Editorial by Gabriella Montez-Bolton
When Teaching about Consent Requires More than 'Yes' and 'No'
I remember sitting down with my (then) boyfriend (now husband) with the intent to tell him about how another boy had left me with scars, and that he'd done so in the most innocent of ways. I remember feeling foolish, thinking that Troy would brush it off, or not see it as such a big deal. After all, none of my friends had ever grasped how significant it was to me. I thought he'd be much the same, but I had to tell him. I had to do this for me. I had to try one more time.
Maybe it was the look in my eyes, or the tremble in my hands. Whatever it was, he did something that I'll never forget. He did what I had needed all along and hadn't even realized it. He wrapped me up in his arms and said two words: I'm listening.
And he did. He listened as I told him about a boy who was – for all intents and purposes – a nice guy. He ascribed to feminism, he worked for a non-profit, he recycled, he saved puppies, the works! But he still hurt me, and to this day, I don't think he even knows it, because all he did was kiss me. My first kiss. All he did was enough to make me feel dirty and terrified and ashamed. But I wasn't raped. I wasn't even touched or groped, and I had said yes. So really, it's not that big a deal.
Only it is, because I carry the weight of how badly it made me feel. Because I said no the first time he asked. I even said no the second time he asked, but he kept asking, and he was such a nice guy, and I didn't want to be a tease. After all, we were on our second date. So the third time he asked me, I said yes, and he kissed me. I was shaking, and I kept telling him I was nervous, but I still stood there and let him kiss me. More than once.
Afterward, when I waved goodbye to him, he seemed so happy. I wasn't happy, though. I was scared and nauseous at the same time. I wasn't okay.
I sat in my apartment as my roommate giddily clapped and asked me how it was – because she'd seen us from the window. I told her it was fine, and that maybe it would be better next time. Then, I told her I was going to bed. I didn't sleep that night.
I'm not saying it's his fault. But I'm also not not saying it's his fault. Even the nicest, most progressive of guys can be blinded to their privilege and entitlement. He kept asking me. I should have said no a third time, but he also shouldn't have asked me a second or third time if I said no the first time. Period. He shouldn't have expected me to let him kiss me.
I've told this story to close friends, and I've been met with misunderstandings, with "At least he asked you" sentiment. Yeah. He asked me. So what? That doesn't mean that I feel any less violated.
When I told Troy this story, his response was, "I'll kick his ass." And he made me laugh through the tears I didn't know I was crying. Someone was finally listening. Someone was finally acknowledging the feelings of hurt that had been swirling inside for years.