Clothes are just pieces of fabric that cover us, used to hide what is needed to be hidden and protect us from the weather. It doesn't protect us from the monsters that lurk among us.
AGE 8: I am wearing a white tank top with a white flower embroidered on the hem. The center of the flower is pink. I am wearing my teal plaid shorts with this. My grandma has left to go to the hospital and I am with my grandfather; he is watching over me while she gets checked out overnight. I fall asleep on my grandmother’s bed next to my grandfather. We spent the evening watching WWE and I love The Undertaker. His entrance and the impending doom the wrestlers must feel while hearing his theme song play along with the strobing lights, makes me giggle and hide behind couch cushions. I am later woken up by the movement beneath me. Moving me up and down, up and down, up and down. I look at the clock: 11:39PM. The bold green letters of the clock on my grandmother's night stand allow me to get a good look at the person that is under me, causing this movement of my short and innocent body: my uncle.
AGE 9: It has been happening for over a year now, and I know that it’s wrong. He sneaks into my grandmother's room where my Dora bed is next to hers while she is away at work. I wake up early to watch RugRats on TV and I see him walk past the room into the bathroom. I know what is to come next for this has become a routine. He comes out of the bathroom and into my bed, pretending to sleep, only to run his hands all over my small body. Taking the innocence from me while I sit there in confusion and fear. This must be wrong, or else he wouldn’t wait until we were alone.
AGE 9: I write a note before going to school and fold it up, throwing it on the floor. I know it will be found. I spend the whole day at school, worried and scared to come home. I arrive and I am immediately called into the room - she is there with my aunt and him. The letter is unopened in her left hand. I am asked to explain and re-read the letter aloud to them. Once I am finished, I am presented with my grandmother getting on both of her knees in front of me, a Bible being shoved into my face and I am told to put my right hand on said Bible and swear to not tell my mother of what has happened; she would die if I do, my grandmother says.
AGE 11: My pregnant mother has arrived from the Dominican Republic. We have been getting to know each other in depth - we have 10 years to make up for. We are sitting on the couch, she is eating her latest craving; a McDonalds’ chicken caesar salad. I tell her. I tell her everything. The TV in the room where my aunt and uncle are has been muted; she is listening. My mother hands me the salad and goes to the bathroom. Unbeknownst to me, she is throwing up. She comes back and tells me to finish the salad - she isn’t hungry anymore.
AGE 12: I am sleeping in the back of the classroom during a test. Jada wakes me up and tells me my mother is here - I am leaving school early. My mom is waiting for me in the hallway with a strawberry coolata from Dunkin’ Donuts; our latest favorite. We go into a cab and we arrive at a building that is honestly indescribable. Once we go inside, she disappears and I am told to sit and watch my sister; we both are stuck eating goldfish and watching Frozen. Minutes that felt like hours later, my mom comes back sobbing, rushing us out. I don’t understand what’s happened, but days later I am pulled out of school early again. This time, we go to a building in the Concourse. There, I am put into a room of 3 doctors; 2 women, 1 man. I get undressed as instructed and I lay down with my legs placed on the pedals, spread apart. Wide enough for the doctor to swab the insides of my 6th grade body and to takes notes on her findings.
AGE 17: My boyfriend has come to celebrate my cousin's baby shower in Massachusetts. His parents have let him spend the night and will come get him in the morning. He is taking shots being handed to him by my grandmother and smoking hookah with me. I change into a black tank top and basketball shorts that belonged to him. After a while, he is intoxicated and keeps insisting we go out onto the balcony and have sex. I decline repeatedly, I just don’t feel up to it. Later that night, he is laying on the top bunk with me, and in his presence, I fall asleep. I am awoken in the middle of the night to his hands feeling on my panties. “I feel the steam”, he slurs. I am 8 again, being awoken by my uncle moving me up and down on top of him. He keeps asking for sex, saying he’ll be quick. Asking, begging, pleading - I give in.
AGE 19: I am wearing a bathing suit with lots of colorful diagonal boxes - my mom had bought it from Target and I love the way it makes me look. I am with friends and we are having a fun time; drinking and smoking, laughing and dancing. A boy is invited and he brings along his older girlfriend. She begins to drink as the sun begins to set, more and more and more until she is incoherent. I am in the water with my friend as she approaches me and asks to feel on me. She does and whispers into my ear, “You’re the one I want. I want to take you home”. I laugh it off, continuously repeating that I have a boyfriend and how I am not interested. She does this to almost all of my friends that night; feeling on us as if we were just objects. I cry myself to sleep in a state of panic.
AGE 20: I am applying for a job at a fashion store in the Fashion District that I found on Craigslist the night before. I am wearing the blue t-shirt that I slept in with a knitted black top over it, paired with these are my favorite flared jeans and my Jack Skellington crocs. I go in for an interview, excited that the owner claimed he is also looking for models. He is an older man; late 30s to early 40s. He is making strange advances towards me and constantly looks at my breasts. I tell him that I model and begins to ask me if I have nude pictures to show him, asking if I would consider modeling his lingerie brand. Taken aback, I decline and continue with the interview. He tells me he has a dress that he would like for me to try on. As I walk out and show it to him, he clips the back to make the dress more tight fitting. I look at myself in the mirror and look at the body fitting black and beige cocktail dress. It is ugly, but it definitely brings out my curves. He is smiling at me and asks to fix the front of the dress. I agree. He proceeds to put his hands in the dress and “fix” both of my breasts, copping a feel as he does. I am in shock. I can’t explain what I feel to anyone but I cry the whole way home until there are no more tears.
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