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Women are ‘horrible horrible liars’. According to Donald Trump in 2016, while referring to some of the women who have… accused him of sexual assault or harassment. Trump. The same man who finds it impossible to believe, much less understand, how a woman might not be able to remember the specific geographic address of the party she attended 36 years ago even though she claims to have been sexually assaulted there. Horrible horrible liars.
But maybe that’s just because he’s never been a woman?
Rachel Mitchell on the other hand, is a woman. She didn’t call women horrible and she didn’t explicitly call Dr. Basey Ford a liar. She did however, write a nine-page memorandum that
lied implied stated that Ford “struggled to identify Judge Kavanaugh as the assailant by name.” even though anyone who was watching the hearing saw that Ford was entirely clear about the identity of the person who assaulted her. The memo also seriously questions Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s claims based on her memory, or lack there of, about details that Rachel felt far too pertinent to forget.
- “Dr. Ford has no memory of key details of the night in question — details that could help corroborate her account.” Mitchell notes that she doesn’t know the time or place of the incident; she doesn’t remember how she got to the party or how she got home.
I don’t know beyond any shadow of a doubt that Brett Kavanaugh assaulted Dr. Ford 36 years ago but she seems credible and I can’t see any reason why not to believe her. I do however know beyond any shadow of a doubt that Brett Kavanaugh is a bold face liar. And I do know that the speculative “questions” regarding Christine’s testimony are not evidence of dishonesty on her part. And I do know that if Rachel truly believes that Christine’s inability to remember irrelevant details on the evening of her assault is proof that it didn’t happen… it’s likely that Rachel has probably never been forcibly violated in the distant past.
I have been sexually assaulted 3 times in my life, not including being pressured and/or bullied into having sex when I wasn’t comfortable doing so. And not including attempted attacks or assaults.
Not including being *forcibly dragged into a vehicle, at 16 years of age, by a complete stranger and clawing and clambering my way out of the moving vehicle, screaming bloody murder and then being stalked by the driver for months afterwards.
Two of the times, I woke up to it happening in my own home, in my own bed, where I was asleep. I have no idea what time of year it was, let alone what the date was. I remember that I was 18 or 19 years old at the time. I remember what my room looked like. I remember the person who did it (it was the same person both times) and I remember waking up to it happening even though I was home alone when I went to bed/sleep. One of those two times I had been drinking, the other time I had not.
One of the times was at a party on a houseboat. I don’t know whose boat it was and I have no idea where it was docked, what day of the week it was or what month or even year it was. I was about 15 years old.
I remember the rooms these assaults happened it, the faces of the people who committed them and the way I felt while it was happening and for days after it happened. But I don’t have a clue what led up to it happening or when.
I imagine if you had told me the morning of, that I was going to be raped that evening, I might have remember what led up to it because I would have been sick and terrified all day and being sick and terrified is somewhat more memorable than a date or address.
I don’t remember what day of the week June 4, 2006 was or what I did throughout that day leading up to the police coming to the door of my home to tell me that my husband’s body had been found either. Does that mean they didn’t tell me? Does that mean I wasn’t traumatized by it? Does that mean he didn’t die?
- “Dr. Ford has not offered a consistent account of the alleged assault” — among other things, her accounts about the number of people at the party and whether she could hear conversations varied.
I have no idea how many people were at the party where I was assaulted, I don’t even remember which of my friends were with me that night.
I might have counted at the time and repeated the number over and over and over again in my head until it was etched in my mind if I’d known it would one day be considered “key evidence” in keeping a sexual predator out of the seat of the associate justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, but there’s still a pretty good chance that I would not have remembered 30+ years later.
I also don’t remember if I could hear conversation in the background on the houseboat. I do remember the sound of water lapping up agains the side of the boat, the sound of his breath on my face and the muffled grunting noises he made into the pillow case next to my head. I could almost hear my own stomach turning; my own blood curdling. All of those sounds – so much more memorable than meaningless backround chatter.
One afternoon when I was about 17 (yes, about 17, because I was no longer living in the apartment I rented when I first turned 16, but wasn’t yet with the boyfriend I started dating when I was 18 – And that is as accurate as my memory and this statement is going to get) years old, I walked into a police station to file a report.
“He jumped out of the bushes at me and he grabbed me but I screamed, I pulled myself out of my jacket and I got away”
I sat in the chair across from the police officer who was taking my statement.
“Is that what you were wearing?” he nodded toward me. I was sitting in the chair wearing a pair of converse high tops, leggings, a skirt, a Corrosion of Conformity T-Shirt and a plaid flannel coat.
He rolled his eyes and motioned again, “Is that what you were wearing?”.
What was weirder to me than the fact that the officer felt that the question was relevant to the crime… and what was weirder than the fact that what I was wearing wasn’t even remotely provocative, was that what I’d been wearing the night in question was a pair of baggy overalls and my roommate’s huge winter parka, at least 3 sizes to big for me, and a pair of work boots.
I do not remember the name of the street I was walking along.
I remember that I had tonsillitis because it hurt my throat to scream and my glands were so swollen that my voice sounded muffled. I remember how big his hand was on my arm.
Because these are the things we remember over a quarter of a century later.
If we asked any other person aged 30 years or older… what they were doing on any given day in 1988, I’m pretty sure that unless they were being born, giving birth, receiving news that a loved one just passed away, getting married or finalizing their divorce. They probably don’t have a clue, but they’ll still insist they existed. Horrible Horrible liars.