What Happened? Naming and Talking About Acquaintance Rape

Abstract

I love him. I do. He has this goofy, sideways grin. No matter where you are in the room, it always looks like he’s smiling just at you. Whenever he makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, he measures out three tablespoons of peanut butter—exactly—for each slice of bread. He sings the Beatles non-stop, especially “Love, Love Me Do,” and the words are just a little bit different every time. He’s got four skateboards, and he always leaves them in random places in his apartment. He tells the worst jokes, I swear. And he’s smart like it’s nobody’s business. He can have a conversation with just about anyone, anywhere, and make a friend. I love him.

My friend, Maya, can’t believe that I love him. Sure, she sees all those things that I see: the charming smile and the neurotic sandwich-making technique and his wit and smarts and penchant for forgetting the words to songs. But she can’t believe that I love him. Not after what happened.

It was pretty bad, for sure. And it was wrong, no doubt about it. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.