Hometown Memories

I hate my hometown.

It is a small, drab sort of place. A dull town, full of inconsequential people who live their lives feeding off vicious gossip and booze.

I left the day of my 18^th birthday resolved to never return.

And yet, here I am now.

Graciously smiling, having meaningful conversations with everyone, giving out pamphlets. I lure them in with promises of a better future for our beloved little town.

A political candidate par excellence.

Men and women swarm around me at the flea market to hear my vision for this place. I can see it in their eyes – they love me. All of the Me, I tailored especially for them – my sincerity, my down-to-earth attitude, my ordinary-people clothes. They gobble it all up.

They don’t have a choice. Likeability is my strongest trait. I should know – I’ve perfected it over the years. A trait that I intend to astutely utilize in this newfound career of mine. I am going to ace it in politics. I can feel it!

Then I see him.

The reason I hate this god-forsaken place. The reason I left over 20 years ago.

The man who raped me when I was 6.

He didn’t really rape me in the way they show in movies. There was no fighting or yelling. I wasn’t taken to a deserted place where he could do to me whatever he wished.

No, it all happened about a mile from where I am standing now – in my old school’s yard, on a bright Saturday morning.

I was playing on my own. My parents had sent me out. The times back then were such that a 6-year-old could be sent unattended outside to play. Especially when the schoolyard was across the street from my home – a very safe and visible place.

He was about 20 back then – a stunningly handsome young guy who walked up to me in the deserted yard and started talking. I didn’t even think there was something for me to be afraid of - he was so charming. He asked me if I wanted to play a game.

To a child, a pesky bother to her parents, the idea that a cool young adult wanted to play, was enthralling.  I felt honored and special.

We simply sat in the unmown grass.

He, after some minutes, with his pants unzipped, his legs spread apart. Me, across from him, in my little-girl short skirt, legs also apart. He kept pulling me to sit closer and closer – that was part of the game. Until my legs were on both sides of him. Panties were pushed calmly aside, and he was in me. He lay down in the grass, I was on top, and we played “horsies”, that’s what he called it. He was my horse.

It was all a game. I liked it, right?

And I did. He said that as I was new to the game it could hurt a little. It did. But I was a brave big girl and didn’t show it.

It also felt sticky and warm and weird. Smelled weird too – the way my panties would smell when I didn’t wipe myself after peeing (my mom was giving me hard time about that).

But I was ok with it all.

After all, if he liked it, I was fine with it – as long as I had this fun grown-up who wanted to play with me.

I don’t remember any people walking by the schoolyard. And even if they did – all they would see would be a girl playing a weird game going up and down in the tall grass.

It ended when my mom called me for lunch – she yelled towards the school from our living room’s window, her eyes never leaving the TV.

I yelled back that I was coming in a minute.

He didn’t freak out. Just lifted me off, wiped me with a tissue paper he had taken out of his pocket. Then adjusted my panties and his pants, and said “goodbye” in the same nice voice that he had used throughout our game. 

That whole little game had slipped out of my mind by next morning.

My country is not a place where people have money for therapy. So I can’t say that I was lucky enough to uncover what was done to me while laying on a nice little couch in the cozy office of my therapist.  

No, it all came back to me the moment I was being deflowered. He was in love, I was in love, and we had made this a special moment.

Rather, it was a special moment until I burst into tears, pushed him away, and started gasping for air.

I naturally refused to explain. And, naturally, refused to have sex….ever. So, naturally, that relationship ended.

Later on, after years of failed relationships, and me choosing to focus on work, I finally was earning enough money to pay for therapy. It did help. It taught me what the expected behavior for a “normal” human being was. And I learned how to fake normal.

So here I am today, charmingly normal, in the town I hate, and looking at the reason I hate it.

He is not that good-looking anymore. He is the stereotype for middle-aged males around these lands: beer-belly, stained decaying teeth, and alcohol bags underneath his eyes. I am sure he smells like the stereotypical male around here too – unwashed, sweaty, and utterly disgusting.

His inner ugliness manifesting on the outside. I wonder briefly whether there would come a time in the future when my inner ugliness will surface.

No, of course – I will not have such weakness. I will always project perfection. And normality.

He is selling something at the flea market – stolen goods by the looks of it.

He is still in the business of stealing things then. 6-year-old’s virginity, people’s possessions…it’s all the same, I guess.

He fleetingly looks at me - no recognition. But his eyes stay on mine. Then, when he’s made sure I am looking at him, they go unabashedly down my body. He turns to his neighbor by stall and says loud enough for me to hear: “Another politician whore. At least this one is easy on the eye, good for a fuck.”

Oh, but you did, my friend. Fuck me.

I guess it wasn’t as memorable for him, as it was for me.

Next, I remember why I am here, put my smile back on, and move on down the market. After all, the campaign must go on.

Another thing my country is not - a place where one can expect rapists to be convicted. 25% of the women here live through rapes and domestic violence. It’s just part of life – normal.

I make it a point to know statistics like this – after all, I am running for the highest office in the country.

An office that I win a month later. I become the first female prime minister of my country – that’s how much people love me.

I never see him again. But I make sure he is arrested and thrown in jail, theft charges. That’s easy when you are in power, especially if you sweeten the orders with money for everyone involved down the ranks.

I sometimes think of how these days he is the one getting raped. I made sure of that as well. Paid extra for brutality too.

There, I did something for the women in this country – a rapist is behind bars. A result-driven politician, indeed.

And as for me, well, I am the top politician now. People admire me. Other country leaders love taking pictures with me – that’s how they show their constituents what great feminists they are.

I’ve come such a long way from my hometown. And I will keep it that way until the next election comes around.