Blaming the Victim

The night a girl learned about rape culture, first hand.

The night I was raped by my uncle, I—

Wait. Raped? Did he have a knife? A gun? 

The night I was raped by my uncle, he did not have a knife or a gun. I was lying next to him in a tent, asleep. I woke up when I felt his fingers in my underwear. I—

Did you scream?

The night I was raped by my uncle, he did not have a knife or a gun. I was lying next to him in a tent, asleep. I woke up when I felt his fingers in my underwear. I didn’t scream. I pretended I was still asleep and rolled away from him. I—

Why didn’t you scream?

The night I was raped by my uncle, he did not have a knife or a gun. I was lying next to him in a tent, asleep. I woke up when I felt his fingers in my underwear. I didn’t scream. I pretended I was still asleep and rolled away from him. I crossed my legs. I clenched my thighs, trying to close the space between them. I didn’t know what to do. It was my first sexual experience. It was the summer between eleventh and twelfth grade. My mother thought it would be so much fun to go camping with my uncle. I—

Read more