Free Songs of the Dead by Derrick Jensen Page B

No, and No, and to have those unheard so many times that you just get tired and your Nos turns into Maybes, which is all the encouragement they need to keep pressing, pressing, pressing? To have a landlord tell you that you can forget about the rent if only you. . . . And so you move, and the next landlord says the same, and the landlord after that. Where do you move to get away from the attention? Maybe that means you shouldn’t rent. But when you find some land you want to buy, the realtor suggests that instead of getting a mortgage you find a sugar daddy to take care of it for you. I’m not making this up. ‘Use your assets,’ he said, looking me up and down. Not that it matters, but I was already an established artist by this time, and taking home more than he did: even by the wretched capitalist valuation system I was ‘worth more’ than him, not even including my orifices. Can you imagine what it’s like to not even be able to stand in line at a grocery store without men telling you they wish they had X-ray glasses? To not go anywhere without men looking at you, undressing you, telling you what they want to do to you. I know that men feel entitled to the bodies not only of women they perceive as attractive, but to the bodies of all women—more or less all of my women friends have been sexually assaulted at least once if not more—but there’s an added danger to being conspicuous.”
    â€œI’m really sorry.”
    Neither of us says anything for the longest time.
    Finally I ask, “What can I do? How can I help?”
    More silence. It stretches. Allison doesn’t look at me, and I look away, too. At the edge of my vision I see her chest rise and fall with each breath.
    She takes air in, holds it, then says in measured syllables, “I’m still lying to you.”
    I know enough to wait. I still look away. After a time I look at her, at first not at her face, but at the movement of her chest, then up, to her chin, her cheeks, her eyes.
    â€œMy sophomore year in college I had a class called Philosophy of the Enlightenment . The teacher paid me way too much attention, wanted to conference too often, sat too close during the conferences. It was a night class. One night I was the last student conferencing. We were probably the only people in the building, certainly the only ones on the floor. He shut the door behind me. Usually he left it slightly open, which I believe was department policy. I should have gotten up and re-opened the door. I should have gotten up and walked out of the building. There are many things I should have done. I didn’t. I sat down. He sat next to me, too close of course. I remember that several times he brushed his arm against mine as he looked over the paper we were supposed to be talking about. And then he told me I was beautiful. I should have gotten up and walked out, but I didn’t. For a long time I hated myself for doing nothing. He said it again. Put his hand on my arm, held it there. I put my paper in my pack and stood up. I took one step and he pushed me against the wall. I told him No. I told him so many times. But I should have screamed. I should have kicked him. I kept telling him No. He held me there with one hand on my throat. I kept saying No. I didn’t scream.”
    I look in her eyes. She’s still not looking at me. I don’t move. I’m scared to reach to take her hand, scared to do the wrong thing.
    â€œThe class was misnamed. It should have been Gender Relations 101 .”
    I don’t know what she wants me to do. I don’t know what to do.
    â€œI didn’t tell the police. I should have screamed. I should have kicked him. I never went back to class. I got an A. I guess I passed Gender Relations 101 with flying colors.”
    I close my eyes, take a deep breath. I open them again.
    â€œI was young. And nobody would have believed me. Not the cops, not the other students. Nobody. They