Stolen Time
Disclaimer: Contains Sensitive Subject Matter
On the day of my freshman move-in, some guy stopped by to say hello to my roommate and looked at me, no introduction, and didn’t give his name. Nothing. And went, “Oh, you’re the bikini girl.”
Right. In. Front. Of. My. Dad.
It was the first time I thought,
Oh, I’m not in California anymore.
The room froze. I had never been spoken to in such a manner. I had never felt uncomfortable in a pair of shorts and a tank top until that very moment. And while he may have been utterly oblivious to reading the room, I sent over a shriveling look and coldly demanded,
“And who exactly are you?”
Only then did he offer his name and a handshake. I stared at him with my right eyebrow raised. I didn’t feel that a sign of respect was warranted, nor was physical contact. He was quickly ushered out of the room, and I told my roommates I would not welcome his return, which they agreed upon.
It wasn’t uncommon for me to get asked,
“Why were you always in a bikini?”
…. Because it was normal to go swimming and to the beach year-round. Why?
~
I couldn’t pay it much mind. The school was small, but Boston’s population contained many others to meet. I had participated in a summer program and received an opportunity for New York Fashion Week. I would only be there for a few hours and was about to start two specialty studies. It was rather uncommon for students to start undecided on their path. The school even offered an opportunity to build your own. The small percentage that did, I grew to know as quite brilliant. The course offerings were interesting, and the study requirements aimed to sculpt well-rounded individuals. Incoming students had met over the summer and in coordinated messages. Everyone was eager and excited to meet in person and build their starting points. It was an age where we helped raise each other as we learned to stand on our own in the world.
My dad walked me to the door where I would meet new friends for the first time. I was the last to arrive.
“Have fun. Be safe. I’m just a call away if you need anything. We’ll have lunch after the morning activity?”
“Yes! Thanks, Dad. I promise, I’ll be okay.” The door opened to a small crowd of 15; a few said hello to him,
“SHE’S HERE!”
Picked up, light as a feather, I called out to my dad. “Love you!” And he echoed it.
The room was buzzing, and new friends who would walk me from one building to another when it was dark out quickly introduced themselves as they said,
“We’re like family now. That’s for life.”
People had flocked from other states and other countries to attend. The dreams were big, and arriving felt like we had conquered the world, ready to take on a new one. While some were eager for a fresh start, I took a lot of pride in being from California. It was an age when everyone was exploring their interests, identities, and desires. The school protected our right to think freely and taught us how to see from different perspectives.
~
Unfortunately, a dangerous perspective echoed in the news. One that everyone felt, whether they wanted to or not. Didn’t matter what side of the fence they stood on,
“Grab them by the p****.”
I was studying journalism at the time. It was painful.
The morning the world shifted, the school was silent, and most classes were cancelled. There was danger in the air. Grief on the grounds. Our journalism professor stood before us, shoulders slumped, and told us the media had neglected us as citizens. It should’ve never gone to print. It was harmful. One sentence and millions were dehumanized. It promoted the idea that half of the globe did not have the right to bodily autonomy. That basic human decency and consent were no longer necessary—no longer a human being with a soul, someone’s daughter or sister.
“There if they wanted it.”
Just grab it.
The perspective made my skin crawl, and if I ever heard it in a room, I would do everything in my power to leave.
All of my thoughts echoed one word: Why?
I decided to drop the journalism specialty after that first semester and returned to California for the holidays. When I touched down in my homeland, I was the first to arrive and planned a trip to my childhood ice rink. The ice was fresh from the Zamboni, my blades kissed the ice for the first time in ages, and the world fell quiet, once again. I had an album lineup in mind, finally able to listen with surround sound as I drove down the main road, now the picture of a path to return home.
When my friends landed, we would gather in the rooms and backyards we grew up in, taking dips in the pool, and discussing albums. When the stars fell upon us, we’d take a drive for a late-night treat and the view from the top of the world. We liked to take the scenic route home, even when it was dark. I departed for Boston, keeping in mind what my parents had always taught me: it was never too late to come home.
Written with Honey
