TARA HARDY FOR THE GLOBE AND MAIL
Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
In my quest to define my own personal narrative and boundaries, I've explored some of the more outré interpretations of sexuality. But for me, the Jian Ghomeshi saga is not about sexual proclivities: It's about the imbalance of power in any profession, which, coupled with a deep disrespect for women, can cultivate a predator. As a rape and sexual assault survivor, I know. And I also know what it's like to keep silent.
When I was 18, I left Victoria and moved to Vancouver when the confines of my hometown and my new-immigrant background began to feel claustrophobic. Naive and inexperienced, I took the only job I could get – waitressing on the late-night shift at a 24-hour eatery in Kitsilano.
After a few weeks of catching two late-night buses home because of my 3 a.m. finish, I was grateful to get a ride from one of my co-workers who had dropped in after a night on the town. We had only ever spoken in passing, but he was 32, a long-time employee and one of the supervisors. I had no reason not to trust him.
I lived in the west end. He said he took the wrong exit and would turn around at Stanley Park. I'd only been in Vancouver two months and didn't know Stanley Park. But I thought, okay, sure.
He parked the car in a desolate lot surrounded by towering trees. I looked out the window into the foreboding blackness. I never saw the punch to my head, but felt the blinding pain on one side a split second before the other side hit the car window. He tore the front of my sweater as he yanked me toward him. I remember thinking dazedly how this was my favourite sweater. Slapping me a few times before grabbing me between my legs, he then punched and squeezed my breasts, twisting the nipples painfully through the fabric. He pulled my hair as he tried to push my face onto his lap, threatening to kick me out and leave me there if I didn't perform.
Terrified more by the imaginary evils outside the car than the real evil inside, I tearfully complied. All the while, he called me a slut, a whore and a bitch, and asked how many men I'd been with. All I could do was sob over and over that I was a virgin.
I was a virgin: I had never even been on a date. And maybe that's what stopped him. He drove me home and kicked me out of his car – literally, with his feet – as he told me he'd kill me if I told anybody what happened. I believed him. I kept silent.
When I was 22, I landed my first office job. I was the receptionist at a large insurance firm in Toronto. No longer having to wear a uniform, I revelled in being able to indulge my passion for pretty clothes. I attracted the attention of the firm's star performer. Because of our working relationship I wasn't interested, but that just seemed to make him more eager.
He pursued me relentlessly. He'd hang around the reception desk insisting I should go for a drink with him. He followed my bus home. He got hold of my number and phoned me continually. He harassed me until I gave in. I wanted to keep my job.
We went for a drink at a restaurant near work, after which I said I wanted to go home. He insisted he'd drive me. While I had my past experience to make me wary, I was naive enough to think this would be different. Didn't his pursuit mean he liked me? Wrong. The only difference this time was that instead of a murder threat, my job was on the line. Once again I kept silent.
When I was 27, two years into a journalism program at university, I ended things with my on-again, off-again boyfriend. Because I did it over the phone, he asked me to come to his place to talk. He said I owed him at least that. I went.
He said his roommate would be coming home soon with some friends, so could we talk in the bedroom where we wouldn't be disturbed. When I entered, he pushed me onto the bed and pulled off my pants. He was eight inches taller than I was and 100 pounds heavier. I kept trying to push him away, fruitlessly telling him "No" and "Please stop this." He flipped me onto my stomach and forced his way in from behind as he told me: "You don't tell me when it's over. I'll tell you when it's over." As he climaxed, he said: "Now it's over."
I don't know why I kept silent that time. Maybe because he came from a wealthy white background – Toronto royalty, he called it. And who was I? A first-generation new Canadian from a middle-class family. Maybe it was because I'd been molested as a child – twice, by two different perpetrators. Or because I'd seen my father beat my mother. Or perhaps because when I told a school counsellor what was happening at home, I was told not to make trouble. After the first assault, a psychologist addressed my childhood molestation by asking what I was wearing when I seduced the men, and after the second one a psychologist called me a slut.
There are many reasons some of us choose to remain silent. Fear. Shame. The belief that we won't be believed. Some of us have been conditioned to believe this kind of violence is normal.
It's been 20 years since I didn't speak up. While I have since found my voice, it saddens me to see so many still keeping silent. Please don't condemn us for our silence. Help us find our voices.
Venetia Black lives in Victoria.