i had a woman's body. yes i was only 12, but i developed early and had no idea what to make of the womanly curves i had because underneath them, i was still just a kid. and I guess those men, at least j. and a. (i think f., the next-door neighbor, was different; i think he knew exactly what he was looking at, and that's what turned him on), they looked at that body and decided "woman", even though they knew i was 12. did they somehow think the fact that my body looked grown-up made it ok for them to look at me, to think of me, as a grown woman? do hips and breasts make you fair game no matter your age? or was that just what they told themselves to justify their lust so they could sleep better beside their trusting and unknowing wives? i spent 20 years thinking it was my fault – my fault for having breasts at 12, my fault for developing early. 20 years thinking if only i was like my sister, and had been 16 by the time i needed a bra. i remember when i was in the 7th grade, and my mama bought me a form-fitting black top, and when i tried it on and looked in the mirror i felt wrong, awkward. like a child trapped in the body of a grown woman, or, maybe like a little girl playing with things she didnt understand. and my mama sensed my discomfort and said "if you're not comfortable in it then it's ok, you don't have to wear it." she gave it to goodwill.

whenever i think of that moment in front of the mirror i think, why wasnt it my mama i told about HIM? about f? mama would have done something. mama wouldn't have buried her head in the sand. she would have gotten justice for me, by tooth and claw if necessary. but then she died, and there would be no justice. because daddy was weak, and daddy was old, and even though he said he loved me - and i believed and still believe he did - he just couldn't find it within himself to stand up for me, his daughter, his "baby." he's dead now too, and i've always defended him in memory by saying "well, he never abused me", but is that really true? because i've spent over 20 years thinking it was my fault. my fault for developing early, my fault for being born late, my fault for living in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time, my fault for telling my daddy at all. because he didn't protect me, and he didn't defend me, and now i'm 34 years old and i still feel like there's nothing there worth defending or protecting. i'm 34 years old and i hate myself, and i don't value myself. is that f's fault? or j's? or a’s? or my own? or is it maybe my daddy's? i'll always love you, daddy. but i'll always hate you too. if you had stood up for me then, maybe i wouldn't even think about f. anymore. maybe i would love myself and see something worth protecting. and as much as my rational mind tells me all of the above, i still can't look within and see what it is that's so worth defense and protection and love. i still see breasts, and hips, and a little girl with a woman's body, who wishes those breasts and hips would go away so she could be a kid again, just a tomboy in her big brother's hand-me-down levi's who didnt attract the attention of any lustful grown men, who didn't have to hide any shameful secrets, who didn’t see herself as worthless… and most of all, who could believe that her daddy would protect her no matter what, and run to him to be picked up and hugged, and who didn't have to wonder if he really loved her, and how much, and how far he would go to protect her, and then, when he didn’t, why.

i hate you, daddy. it doesn't matter that you didn’t hit me, and it doesn't matter that you always told me you loved me. mama always said "actions speak louder than words", and i hated hearing that as a kid, but now, as a grownup, i know that it couldn't be truer. your words said "i love you", but your actions said "i can't be bothered", and as much as i love you, i hate you for that. and i hope that wherever you are now, you know how i feel.