"No Debate"

          I struggled to lug my books, my outfit for the day, and a poster for a history project. My car, parked in a space by the science building, stood lonely in the lot. Most of the other members of the dance team entered the school in the predawn hours from another part of the school, but I always used this isolated slot since it made leaving at the end of the day faster because my final class of the day was biology.

         I didn’t see or hear him.

         In seconds, he covered my mouth and began to pull me down while his hands pulled at my pants. My books and clothes flew into the air. Instinct kicked in, and my elbow connected with his stomach; my fist swung down into his groin. I heard him grunt as he shoved me away. My knees hit the cement, the impact causing me to gasp as pain shot through me. His footsteps pounded as he raced away. I kneeled in place, my hands against the cool concrete, tears splattering the gray surface. Cautiously, I eased back and scooted crablike against the wall. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see anything, waiting for my pulse to return to normal.

         Somehow, I collected my belongings, organizing them fanatically into a neat pile. I pulled out tissue from my purse and dried my tears. Once I could breathe again, I made my way into a nearby bathroom where I washed my face and smarting hands.

         I told no one of the attack. In my confusion, I felt that I’d get blamed because I elected to park in an isolated place, different from the other girls.

         I wasn’t raped, but I felt shame.

     I wasn’t physically hurt beyond bruised knees, but I felt damaged.

        In a matter of moments, I knew what it meant to be a victim of violence.

         And so my tolerance these days with men spewing mindlessly about women, rape, and choice brings to surface an experience I’ve neatly tucked deeply away. For four years, I kept my experience private. I confided in no one, not even my parents. I carried with me the haunting possibility of what could have happened that early morning. A different reaction on my part, a little more determination on my attacker’s part, and everything would have changed.

         My personal experience left me knowing that choices must always exist for women. Period. No discussion. No debate.  



High school me!

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Halloween Parties”

         A long, long time ago, before legislators decided children shouldn’t have parties during school hours. each holiday ushered in festivities that took weeks of preparation. The first major celebration found hallways papered with witches, jack-o-lanterns, and black cats with backs hunched in fright. Cut-out bats swooped from the ceilings and gravestones with ghosts peeking over them paraded down the walls of the hallways. Halloween meant mothers sent candied apples, popcorn balls, and cupcakes to school for the afternoon party. Everyone wore a costume for the day (and not some favorite character from a book). Some teachers played records with screeches and howls, and ghostly music while others read scary stories. Almost every year, one teacher would read “Little Orphan Annie” where “the Gobble-uns/ ‘at gits you/ Ef you/ Don’t/ Watch/ Out!” All of the students would march from class to class to trick-or-treat, and the day ended with a party back in your own room. Games like “Seven Up” and “Poor Pussy” kept us busy all afternoon.

         My teaching career began at a junior high school that encompassed seventh, eighth, and ninth graders—all too cool for wearing Halloween costumes to school, but still longing for some special way to mark the day. In those long ago days, teachers could still bring candy to school, and I’d hand out treats to my students. I’d drop the shades, turn off the lights, and delight my students with “The Tell Tale Heart.” Some classes would play “Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board” where one student would volunteer to be our dead body while another would chant the spooky tale of death; and with the help of five other students, we’d levitate our “dead” student. Over a period of seven years, I never had a single parent complain that the activity exposed the children to Satan, witch craft, or paganism. Boy, have times changed!

         When I moved up to teach English and Psychology at our high school, I found myself back with students who longed to roam the hallways in costumes. Leaving behind the awkward pre-teen years, this older age group donned bold and creative outfits. Our day of celebration included all the favorite music, poetry and stories plus original masterpieces written by my students and shared with the class. Our studies ranged from Poe to Stephen King as students determined the elements of horror within a story.

         Somewhere along the line, some parents in some Texas town or city complained about the celebration of Halloween within public schools. Little by little our state legislature chipped away at the traditions I enjoyed in my own childhood. The same mentality that we can use standardized testing to measure the value of our students and our schools seeped into many of the small delights of teaching and learning. I am thankful that creative teachers and principals find a way to still bring Halloween celebrations onto some campuses.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman