Recently, while driving my son and a few of his friends to soccer practice, one of them used the word “chopped” to describe a girl from their class.
“Don’t say that,” I said, knowing full well it was Gen Alpha slang for unattractive.
The boy shrugged. “Everyone says it.”
Later, on the drive home, careful to avoid direct eye contact in the rearview mirror, I brought it up again.
“Mom, it’s just a word,” my son said, clearly annoyed.
“You cannot talk about people that way, especially girls,” I said. I wasn’t sure of the point I was trying to make, but I noticed the swell rising in my chest, flooding my nervous system.
“Fine,” he said. I could tell it wasn’t. He thought I was overreacting. I felt like I wasn’t reacting enough.
***
The Cornell Seven story hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s still in the news. Being discussed at length on social media and Substack. Fed back to me again and again through my algorithm, each new, repugnant detail arriving before I’ve had the chance to fully absorb the last.
At the same time, a movement has begun: survivors of sexual assault are coming forward, sharing their personal stories. As a writer who focuses on women’s health issues, and a mother with two young sons, I’ve decided to share my own.
In high school, I was sexually assaulted at a house party. Nearly three decades later, I can still recall the metallic taste of the two-and-a-half Coors Lights I had on the way to the “rager” at somebody’s friend’s parents’ empty lake house. How immediately after we arrived, my boyfriend helped me find an upstairs bedroom where I could lie down and let the nausea pass. How he stayed with me for a while, rubbing my back until I fell asleep.
I woke up alone to the smell of cigarette smoke. The sound of a belt buckle hitting the floor. A stranger’s body sliding under the covers next to me, pressing down on me. Then, a stretch of time passed. It felt like hours but was probably only a matter of minutes. Everything slowed down; I tried to push the boy off me but he was too big. I went completely limp, the way animals do when resistance feels futile. I didn’t fight, flee, or freeze. I rolled over and played dead.
When it was over, he got dressed and left without saying a word. The smell of smoke lingered on the pillow, my skin, my hair. I wanted to run downstairs but I didn’t know where he’d gone, so I stayed perfectly still. Everything was sharp and in focus: the sound of laughter drifting up from the kitchen, the throbbing between my legs as if there was something still inside me.
