hall and knocked on the door of my best friend Mary Alice's room. No one. I knocked on my own, hoping for my roommate. No one. Last, I knocked on the door of Linda and Diane, two of a group of six of us who had become friends that year.
At first there was no answer. Then the doorknob turned.
Inside, the room was dark. Linda was kneeling on her bed and holding the door open. I had woken her up.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Linda," I said, "I was just raped and beaten in the park."
She fell back and into the darkness. She had passed out.
The doors were spring-hinged and so the door slammed shut.
The RSA had cared. I turned around and walked back downstairs to his desk. He stood.
"I was raped in the park," I said. "Will you call the police?"
He spoke quickly in Arabic, forgetting himself, then, "Yes, oh, yes, please come."
Behind him was a room with glass walls. Though meant as an office of some sort, it was never used. He led me in there and told me to sit down. Because there was no chair, I sat on top of the desk.
Boys had gathered from outside and now stared in at me, pressing their faces near the glass.
I don't remember how long it took—not long because it was university property and the hospital was only six blocks south. The police arrived first, but I have no memory of what I said to them there.
Then I was on a gurney being strapped down. Then out in the hallway. There was a large crowd now and it blocked the entrance. I saw the RSA look over at me as he was being questioned.
A policeman took control.
"Get out of the way," he said to my curious peers. "This girl's just been raped."
I surfaced long enough to hear those words coming from his lips. I was that girl. The ripple effect began in the halls. The ambulance men carried me down the stairs. The doors of the ambulance were open. Inside, as we charged, sirens screaming, to the hospital, I let myself collapse. I went somewhere deep inside myself, curled up and away from what was happening.
They rushed me through the emergency room doors. Then into an examination room. A policeman came inside as the nurse was helping me take off my clothes and change into a hospital gown. She wasn't happy to have him there, but he averted his eyes and flipped forward to a clean page in his pocket notebook.
I couldn't help but think of detective shows on television. The nurse and policeman argued over me as he began to ask questions, take my clothes for evidence as she swabbed my face and back with alcohol and promised me the doctor would be there soon.
I remember the nurse better than I do him. She used her body as a shield between us. As he gathered preliminary evidence—my basic account—she said things to me as she took items for the evidence kit.
"You must have given him a run for his money," she said.
When she took the scraping from under my nails, she said, "Good, you got a piece of him."
The doctor arrived. A female gynecologist named Dr. Husa.
She began to explain what she was going to do while the nurse shooed out the policeman.
I lay on the table. She was going to inject me with Demerol in order to relax me enough for her to gather evidence. It might also make me want to pee. I was not to do that, she said, because that might disrupt the culture of my vagina and destroy the evidence the police needed.
The door opened.
"There's someone here who wants to see you," the nurse said.
Somehow, I thought it might be my mother, and I panicked.
"A Mary Alice."
"Alice?" I heard Mary Alice's voice. It was soft, afraid, even.
She took my hand and I squeezed it hard.
Mary Alice was beautiful—a natural blonde with gorgeous green eyes—and on that day, particularly, she reminded me of an angel.
Dr. Husa let us talk for a moment as she prepped the area.
Mary Alice, like everyone else, had been drinking heavily at a year-end bash held at a nearby fraternity house.
"Don't say I can't sober you up," I said to her, and for the first time I cried too, letting
At first there was no answer. Then the doorknob turned.
Inside, the room was dark. Linda was kneeling on her bed and holding the door open. I had woken her up.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Linda," I said, "I was just raped and beaten in the park."
She fell back and into the darkness. She had passed out.
The doors were spring-hinged and so the door slammed shut.
The RSA had cared. I turned around and walked back downstairs to his desk. He stood.
"I was raped in the park," I said. "Will you call the police?"
He spoke quickly in Arabic, forgetting himself, then, "Yes, oh, yes, please come."
Behind him was a room with glass walls. Though meant as an office of some sort, it was never used. He led me in there and told me to sit down. Because there was no chair, I sat on top of the desk.
Boys had gathered from outside and now stared in at me, pressing their faces near the glass.
I don't remember how long it took—not long because it was university property and the hospital was only six blocks south. The police arrived first, but I have no memory of what I said to them there.
Then I was on a gurney being strapped down. Then out in the hallway. There was a large crowd now and it blocked the entrance. I saw the RSA look over at me as he was being questioned.
A policeman took control.
"Get out of the way," he said to my curious peers. "This girl's just been raped."
I surfaced long enough to hear those words coming from his lips. I was that girl. The ripple effect began in the halls. The ambulance men carried me down the stairs. The doors of the ambulance were open. Inside, as we charged, sirens screaming, to the hospital, I let myself collapse. I went somewhere deep inside myself, curled up and away from what was happening.
They rushed me through the emergency room doors. Then into an examination room. A policeman came inside as the nurse was helping me take off my clothes and change into a hospital gown. She wasn't happy to have him there, but he averted his eyes and flipped forward to a clean page in his pocket notebook.
I couldn't help but think of detective shows on television. The nurse and policeman argued over me as he began to ask questions, take my clothes for evidence as she swabbed my face and back with alcohol and promised me the doctor would be there soon.
I remember the nurse better than I do him. She used her body as a shield between us. As he gathered preliminary evidence—my basic account—she said things to me as she took items for the evidence kit.
"You must have given him a run for his money," she said.
When she took the scraping from under my nails, she said, "Good, you got a piece of him."
The doctor arrived. A female gynecologist named Dr. Husa.
She began to explain what she was going to do while the nurse shooed out the policeman.
I lay on the table. She was going to inject me with Demerol in order to relax me enough for her to gather evidence. It might also make me want to pee. I was not to do that, she said, because that might disrupt the culture of my vagina and destroy the evidence the police needed.
The door opened.
"There's someone here who wants to see you," the nurse said.
Somehow, I thought it might be my mother, and I panicked.
"A Mary Alice."
"Alice?" I heard Mary Alice's voice. It was soft, afraid, even.
She took my hand and I squeezed it hard.
Mary Alice was beautiful—a natural blonde with gorgeous green eyes—and on that day, particularly, she reminded me of an angel.
Dr. Husa let us talk for a moment as she prepped the area.
Mary Alice, like everyone else, had been drinking heavily at a year-end bash held at a nearby fraternity house.
"Don't say I can't sober you up," I said to her, and for the first time I cried too, letting
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