You're Not Pretty Enough (6 page)

“Where do you think the best place would be to camp out for
tickets?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Why don’t you come with me? We’re sponsoring that concert and a contest.”

“Oh, cool. I’ll just have to ask my mom…She’s kind of…”

“Well, I can get her tickets too. Tell her she can bring a friend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure—no sweat.”

I pretended it was no big deal, but inside I was dying. Now
all I had to do was convince Mom.

My mom had a pretty strong bullshit detector, so I decided to play it straight and tell her the truth. To my serious surprise and delight, she agreed, but under one condition: that she talk to Cat and he back up my
story. I gave her his number, and after she got off the phone, she said, “OK, it’s a go…” I jumped up and down for five minutes straight, thinking that was as good as it gets.

But it got better. Two weeks later, Cat called me at home.
“Hey, Jen, listen, I can arrange for you to come in the limo with me and the contest winners. Your mom and her friend will have to meet us at the concert, but if you can go early, I’ll pick you up, and then you can hang backstage with
us and meet the band before going to your seats.”

I couldn’t speak.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, here. Me…good…with…that.”
Why do I sound like a cavewoman?

“OK, I’ll give you more details as we get closer.”

I hung up the phone and sat on one of the dining room chairs to catch my breath. It was March, and the concert was in two months. I had eight weeks to prepare.

***************

Operation “Make Jon fall in love with me” included the following steps:

1. Lose seven pounds to get to 125

2. Find the perfect outfit

3. Identify all the different scenarios that could occur

4. Determine and practice a response to all scenarios identified

Step one would be easy: skip the cafeteria pizza and do some of my mom’s Jane Fonda tapes. Step two required an inventory of my closet.
Nothing outfit-wise struck me as just right, but I did have a white leather jacket that fit me perfectly and a pair of low, but sexy white pumps. I just needed a dress. A trip to the mall would fix that, and I found a light pink
sleeveless number that went down to my knees and hugged my curves. Done.

For the last two steps, I would need to imagine all the possible ways Jon would act. For instance, if he was cocky, I imagined myself saying, “Think of all the fans who support you. You would be nothing without
us. NOTHING!” I couldn’t really imagine him being anything but lovely, but one had to prepare. I practiced my responses in the mirror until I felt I was ready.

And then the day came.

I got dressed, teased my long, permed, and frosted hair to the sky, and stepped out to enter the limo as an eighties goddess. The contest winners were two female friends in their twenties who were as psyched as I was, and we were accompanied by Cat and another DJ, Rick Michaels. The mood was
giddy as we jammed out to music on the thirty-minute ride to the Richfield Coliseum on a warm May day.

Several groupies were gathered around the area where the band buses and VIP guests pulled up. Suddenly, everyone in the limo took notice
that from the waist up I looked exactly like Jon, especially with hair, leather jacket, and shades. Cat suggested that I pop out of the moon roof and give the groupies a show.

“You think it’ll work?”

“Try it.” The girls in the limo egged me on.

“OK…” I jumped up on the seat so that my top half was showing and raised my hand with my three middle fingers folded down and waved
my pinky and thumb in the classic “Rock on!” sign. The groupies went crazy. When the limo parked and I got out—obviously no longer a
man,
they started shouting, “FUCK YOU!”

Heh,
I thought.
I’m about to meet my soul mate, so
fuck YOU!

We made our way through the melee near backstage—sound guys and wires were crisscrossing us—until we arrived in a large holding room with about fifty other radio station representatives and various guests. I
could hardly deal. My skin was crackling with excitement, and I sat with my hands underneath my thighs to keep from biting my nails.

We waited. For over an hour, we waited. I barely spoke to anyone because I was there for me, and I wanted to be inside my head preparing.

Cat, noticing my tension, said, “You know, I don’t want you to be disappointed if it’s just Tico who comes out.” Now, I loved Bon Jovi for the sum of its parts, and one of those parts was the drummer, Tico Torres. But
I had not come this far to
just
see TICO. No fucking way. As this thought bounced around my head, I became more anxious. But then I looked down the long hallway that led to the holding room, and there was Jon walking toward us. I
grabbed my camera.

It sounds cliché, but it really felt like everyone disappeared, and it was just me and him, separated only by a hundred yards. No one had noticed him yet, and I watched him walk toward the room, as if in slow
motion, dressed in tight leather pants and a cut-off shirt. He was smaller than I expected—maybe five-eight and thin—and he looked tired. I could feel tears well up, and I pinched myself on the thigh to get it together.

When he entered the room, several handlers marshaled him over to us. Apparently, as the concert sponsors, our group got first dibs. Cat and the others stood up, but I remained seated, frozen, and he stopped right at the base of my chair, shaking their hands, looking down at me, and smiling. He
started to tell a funny story that I can no longer remember, and I sat there, mute. All that practice down the drain! Cat, noticing my catatonic state, decided he should step in.

“This is my friend Jen.”

“Hey, Jen,” he said, smiling warmly and extending his hand to the one that was holding the camera. Instead of simply moving the camera from one hand to the other, I dropped it and shook his outstretched hand with
my mouth wide open. I didn’t even say hi. He looked at me with an expression that read
Am I crazy or does she look like me?
and then one of the handlers told us it was time for Jon to move to the other groups, but not before pictures were taken.

“Anyone want me to take a photo with their camera?” asked the female handler, and I momentarily regained my consciousness to hand her mine.

We stood up in a group—the concert winners to his
right and me to his left—and I felt him put his arm around my shoulder. I managed to wrap my arm around his waist and willed my molecules to remember his shape so I could replay it later.

The handler took some photos with other peoples’ cameras,
and when she got to mine, she said “Honey, it’s not working.”

“Huh?”

“Your camera. It’s not working.”

“No, did, um, did you try…”

“Honey, I can’t make it work, sorry,” and then she gave it
back and began to corral Jon to move to the next group. I looked at him, trying to think of something brilliant to say to make him stop and realize I was not just his female, mute doppelganger.

Who is who?

“Don’t worry,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away. “The station can get you a picture.” And then he winked at me and walked on. I
sat down on the chair again and watched the other groups as they showed off their gregariousness. Stupid talkers! Stupid me!

Cat patted me on the shoulder in a way that said, “Buck up, kid,” and joined the other DJs. I slumped. When Jon made his way out, that was
our cue to leave. Cat escorted me to the place I needed to go to get to my seat, and I turned to hug him. We stayed in touch for about a year, and even though I never got that photo, I’ll always think fondly of him.

When I got to my seat, the opening band was playing—I can’t remember if it was Cinderella or Tesla—and my mom and Margie were there. My mom’s face lit up immediately and then toned down slightly when she
saw my face.

“How was it?”

“It’s over. I met him and he didn’t fall in love me!” I howled.

“Oh, honey. Why don’t you just…you know…try and enjoy the show?”

I sat in my seat, disgusted with myself, and cried and cried
and cried. I didn’t cry at school, but I cried at home. After a couple weeks, I had to move on.

***************

In the early 2000s, some friends convinced me to go to a Bon
Jovi concert for nostalgia’s sake. I demurred at first, but they told me to get over myself and come with them. Just before the band came on at the sold out area, I wondered,
What am I doing here?
I still like him. He seems like
he’s a serious man. He does a lot for charity and is married with kids to his high school sweetheart. He’s hardly ever in the tabloids and has been able to maintain popularity and relevance over the span of nearly thirty years. In fact, I admire him. But really,
What am I doing here?

And then the lights went down, a guitar started playing, and he walked out on stage flashing a perfect smile on that beautiful mug.

And I was sixteen again.

The summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I worked at the Automated Teller Machine Processing Office at the bank where my dad was a vice president. This had absolutely zero to do with my major, but Dad
persuaded me to take it to augment my business acumen even though we both knew I would be bored balancing debit and credit slips from the various branches. It did have one mark in the “pro” column, however…I got paid. The money that I made during the summers significantly funded my incidentals throughout the
school year, so I looked at it as bird in hand. I was scheduled to start the job a week after I returned from school.

The night I got back, my boyfriend Leo and I hung out with
some friends. Somebody lit a joint and passed it around. I only smoked rarely in college but thought,
What the hell? I just finished my second year. Why not?

The next morning my dad called.

“Hey, honey, I forgot to mention that you have to take a
drug test before you can start at the office. So you need to schedule that right away.”

My heart stopped.

Try the political argument,
I said to myself.

“Well that’s just a violation of my rights!” I protested. “I mean, I am philosophically opposed to this kind of fascism! Forget it!”

“Drop it, hippie,” my Dad said. “Just get it scheduled.”

I steeled myself. “Um, Dad, um, yeah, there might be a
problem.”

“What kind of a problem?”

“Well, um, I kind of smoked last night.”

My dad, knowing I smoked cigarettes (but not liking it),
said, “That’s OK, honey. Cigarette smoking doesn’t show up on a drug test.”

“Um, yeah, I know that.”

Silence. Five seconds of silence.

“What the…?!? Jesus Christ, are you kidding me? What the
hell is wrong with you?!?! Jesus…!!”

And then he hung up.

I called my mom in a panic and told her what happened. She snorted on the phone.

“It’s not funny!” I squeaked, slightly hysterical.

“Oh, honey, please. Your dad and I used to smoke pot all the
time
in the seventies.”

I began to relax.

“In fact,” she continued, “I remember we were over at a
friend’s house and we got stoned, and your Dad stood in front of us and lip synched an entire Moody Blues album. It was
hilarious.
Seriously, he set up a stage with a spotlight and danced and everything.”

I called my dad back. “You can’t stay that mad at me because
that would make you a hypocrite. I know about singing to the Moody Blues album.”

“What are you talking about?

“Mom told me about that impromptu concert for your friends.
Sounds like a fun party.”

“JESUS CHRIST!” he yelled and hung up again.

My stepmother, Vicki, called me back that night. “Listen, honey, just drink a lot of cranberry juice, and let’s hope this whole thing
blows over.”

I passed the test and started the job. A couple weeks later we had a party at my dad’s house with cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends. My dad, who had
just
begun speaking to me without having to yell “Jesus
Christ!” every five minutes, caught me alone and said, “By the way, it wasn’t the Moody Blues, and it wasn’t the whole album. It was the Beatles.
Come Together.
And that song seemed to last forever.”

A University of Toledo (UT) student was arrested
yesterday after assaulting a student on the path that connects the south side of the East Ramp to Westwood Avenue.

Tom Smith
^[1]
, a freshman in the College of Business Administration, was arrested for sexual
imposition, after assaulting a UT student, according to a Lucas County Jail arrest report. According to the UT Police report, the victim said she was walking east on the path toward Westwood Avenue when she noticed that Smith was
following her. She then started to walk up the embankment. Smith asked the victim to come with him, but she refused and he grabbed her.

The report states that the victim pulled away, but Smith
grabbed her again, reached up her dress and grabbed her between the legs.

The victim pulled away again and ran to her home, which was approximately five to 10 minutes away, and called UT Police at 4:15 p.m., the report said.

According to Joe Skonecki, assistant director of campus police, the dispatcher was able to get a detailed description of Smith and broadcast it to Rocket Patrol and the UT Police officers. According to the UT
Police report, Yarko Kuk, Rocket Patrol supervisor, spotted Smith, notified UT Police and pointed Smith out to Jerry Owens, the arresting officer.

Owens confronted Smith at the sidewalk, which connects Lot 1-S to Lot 1-N near the Engineering-Science Building and told Smith that he
resembled the description of a person who recently assaulted a student.

The three went to Smith’s car because he was not carrying the described book bag or wearing sunglasses. According to Owens, the book bag
and sunglasses were in the car. Smith agreed to go to the UT Police Station, the report said.

UT officers then transported the victim from her house to the station and conducted a photo line-up, which consisted of a picture of
Smith and pictures of six other men. Skonecki said the victim distinctively pointed Smith out.

****************

I woke up like normal: pressed the snooze alarm five times,
made coffee, smoked a cigarette, and watched TV. I lived in a group home with five other women in a neighborhood that primarily housed college students. I loved those random early mornings when no one else was awake and I didn’t have to talk with anyone. I put on a light green-and-white-striped knee-length
cotton sundress, packed my schoolwork and books, and stepped off our front porch. I smiled at the early summer weather—bright, but still crisp due to the early hour.

It was an average school day for me. Three classes, lunch at
the Student Union, and no tests. I remember feeling settled in those late months of my sophomore year. I had reined in the galloping charge of that first blush of independence and left frequent binge drinking and passive learning
behind. After my last class, I headed home and passed the large east-parking garage on my right. Two campus police sat inside a security outpost twenty meters away, taking in the afternoon crowd.

I headed down the path adjacent to the garage while thinking
my usual post-class thoughts:
I only have two days to finish that paper, I need to do laundry, don’t eat three cheeseburgers for dinner…WAIT…Someone is behind me.

It wasn’t like it alarmed me. I heard the crunch of twigs
that let me know someone was following down the path, but it was a path commonly followed. What focused me was the quickness of the follower’s pace. My mom had worked for a rape crisis center, so my sister and I were schooled in
the ways of predators and what to do if someone approached us. Following her advice, when I heard his pace quicken, I turned around as casually as possible to memorize his characteristics. He was tall and thin with reddish blond hair,
wearing green and purple plaid shorts with a light T-shirt. He wore sunglasses and carried a backpack over his left shoulder. I turned back and tried to speed up my own pace without looking suspicious.

Woods surrounded us.

I was steps away from the embankment leading up to a road that was fifteen feet from a busy street. I started to claw my way up when I felt him reach up my dress and pull on my inner thigh. Somehow I maintained my position, but I was in danger of slipping. I looked toward the path and didn’t
see anyone coming. Another lesson from Mom popped in my head: if he doesn’t have a weapon, fight. So I began to kick and scream. I wasn’t scared yet. I was angry. With his free hand, he slammed my body into the smooth, shale parts of
the embankment, which momentarily stunned me into passivity. And then he threw off his backpack. He centered himself and stuck his other hand up my skirt and jammed what felt like four fingers up my vagina through my underwear. He
pressed his thumb on the bottom of my tailbone and started to pull me down. I fought the nausea and the panic and focused on survival.
No, no, no, no,
I thought.
Do not let him drag you into the woods, or he’ll kill you.
I screamed louder. “Get the fuck off me!” I yelled, kicking harder until one foot
landed on his balls and he stumbled backward, allowing me to climb to the street.

I froze for a moment, checking that I was actually free, and then ran fast, not looking back until I got to the 7-Eleven ten blocks down.
Once I was confident he didn’t follow me, I ran home, scared and full of adrenaline. It’s remarkable how fear continues to propel you, even after the fight.
I just want to go to my room and get under the covers,
I thought.

I opened the door with force and looked around, wild. Three of my roommates were sitting in the living room, and I blew past them and ran up the stairs to my room. I immediately got under the covers, shoes and all,
and pulled the duvet over my head. Not more than a minute later, my roommates ran upstairs and sat on my bed.

“Jen, what happened?” one of them asked.

“Someone attacked me,” I said quietly. They pulled the
covers back strongly and started speaking all at once.

“Oh my God, where?”

“Are you OK?”

“Someone bring me the phone. We’re calling the police.” They dialed the number, handed it to me, and then huddled in a protective bubble. I
described exactly what happened to the officer, surprised by how calm my voice sounded, and then waited for them to pick me up and go to the station. My roommates came with me to keep me on track.

When we arrived, they ushered me into a conference room and asked me to retell the events to an officer, who filled out a report. It was all very clinical. After about an hour, someone came in with a series of photos to review. I picked out my attacker right away. The police told me how they had
found him scoping out another victim but caught him before anything else happened. They also told me about two unsolved rape cases where the perpetrator matched my attacker’s description and that they would be questioning him about
his whereabouts on those days.

*****************

Back at the house, my roommates gathered around me. Girls are great for asking probing questions, so I talked. I am reminded by that day
that talking is the first step to recovery. I wanted to crawl under the covers and will the attack into something tangible I could smash or burn or lock away; and I might have had they not been home. Talking made me process what happened. Talking let me know how many people loved me and supported me. There have been
times I haven’t talked immediately after a traumatic experience. In its wake lay missed opportunities and a lover or two who translated this as a fatal flaw. But after the attack, I told my boyfriend, more friends, and my family. I
felt stronger every day, but I also wondered if I could have prevented it. Talking made me believe it wasn’t my fault.

“Maybe I should have worn jeans…”

“No! It was hot.”

“Why didn’t I just take the sidewalk along the street?”

“You’ve taken that trail a million times. It’s not your fault.”

Regardless, we all agreed to never take that wooded path
again.

***************

Less than a week later, the student paper ran the following editorial:

“Women Responsible for Own Safety” by Jay Benoit, Student Columnist
^[2]

Editor’s Note: This column reflects the opinions of the author, and is not intended to represent the views of
The Collegian
or its editorial staff.

Last week a female student was assaulted by a male
student near the east parking ramp. While this incident was likely unavoidable, it points out the need for women to take a more active role in, and take responsibility for, their own well being.

First, if society is to believe that sex crimes are acts
of violence—as they are—then remove the cloak of secrecy surrounding the victims. In news accounts of violent assaults, victims’ names are listed even though they may fear retaliation from the perpetrator.

In the most recent incident, although it involved no more than an uninvited grope, the victim’s name was veiled in secrecy, as if the act somehow merited more confidentiality than any other assault. In the minds of
many people, this can only reinforce the image of sex crimes as “dirty little liaisons” between two adults, rather than a violent encroachment on a person’s rights. Listing the victim omits the double standard and gives society a real
person to associate with a real violent act.

Second, women must take action to ensure a safe environment for themselves and others. At a recent workshop offered by Crime Prevention Officer Sherry Patterson, there were less than 20 women in
attendance. This is a sure sign of either laziness, complacency, or ignorance. These programs are not offered as a PR gesture on the part of the university—they are provided because there is the immediate danger of sexual assault any time a
woman ventures into the dark surroundings of the campus. Since many parts of campus, like the east ramp, SWAC, and other areas are in remote, unpatrolled segments, these things can even happen in broad daylight.

Third, women must realize, especially on campus, that
many assaults are committed by people known to them. Rape and other sex crimes are not always perpetrated by the stereotypical greasy stranger hiding in the bushes. When alcohol is involved, even sex with an intoxicated woman can be
treated as rape. Men have a responsibility to police their own ranks, but group violence is a male domain, records show. Men are not often victimized by groups of drunken women. However, on campuses nationwide, there are incidents
involving groups of men, particularly fraternity or athletic team members who assault women who are too drunk to resist.

Yet there is still a lazy attitude when it comes to appropriate dress and behavior at social functions and even in the classroom.
Lulled into complacency and perhaps still thinking like “daddy’s little girl,” when all this was still “cute,” young women come to class wearing skimpy tee-shirts and silky shorts.

This may be enticing, but not very wise in a largely
itinerant community of strangers. Sex crimes are acts of violence, but on campus it is generally not the fat, old woman loading fish sandwiches into the vending machine that gets attacked, but the vulnerable coed whose posture and decorum
indicate attack is possible.

Appropriate behavior, as with any crime, can avert an imminent attack or discourage the potential attacker. Acting defensively, knowing your attacker, and speaking out if attacked may help female UT students
to be more safe both on campus as well as off.

I began reading this while walking across campus, and by the time I got to the third paragraph I had to sit down.
Uninvited grope?
I read the rest in a rage and marched to my creative writing class. My teacher
cocked her eye at me as soon as I walked in the door.

“Is everything OK?”

I held the editorial up to her face and said, “This is me he’s talking about. He’s writing about me.” Seeing I was all fury and
indignation, she took me into her office and gave me a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m putting together a letter-writing campaign. This is outrageous.” True to her word, the next
edition came out with a greatly expanded
Letters to the Editor
section.

UT Collegian Editor’s Note: The Collegian
received a great number of letters in response to the opinion column entitled, “Women Responsible for Own Safety,” written by Jay Benoit, which appeared in the
Monday, June 3 issue of
The Collegian
. Due to space considerations,
The Collegian
is unable to print all of the letters, and some letters, which appear below, have been edited.

They were written by teachers and students and citizens who were simply too angry or disturbed to remain silent. They were defensive, educational, passionate, and personal. They were filled with empathy, outrage, and humor.

“Mr. Benoit, you wanted a name of a rape victim so you would be able to attach the actual crime to the actual name, so here it is
^[3]
. Now that there is a desired name, please remember that every time a joke about rape is told,
every time a rapist is excused and the victim blamed there is an insult on my character and my intelligence and to every other rape victim.”

“No sexual assault, regardless of extensiveness, is
acceptable Mr. Benoit, and women cannot be held responsible for such attacks.”

“To the woman who was the victim of that sexual assault, please try to disregard such insensitive remarks. Like all of us, he has a lot
to learn.”

“Would Mr. Benoit care for an uninvited “knee,” perhaps?”