Espresso Vodka

Content warning: this article talks about sexual harassment and sexual violence.

Espresso vodka tastes like chocolate, if you were wondering. A deep, burning, nutty flavor. I've stopped drinking to accommodate my medication, but I have bottles of the stuff still hanging around.

I was walking back to my residence hall with my roommate a handful of years ago at Wellesley. Swelles is, for those of you not in the know, a women's college. I grew up in a city, and for a long time Wellesley felt like this idyllic Dianic paradise, felt -- I now feel extraordinarily naive for saying this, but -- felt safe. It was winter, and I was dressed in an ankle-length skirt, boots, a long coat with the hood raised, and a scarf over my hair. My mom once called this my Queen Amidala look; warmth is a premium in New England. I want you to keep that in mind, though: my hands weren't even showing skin.

My roommate had an invitation to go watch a movie with some friends, and left me about halfway to our residence hall. I waved and went on.

At this point, a car full of two or three young men drove by me, and one of them leaned out the window to shout, "You're going to get raped!"

They drove on. I froze where I stood, that deer-in-the-headlights kind of shock.

It's a little thing, doesn't it seem so? One night, five words. I think about that moment every single time I take a walk, though. The memory just comes to me. The echo is always there. Outside in Arizona, trying to catch some exercise before the sun catches me, you're going to get raped. Outside in Michigan, stretching my legs in-between drafts of writing, watching the ducks gather on the sidewalk, you're going to get raped. Outside in Massachusetts, waiting for my husband to pick me up from the hospital, you're going to get raped. That night follows me like a persistent spirit, a fuckboy stowaway nailed into the inside of my skull. Every single time, every single time, I go for a walk, you're going to get raped.

People treat events like this like isolated little pricks of the psychological skin. Once pricked, once healed, it wasn't even a big deal in the first place, why are you still talking about it?

The truth is that these moment accumulate. They stack atop each other like the worst Jenga tower ever, one that has your sense of peace and security balanced at the top. The man who raised his fists to me after directing his Dungeons & Dragons character to take my character's clothes away from her. The man who shouted, how much for the redhead, from the other side of the street. The ex-significant other whose abuse I didn't recognize until my husband, with his third-party perspective and experience in interpersonal violence, stepped in to do something about it. And more.

Of course there's more. Each woman has a list of more. One item tends to invoke another, and another, and another, until you're stuck with a chain of painful sorcery and a craving for vodka.

I just got back from a walk, and I'm going to make do with a cup of coke in a wine glass. But I really, really wish I had some vodka.

#sexualharassment #sexualviolence #adventuretime