you to know that it is wrong.
It doesn’t have to be rape for you to do everything in your power to stop it from happening again.
It doesn’t have to be rape for you to realized that you shouldn’t keep quiet; that you should tell someone.