Britney

“Grab her by the pussy.” The second I am lifted up by my crotch from behind in the pit and held above the swarm of heads, Trump’s words fly into my mind. It is strange, because I have blocked him from my personal life save for a short article or two in the morning, and now here he is, holding me in the pit. The man slams me down, then grabs me by the crotch again and repeats the motion. If he had done it in any other way—grabbed my waist, grabbed my torso, anything—I would have loved it. It would’ve been the most exciting moment of the show. But because I can still feel the warmth of his hand down there, like the heat of a slap, I cover my mouth and I run out of the room full of people I know and don’t know but still either respect or want to respect me. It is the most embarrassing moment of the show, if not my life; they do not know what has transpired. They think that I am running from the pain that is a norm here, not the sting of experiencing something that I can only eloquently describe as “fucked.”

I have only one friend here, and she is drunk, plus she didn’t witness the event. I find a mutual “friend” of ours, someone I dislike but have been friendly with in the past. I tell him of my humiliation, but still I cannot get the words out to explain why I ran. I give excuses. He is disappointed. “That’s just the kind of thing that happens here, you know? You have to be prepared for it.” I wish I could backhand him with the privilege that he has just spit into my face. I wish I could vomit out my stress and not have it be decried “SJW drivel” or the inner working of yet another fragile teen girl. I am angry with myself for running out. I wish I had stayed and fought my battle the way they are all fought here, the way I usually do it. I wish I hadn’t failed “fight or flight” in such a spectacular way, so unlike myself.

But I also…..I also wish that I didn’t have to justify the actions of a grown man who knew where he was touching me and went out of his way to do it simply because I was swimming at the core of aggression. Does being purely in touch with your anger mean you must go out of your way to violate another? Funny, because most people would say that that is the main concept behind moshing, but I think there is a difference between violence and sexualized/sexual violence. This is not to say that I was assaulted, but there was a sexual element the minute he grabbed me and it stained. A punch to my head? Great. Swallowing my genitalia in a tight palm grip? I felt him throughout the rest of the show, below all the cuts on my face and the open wound on my elbow and the cracking of my joints. I feel him when I remember how stupid I was for running, and then when I remember that I was in shock, and that it was fine of me to be in shock.

I didn’t grab back. That was my greatest loss. ♦