triggering

“Actually, Buju Banton* used to be a rapist, I believe”

The hippy said to us, pouring the mixture through the strainer.

Good reggae vibrations floated toward me as I pondered,

“What does it mean to have once been a rapist?

Is it something you can shed like a torn coat, or a snake skin, a piece of baggage you can just set down?

An old Nazi uniform you can just take off, “he used to gas Jews but he’s cool now.”

Bathed in the blood of Jesus or the word of Jah,

Saved

Redeemed

Born Anew

Hallelujah!

How convenient for you, to move through these rigid identities.

I too used to be.

I used to be a victim but I finally managed to shrug off that heavy bloodstained dress, though no white man washed me clean.

Now I wear a survivor badge, heavy like iron over my heart.

I used to be

I used to be free

You took that away from me.

Marine runs away to Mexico

Maria condemned, unbelieved, gets a shallow grave.

She was 20, like me.

I open my mouth to ask the guys

What does it mean to “used to be a Rapist”?

And why don’t the raped get that luxury?

of used to be

But they are already talking about something else

In my last counselling session I found myself caught in a conversation which I had previously tried to avoid entering into with anyone. Those words: “Do you think he has hurt anyone else?” make me feel sick to my stomach. That is never far from my thoughts and the guilt I feel about that weighs heavy on my heart. Yes. I do think he has hurt others. I think there were others before me. I think there were others after. I wish there were none, including myself, I know I couldn’t have saved those hurt before me, what kills me is that I could have made the lives of girls after me better. And I didn’t.