Why the Kavanaugh Confirmation Has Shaken Me

I was sexually assaulted when I was a teenager.

I was lucky, I got away.

I don’t remember the date … or even the year.

I went home that night but have no idea how I got there.

I never told my parents.

I don’t remember the man’s name.

I never reported it to authorities.

But I can describe the office where he assaulted me.  I remember where the desk was in relationship to the door because I kept staring at the door, willing for someone to knock. I remember the beautiful Persian miniatures hanging on the wall—he had spent time explaining them to me. I remember trying to rub my mouth off my face after I managed to escape. I remember my terror.

I was a freshman or sophomore at UCLA, and a reporter for the Daily Bruin, the student newspaper.  It was sometime from 1963 to 1965.   I could look up the year because the Shah of Iran was coming to UCLA—I think to receive an honorary degree—and many students were planning to protest. But I don’t want to make the memories any clearer than they still are after all these years. I was assigned to interview a visiting professor from Iran and report on his thoughts about the Shah and the planned protests. The professor attacked me in his office; he pushed me onto his desk.

After the attack, I told several friends who helped me deal with it emotionally. None of them suggested going to the authorities. This was more than 50 years ago. Sexual harassment wasn’t a term. #MeToo didn’t exist. But I am outraged after listening to the ridicule and mockery that Trump and his supporters are leveling at Dr. Christine Blasey Ford because:

“She doesn’t remember when it happened.”

“She doesn’t remember how she got home.”

“She never told her parents.”

All of those charges can apply to me.  But it happened. Outrage is too mild a term for what I am feeling. I cannot stay silent.