Youth Opinion : Reflections on a Rape on the Way to School

It was 6:55 a.m. Like every school day morning, I was giving my hair that final check, making sure that I had bus fare and lunch money, and calling out, “Bye Mom; Bye Dad.” But instead of of his usual reply of “Make an ‘A’ on that quiz” or “Have a good day,” he asked, “Where are you going?”

“To school,” I answered. The question reminded me of what we had talked about the previous evening--that a rapist in the Crenshaw District had attacked a 12-year-old girl a couple of days earlier. Dad made it clear that my morning walks and bus rides to school were over.

I hadn’t forgotten about the rape. My classmates at Audubon, an articulate, opinionated group, had talked about it constantly. One of my friends said that she would have gone crazy on that man, socking, kicking and scratching him. Another said that she would have screamed so loud that the rapist would have run away. All of us talked about how sad we feel for the girl. But only one friend was courageous enough to say what all of us were probably thinking but had not said: “If it happened to that girl, it could have happened to any of us.”

It had also made me think about the time, just a few weeks earlier, when I was walking home alone from school about 3:30 p.m. A man pulled up in a raggedy car and said, “Get in the car.” I kept on walking. He said it again. I turned around and did a Flo Jo back to school. That evening my parents asked me to think hard and give them details. How did he look? Describe the car. What’s his license plate number? I had realized that in a situation where there is danger, it may be pure impulse--not all of those things you have been taught to do--that determines how you react.

Still, I felt angry when my father told me that he would be taking me to school every day. It was like I was placed on punishment for something that I hadn’t done. Seventh grade is a big year for me. It is my first time in public school, with 1,800 students compared to the 300 in my old private school. It is the first time I had to adjust to changing classes period by period. I had done well, and all of these changes made me feel like I was growing up and getting more freedom, especially when I could go to school by myself.

Getting to school early meant I had plenty of time to talk with my friends about television shows, teachers and our families before the start of class. But leaving with my parents means that I get to school later since it seems that every morning one of my two younger brothers, Ruben and Jamal, can’t find their jacket, a shoe or their homework.

I was also angry because this rapist called for a new way of looking at men. Before this, I’d seen the ones in my neighborhood like my dad. They taught young sons to mow the lawn, rake the leaves and carry out the trash to learn the value of work. They gave my mother, brothers and me rides to the bus stop or to school. They were the ones who, if asked to buy a bar of candy for a school fund-raiser, said, “Girl, give me 10.” They were the ones who brought a trash bag full of cans to help me in a school recycling drive. Though I still saw my neighbors the same way, I now look more cautiously at other men around me.

Until this rape, I didn’t worry about violence or crime.

I knew they occurred: Sometimes at my old house, I would stand on the balcony and watch the helicopters circling over Baldwin Village. And once our van was stolen from in front of the house. All of the seats were taken, but our sleeping bags, toys, books and other valuables were still there when we found it three blocks away.

But these incidents did not make me feel that anything bad could happen to me. My main worries were making sure my clothes matched or planning my Thursdays so that I would have time to do my homework, practice with the Los Angeles Jets, my track team, and watch “Martin.”

But this rape has changed that. While I no longer feel afraid, I don’t see things with childhood innocence like I used to.