{"id":310,"date":"2025-11-07T00:46:59","date_gmt":"2025-11-07T00:46:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/?page_id=310"},"modified":"2025-11-09T22:26:10","modified_gmt":"2025-11-09T22:26:10","slug":"didnt-mean-nothing-by-it","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/non-fiction\/didnt-mean-nothing-by-it\/","title":{"rendered":"Didn’t Mean Nothing By It"},"content":{"rendered":"

Matthew Evans Chelf<\/span><\/p>\n

TW: SA<\/span><\/p>\n

I went to my room. I shut the door. I sat on the floor.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I didn\u2019t play Final Fantasy <\/em>or Zelda<\/em>. I didn\u2019t flip through Magic cards. I just stared into the gray nothingness of my carpet, feeling as though my face had been burned away.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I tried to piece together what happened. Already, I couldn\u2019t quite remember. My brain was undetailing the event. Unweaving it from my mind so I could go on being myself. But my body wouldn\u2019t let go. I could feel his hand on the back of my head, driving my face downward.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I didn\u2019t cry, too shocked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The house was silent. I didn\u2019t know where anyone was. Surely my older brother, who had been there on the bus, in the back, cussing and trying to act cool, was around.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 But where?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019d never felt this alone\u2014like if I opened my bedroom door, there\u2019d be a drop into a dark void, not the hallway lined with light blue and purple wallpaper where our baby pictures hung in all of their innocence.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Not that I could face my brother at this point. I was broken glass, shattered. I had to put the pieces back together, if I could, before I could face him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Or anyone.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

For a while, for how long I don\u2019t know, I sat on the floor, replaying the scene. The parts of it scattered like dry leaves, shuddered like scared fish. What is it about memory that blows away the unwanted? Is it so we can live? So we can maintain continuity?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 There was a hole in my brain where water rushed to fill in with darkness.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 But I believed, as I still believe, that if I searched the past, I could find clues. If I could find clues, I could give an account of myself that would explain what Curtis did to me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Why he did it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 What it meant, if anything, and what I, in a practical sense, should do\u2014like tell my mother or be a man and pretend it didn\u2019t happen. The cultural script that I\u2019d imbibed growing up in rural Kentucky, on a backroad named Ford Road, told me to keep my mouth shut. Forget, move on, get over it. A man would\u2019ve hauled off and punched Curtis in the face. A real man wouldn\u2019t have let it happen. That what happened was even possible spelled out an underlying weakness that was visible to everyone. Perhaps I\u2019d had a mark on my back and it had only been a matter of time.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Fight wasn\u2019t an option for me. I was a small body and Curtis was a big body.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My only hope was to name the thing that just happened to me. To not look away. To rebel against the silence. If I could name it, I could get back something: my self-respect, my dignity, my face.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My body in the world.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 So I sat, and I thought, and the more I sat and thought the more I could feel Curtis\u2019s fingers cupped to the back of my head. The hinges of my neck turning as my face slammed, the give at the bottom.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I see his face.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The O face.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The wide eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The ecstasy.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The joy.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The satisfaction as he tilted his head back during his sick pantomime.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 His stop came right afterward. He shoved me aside. Stood, lifting his backpack to his shoulder, without ever looking at me or saying a word. He walked down the aisle, right by Mr. Tim, the bus driver, as if nothing happened. And Mr. Tim said what he said to everyone when they got off the bus, \u201cHave you a good day.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The only way I knew how to explain to myself what happened on the bus was going back to the fourth grade. When all the boys at school, including Curtis, got obsessed with wrestling. The boys spread their legs and crossed their arms above their heads. Jumped forward, chopped. \u201cSuck it!\u201d they said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It was supposed to be a joke, a silly, crude gesture that didn\u2019t mean anything. We were just repeating TV, after all.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 But Curtis was one of those boys who scared me. He took it to the next level. Practiced moves in the hallways. Run, chest forward. Pick up and fall together backward. Jump and drop The People\u2019s Elbow. Threaten to snap your neck with the Piledriver. Shouted, \u201cDo you smell what The Rock is cooking?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My mother didn\u2019t allow me to watch wrestling. When I asked why, she said, \u201cIt will rot your brain,\u201d and explained no further. I felt angry and lonely, missing out. How was I supposed to fit in if I didn\u2019t know the lingo, the moves?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Growing up in the Southern Baptist Church, I didn\u2019t know anything about sex except it made babies and I wasn\u2019t supposed to have it until I got married. Curtis was my first sexual encounter with another person. Of course I didn\u2019t know that sex can be about domination. And that there are times sexual expression for a man reinforces their self image as a man, insofar as being a man means being a dominator, which it certainly did on the bus and everywhere else around me. I didn\u2019t realize that what happened to me was a form of sex. Weapon sex. Strips the identity of the object. And what I was feeling was erasure, that I ceased to be me\u2014and that was the point.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I needed someone to tell me it wasn\u2019t my fault. That I hadn\u2019t invited Curtis. That being hunched in the corner, limp with depression, wasn\u2019t a welcome to violence. I\u2019d been an energetic kid who played baseball, but puberty hollowed me out. I slipped into lifeless, doll-like fogs, eyes unblinking, unseeing, my whole body as sense deprived as plastic.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I was in one of these phases when I felt an air bubble roll beneath me. I looked up. Curtis. He\u2019d come from the back of the bus. He didn\u2019t say anything. He stared straight ahead.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I wonder what he must\u2019ve saw in me, curled in a ball in a corner against the window. Did he come with intention of pulling me out of it? Was he bored?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 We were the last ones on the bus because we lived that deep in the country. Our older brothers sat in the very back. I could hear my brother\u2019s goofy laugh through a cement wall. Had Curtis come to keep me company? To escape the big brothers?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I knew Curtis but I didn\u2019t know him well. For reasons I didn\u2019t understand at the time, my mother didn\u2019t want me playing with him, and so he was a familiar stranger to me. It didn\u2019t occur to me that my mother and his mother went to high school together, and that maybe my mother knew things about Curtis\u2019s family.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 His shaggy black hair was loaded with frizz and his face had broken out into a pizza of red bumps. He wore baggy blue JNCO shorts that hung loose around his ass because he didn\u2019t wear a belt. His black Austin 3:16 shirt\u2014like the professional wrestler Stone Cold Steve Austin that he quoted all the time\u2014was flecked with the same white snow that was in his hair. He lived in a derelict farm house. Paint peeling, couches on the porch, the frame tilted. The windows and doors always open, I could see that nothing was inside. His grandmother waited on the porch grasping a cane. The house sat alongside a dirt road that went way back in the country to where you couldn\u2019t see. That\u2019s where the landlord, a big time farmer in the county, had some trailers where the Mexicans he hired to cut tobacco lived.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I waited for Curtis to say something. When he didn\u2019t, I closed my eyes and went back to resting my head against the shaking glass.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I didn\u2019t resist him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 That meant I let it happen?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And if I let it happen, what right did I have to tell my mother? To tell would violate everything I knew about being a man.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cMatthew,\u201d my mother called from the kitchen. \u201cDinner\u2019s ready.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Finally I looked up. Purple-pink dusk glowed in my window. Out in the fields, the cows were marching in one big cloud past the pond, toward the barns.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I stood, brushed my knees off as if I\u2019d been in the dirt, told myself nothing happened, it\u2019s not a big deal, it\u2019s your fault anyway, don\u2019t say anything, don\u2019t act weird, just be normal. I opened the door and walked down the hall.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 That night my mother heated frozen turkey slices in gravy in the oven. Mashed potatoes. Carrots and peas from a can, a stick of butter between them. Something quick and easy she could make after getting home from E-Z Stop and still call herself a good mom. She\u2019d had my older brother when she was sixteen. Then me four years later. My little sister four years later. My mother was tired. She collapsed on the couch in front of the TV to watch her soaps, her one escape.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I am thankful my father wasn\u2019t home that night. He was off patrolling the roads for the state of Kentucky. Seeing my father in his police uniform was an icon of terror and reverence. The way the light gleamed off the shiny black belt drew my eye to the gun, snug in its holster. The black fabric suctioned to my father\u2019s frame, airtight, a cage fixing his body to a form of rigidity and authority. As much as I feared my father, everything I knew at the time about strength came from him and his boots that sounded like choking ducks when he walked on concrete. I\u2019ve wondered how this night would\u2019ve been different had father had been home. If his stoic, manly presence would have incited me to my usual silence.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I ate quietly. Mixing the gravy with mashed potatoes. Normally I loved the thick warmness of my mother\u2019s cooking, but as I ate I couldn\u2019t stop seeing and hearing the yellow blur of hay fields, the bus engine burrowing into the earth.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I looked to my right. Mom on the couch. I knew I could trust her to help. She\u2019d always stuck up for me and my older brother when we got in trouble. Still, the shame. I feared if I told her everyone would know. Then what? And she would have to tell my father. How could I face my father after I\u2019d been dominated by another boy?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The rim of the plate blurred.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I couldn\u2019t fathom my father\u2019s knowing. Still can\u2019t.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I wish I knew by what secret door I managed. Age, I suspect. Young enough so my impulse to share wasn\u2019t yet entirely squashed. If I\u2019d been a little older, perhaps I would\u2019ve held it in. But I was old enough I couldn\u2019t say what bothered me without prompting.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When my mother went to put dishes in the dishwasher, I stood behind her, shaking, waiting for her to notice my destruction and for her to fix all that had gone wrong.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat?\u201d she said, casually glancing.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 A square block jammed my throat. I opened my mouth to say what happened, but I choked on the block.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat happened?\u201d she said. Alarm replaced exhaustion.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 What did <\/em>happen? I wouldn\u2019t know the words sexual assault until my twenties. Not having the language closed my throat.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat? What?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSomething happened on the bus,\u201d I said, barely above a whisper. \u201cHe grabbed my head and did this.\u201d I cupped my hand in an open flex and moved it up and down like I was dribbling a basketball.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Crying, not because of what Curtis did, but because I told.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She picked up the phone. Questions.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDid anyone else see this?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDoes your brother know?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDid you tell the bus driver?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 All of them, no.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Maybe it was that night or maybe it was the next night or maybe even a week later. The light turns on with my mother\u2019s voice. So kind and high it was suspicious.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMatthew, there\u2019s someone here who wants to see you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It was like I opened my eyes and there was everyone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Him. His mom. Bus driver. Maybe my brother. Not my dad.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 On the threadbare, blue-and-white couches.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The front door was open and on the glass screen wailed the darkness of night.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Here was my mother\u2019s vision of justice, because she loved me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She stood, smiling.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Curtis\u2019s mother said, \u201cHello,\u201d and offered an embarrassed smile. She was a big woman with a raspy smoker\u2019s voice. The way she sat on the couch reminded me of the way guilty people sit in pews at church, kind of perched forward with the jitters, hands clasped at the knees, and rocking away the seconds till it\u2019s time to leave. Her smile hid whatever tense conversation that had transpired between her, my mother, and Mr. Tim.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cGood evening,\u201d said Mr. Tim. His voice was deep and heavy.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Curtis\u2019s mother said, \u201cCurtis has something he wants to say to you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 All eyes to Curtis. He and his mother sat in the middle of the action.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he said. \u201cI was just joking.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 His eyes rolled side to side as he tried to remember what he was supposed to say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYeah,\u201d he resumed with a stammer. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean it. I was just playing around. I didn\u2019t mean nothing by it.\u201d By the end of those three sentences, his voice grew casual, confident. His mother never took her eyes off him. Even after he finished speaking, she continued to study her son.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 My face dropped to the floor. I wanted to feel seen and loved and saved, but I just felt stupid and embarrassed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 What was I supposed to say? Good joke? Sorry I blew it out of proportion?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d my mother said. The desperation at the edge of her fake smile made me sorry to put her through this. I regretted it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I had one option, the option that would make it all go away. I had to accept the apology. Even if that acceptance meant I accepted Curtis\u2019s version of what happened. To reject would ruin the way back to normal my mother had paved. I could never betray my mother.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I looked up and faced Curtis and his mother. What a strange pair. Sitting on the loveseat side-by-side, a mother shepherding her son to take responsibility while Curtis looked left, right, left, anywhere but straight ahead at me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cAre you okay?\u201d my mother said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYes,\u201d I said toward the brown-and-black grain in the wood paneling.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDo you accept his apology?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYes.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mr. Tim, who had been calmly observing, cleared his voice. He sat forward and began to speak with his hearty baritone. Mr. Tim, in addition to driving the bus, was a preacher. The kind of man who spoke at funerals and weddings. Knew just what to say to bring closure. I\u2019ve always respected him, even if it was under his watch that this happened. I didn\u2019t blame him. He\u2019d come to make peace. But I couldn\u2019t hear him. I was too hard and raw to listen anymore.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Yes, I had to accept Curtis\u2019s bullshit apology, and it was harrowing in the moment, but I\u2019m glad I told and I\u2019m thankful for my mother. Thanks to her, Curtis got kicked off the bus. I wouldn\u2019t have to face my attacker everyday, unlike so many who go through this.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Telling allowed me to move on. That was my mother\u2019s orchestration. By playing it down, I was made to feel as though what Curtis did wasn\u2019t a big deal. It didn\u2019t have to change me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And, in a way, it wasn\u2019t a big deal. When I think about the casual and rampant sexual violence that goes on in American culture, the constant threat to bodily integrity that is leveled against women and trans folk, what happened to me was small potatoes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Not long after that night, Curtis got evicted from that house. I never saw him again. Over time, I forgot about Curtis. Though, I\u2019m not sure if forgot<\/em> is the right word when his imprint resonates throughout my body and consciousness. My mother tried to spare me. But what happened on the bus did change me. Curtis welcomed me into the fear of the boys at school and the men in my landscape. He taught me the threat of a man\u2019s body that\u2019s always there. He fueled my rejection of the world around me and my longing for a home where I felt safe.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 That longing has been such a driving force in my life. It\u2019s why I got into literature. Into writing. Why I went to graduate school to study literature and social justice. Things that gave me words to understand my life. Words to give me a way to transmute pain into meaning and transformation. Words I didn\u2019t have back then.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I\u2019ve chased that longing to the other side of the country.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It wasn\u2019t until I left home for good that I could remember Curtis.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It wasn\u2019t until I had heard other people speak about their experiences, their fears, their traumas, that I could understand my own. That I could understand what happened to me. That I could talk about it and remain whole.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It took me twenty years to remember Curtis.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I was thirty-two. It took me by surprise. On a mundane drive home from work, I was telling my wife about the road I grew up on and how I\u2019d get splitting headaches on the long bus ride home through the windy country roads battered by potholes. How there were no shocks on the bus, it was just shaking and thrashing and being thrown face first into cushionless pleather scarred by pocketknives. I recalled how the hot summer air tossed around the loose papers and gum wrappers on the floor. How Mr. Tim yelled at me with his preacher boom for listening to headphones. I smelled the rubber and field grass and fresh cow shit. I told her about Leo, a man who lived in a yellow bus on a hillock on the back end of Ford Road, where it was gravel, not paved. Everyday when our school bus rolled by, Leo waved at us kids, which I took as a reminder to never stop trying, always hold faith in life.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She told me, \u201cYou were sexually assaulted.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 That stunned me. I never thought of it like that. I had never thought of it at all after that night when Curtis and his mother came to visit.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I refracted my adolescence through the memory. So many things began to make more sense. Why I walled myself off. Why I dove into Christianity and read the Bible by myself during lunch instead of hanging out with my friends. Why I never told my friends. Or anyone. Why my father wanted to take me hunting, so I could kill a deer and feel strong and manly.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s hard to draw direct correlations. I\u2019ll never know entirely how what Curtis did on the bus effected me. What I do know is I was talking to the only person I could\u2019ve ever told. The shock of remembrance found me where I had found safety.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\nMatthew Evans Chelf TW: SA I went to my room. I shut the door. I sat on the floor. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0…\n<\/div>\n
Continue reading “Didn’t Mean Nothing By It”<\/span>…<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":91,"featured_media":0,"parent":16,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-310","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/310","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/91"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=310"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/310\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":341,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/310\/revisions\/341"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/16"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=310"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}