A dear old professor of mine stopped by to chat about this story. He had read it. He was one of the readers for the Duke contest.
He stood there, staring at me in his kindly, near-sighted manner, and a thought flashed in my head:
“He knows I was molested, and he doesn’t hate me. He doesn’t think I’m a bad person. He thinks I’m alright.”
Here’s the answer to the question as to why I submitted it, I guess. I wanted the people who taught me, some of the smartest people in this country, to know about what happened. I wanted them to know that it can happen to anyone, their student, their friend, their kid (so many of my friends, whose names I cannot name, have had similar things happen to them). And I also wanted to feel Ok about it, as opposed to constantly, bitterly, flushed-in-the-face-and-ready-to-bawl ashamed.
My first impulse, nevertheless, was to start crying and apologizing. But it passed, like a cloud passes over the sun, and continues on its merry way.