We are not born into this world with our boundaries installed. We develop them along the way. Have you ever been the victim? Would you agree that we’ve all let ourselves feel unworthy through other people’s actions towards us at one time or another? I would go on to say that although it’s difficult to experience, I think it’s enlightening to be pushed into the state of feeling uncomfortable. It forces you to acknowledge where your line of self-respect begins.
I was in Grade four when I began to develop bumps on my chest, the first girl in my class to start to show.At that time I despised being first at anything, unless it was in a buffet line-up. Not only that, but I was a tomboy trying to live up to my Dad’s expectations for never having a boy. Why, oh why, did it have to be me that was the early developer? Wasn’t it enough I was the early riser? Curse you hormones of puberty.
I took up wearing sweaters, the bigger and the baggier, the better. Oh the hell with it, just give me a few sheep to hang off my body.
By grade five it was impossible to hide my femaleness. Lets just say I became a little hefty in the chesty. I hated it. I should have grown modest boobs to match my low-key personality.
Halfway through grade five my bountiful boobs caught the attention of a budding pervert who rode the school bus. He sat kitty corner to me. Most of my friends rode the other bus, so I spent my time reading, or watching the scenery whiz past. I would be disengaged to the other kids around me. Thats when the unrestrained molester would reach across the aisle and snatch a handful of my boobs to squeeze. I’d slap him away. He would laugh. I’d give him a poisoned look and pull my coat tightly around me. Then he’d leave me alone for a few days, and just when I was feeling safe— he’d do it again.
I thought maybe the school bus driver would take notice and save me. I began to check the rear view mirror after the snatch and grab. Sure enough the bus driver was watching. My eyes would meet his, and he’d quickly look away like he hadn’t seen. There would be no hero to the rescue coming from his direction. Eventually I came to realize he wasn’t only watching— he was leering.
Now, you might be wondering, why I didn’t tell my parents? Well, in my mind Dad had an explosive temper, and Mom just seemed tired and irritated all the time. I really didn’t want to bother them. Plus, I was mortified. I was red faced and tongue-tied embarrassed. How do you tell your parents a boy keeps grabbing your freshly grown boobs on the bus?
This was one of those moments where I should have acted first and explained later. I should have brought Dad’s cattle prod for show and tell. I could have given the little slimeball a few jolts. It might have sizzled his ardour. I may have even achieved a little respect, my own at least. Then while I was on a roll I could have given the school bus driver a few zaps. Regretfully, I didn’t do anything. I was too afraid to get into trouble.
As I look back, I clearly remembered feeling vulnerable, and unsure. I felt like a victim. Why didn’t he just keep his hands to himself? Why didn’t someone else intervene? But I know now, that solving my issue was up to me. I didn’t have to be a victim. No one has to be a victim. It is one moment in time I wish I could live over again. The first time that kid touched me I should have boxed him bloody. Well, maybe not bloody, but at least one solid right hook. Looking back, I think my parents would have supported me one hundred percent. And really, so what if my DNA providers didn’t approve of my decision to join the fight club? At least I would have stood up for myself.
In the end I solved my own problem. I simply switched seats. I carried out the peace loving pacifist move.
However, the dark side of me is still thoroughly unsatisfied. Can I have a volunteer from the audience to be a surrogate pervert?