It Wasn’t Your Fault, Sis #MeToo
An open letter to nine-year-old me, and any other Black girl and woman who’s been shamed for being sexually assaulted
I was nine years old. My favorite movie was Who Framed Roger Rabbit? My favorite color was neon pink. I still played with dolls. I believed that babies came from their mother's belly buttons and the Tooth Fairy was related to Santa Claus.
It happened at a sleepover at a friend’s house. A bunch of us Black girls huddled in her bedroom, dancing, laughing, enjoying our youth. And then some boys came over. They were juveniles, but, fairly older than me. They were playing a game in which the objective was to ‘catch’ a girl. I remember the moment one of the boys looked at me, realizing I was ignorant enough to play without knowing what I’d be losing if I lost. I remember pretending to have fun when I wasn’t; being confused when one of the boys lifted up my shirt and another slid a hand down my pants. I remember forcing myself to laugh when I wanted to cry. I remember all the other girls yelling, “If you really don’t want them to do it then get up!”
By the following morning, I was nicknamed Hot Tamale. The narrative was that I wanted what was done to me and I had enjoyed it. The parents of the children would hear about what happened, and they too would call me Hot Tamale. They would tell their daughters in front of me, “Act like Tamela and you gone get pregnant.” That nickname was fully-loaded with an implication I would never live up to, and it would follow me into my adulthood.
I was nine years old.
Of all the things that I didn’t understand when I was nine, the one thing that I did get crystal clear was that whatever happened to my little body was on me. The onus would be on me, always. The older I got, the more that blame entwined with a dirtiness that could not be separated.
For many Black women, the reaction Black people are having to Surviving R. Kelly has opened up the Pandora’s box to all the times we were assaulted and later blamed. Young Black girls being seduced and manipulated into rape, violence, and sex slavery. And yet, the true horror was in the reality that many people — Black people, who blame the young Black girls for what’s happened to them.
When video surfaced of a young Black woman getting held down and acetone splashed in her face by Brooklyn nail salon employees, people blamed the woman for expecting proper service. When Chikesia Clemons was thrown to the ground and exposed by police for requesting cutlery, many suggested she brought it on herself. From the Shade Room to the church lobby, Black folks — young and old, shame Black girls liberally, blaming us for any violation that our bodies are subjected to.
“Why are you so angry?” “Why are you so mean?”
Because I don’t know how else to keep hands from sliding down my pants. Because a smile and an invitation somehow translate to consent. Because I live in the body of a Black woman. The only person who cares enough about this body to defend it is me, and, when I was nine I did a very poor job of that. Black girls always carry the onus of our violation, the loss of our agency. The violation of Black girls bodies precedes our innocence.
Chikesia Clemons. Nia Wilson. Sandra Bland. Jazmine Barnes. Yasmine James. Every single victim of R. Kelly. We are raped, we are beaten, we are murdered. We. Are. Violated. It’s not our fault. It’s never our fault. Even when society tells us it is. Even when we don’t have the evidence to prove that it isn’t. Even if we said no in a whisper, or, we didn’t say no at all.
Tamela J. Gordon is a New York-based writer and creator of the women’s empowerment group, Sisters with Aspiration, as well as SWA’s Book Club. You can contribute to Tamela’s work and future projects HERE, and FOLLOW HER ON PATREON! To contact Tamela for speaking engagements or creating your own women’s empowerment group, email shewritestolive@gmail.com
