Not That Bad

Dispatches from Rape Culture

Roxane Gay

• Éditeur: Allen & Unwin
• Année: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781760637446
• Sujet: Social Sciences
• Sous-sujet: Feminism & Feminist Theory

Edited and with an introduction by Roxane Gay, the New York Times bestselling and deeply beloved author of Bad Feminist and Hunger, this anthology of first-person essays tackles rape, assault, and harassment head-on. Vogue, 10 of the Most Anticipated Books of Spring 2018
Harper's Bazaar, 10 New Books to Add to Your Reading List in 2018
Elle, 21 Books We're Most Excited to Read in 2018
Boston Globe, 25 books we can't wait to read in 2018
Huffington Post, 60 Books We Can't Wait to Read in 2018
Buzzfeed, 33 Most Exciting New Books of 2018 In this valuable and timely anthology, cultural critic and bestselling author Roxane Gay collects original and previously published pieces that address what it means to live in a world where women have to measure the harassment, violence and aggression they face, and where sexual-abuse survivors are 'routinely second-guessed, blown off, discredited, denigrated, besmirched, belittled, patronized, mocked, shamed, gaslit, insulted, bullied' for speaking out. Highlighting the stories of well-known actors, writers and experts, as well as new voices being published for the first time, Not That Bad covers a wide range of topics and experiences, from an exploration of the rape epidemic embedded in the refugee crisis to first-person accounts of child molestation and street harrassment.Often deeply personal and always unflinchingly honest, this provocative collection both reflects the world we live in and offers a call to arms insisting that 'not that bad' must no longer be good enough.

Picture Perfect

SHARISSE TRACEY

DADDY MOVED US OUT TO CALIFORNIA WHEN I WAS FIVE; Mommy didn’t like it there. I hated being there as an only child mostly because, if I’d had a brother or sister, I would’ve had someone to play with. Daddy said that I was spoiled, but I worked more at thirteen than he did; like Cliff Huxtable, he was home a lot while Mommy worked at the phone company.

My dad was a freelance photographer who worked steady for a while until he got too sick with sickle cell. I never really saw him in a photo shoot with models (or women wanting to be models), but I sure saw the results in his albums. My mom didn’t seem to mind about the pictures—or, if she did, I didn’t know. I never heard them arguing about his photography or the women in the shots.

Despite moving around a lot, we always had a darkroom where he developed his precious photos; he’d spend hours in there, but I had strict instructions never to enter. He smelled after being in there, a caustic cologne of chemicals and Benson & Hedges from which I was largely spared because he rarely ever even hugged me. The only time I was close to him was when I helped him do test shots.

“Stand there and look straight into the lens, Tracey,” he’d say. “Don’t move.”

I would stare at the lens or the tip of his cigarette; I was just a prop, a way to test out new equipment and practice before the occasional big freelance gigs that helped camouflage the fact that he wasn’t the primary breadwinner.

The year I was thirteen, my friends and I wanted model-like pictures of ourselves, the Glamour Shots kind that would eventually infiltrate every mid-American strip mall. Our pubescent hearts were set on mature photos—racy even—in our bathing suits, and we’d pinned our hopes for them on the one photographer who captured all the young girls in Pasadena—Tate. I’d already tagged along with another girl from school and witnessed her photo session. I knew the setup. Safety was not my concern.

“That old guy in the wheelchair?” said my mother when I asked. “Oh no, no no no. I don’t trust him.”

“But, Mom, he takes everyone’s pictures in Pasadena!”

“Sharisse,” she said, “you don’t know what that man could do!”

At the time, I didn’t get what she was implying, but, yes, he was pretty much Child Pornographer #1 from Central Casting, an aging hippie in a wheelchair, making a living taking pictures of young girls in a dark house. But I never had any problems with him; he’d never said or done anything to me that felt off.

“Why not let your daddy take your pictures?” she said. “He takes great photographs.”

“Daddy?” I’d never thought of my father. Why would I? I knew he took great pictures but we were talking about Glamour Shots, in swimwear. . . . And he was my father.

It wasn’t just modesty, though: my father and I didn’t have a good relationship because I had stubbornly refused to be a son. I would have never thought to ask him for anything remotely supportive; I didn’t ask him for anything.

But I took my mother’s suggestion because I was thirteen and impatient: I wanted pictures that made me feel pretty and important (and maybe a little bit sexy), and nothing says lightning-fast delivery quite like a man with a camera and darkroom already in your home.

When I asked my father to do something for me for the first time ever, I was alone in the house. He said yes and decided to do it right away: my friends, who had always been more skeptical of my mother’s suggestion than I was, ended up being busy that day, and so it was just me.

Daddy set up our dining room that day to look like a photography studio, putting up the blue backdrop screen that he used with his Real Models without talking much. He was always very serious when taking pictures. He told me to put on my bathing suit, but I didn’t actually have one, despite my plans with my friends. My last known bathing suit had gotten lost in the six months we were homeless. According to the boys at school, only my legs, forehead, and smile were getting bigger, not my butt or breasts. As much as I loved the water, I hadn’t had a reason to replace it. All I had was my new blue-and-white polka-dot bra and panty set that Mommy just bought me from JCPenney.

“It’s no different than a bikini, Tracey,” he said. “Real models wear much less than this.”

But I wasn’t a real model, and he was my daddy.

He sent me to get the baby oil from the bathroom, then flipped open the pink top, and poured the oil into his hands. He showed me how to apply it, the way his real models did. My father rubbed the oil on the uppermost part of my back and shoulders as if he were frosting one of the delicate cakes he baked. He wanted my body to glisten.

“Just relax, Tracey, you’re doing fine, there is nothing to worry about.”

I didn’t feel fine, but I tried to reassure myself. I know Daddy is a photographer, I thought. I know he takes good pictures. I know Mommy thought it was a good idea. She didn’t want Old Man Tate to take my pictures. Maybe if Mommy was here I would be more comfortable. I should say something to Daddy, tell him I want to wait.

I didn’t. Instead, I kept telling myself, If I’m ever going to be a Real Model, I have to get used to this.

Finally the photo shoot ended, and I went to change clothes in my room when he called to me.

“Yes, Daddy?”

“I need you to come in here for a minute.”

Daddy had an idea: he asked me to lie down on the bed for a few shots in my bra and panties. I was confused; all the other pictures were taken in the makeshift dining room studio.

“Everything will be okay, Tracey,” he said. “Just relax.”

He laid me down gently and, one hand holding his camera, the other moved the crotch of my brand-new blue- and-white polka-dot panties to one side.

For once, I was glad I didn’t have a little sister.

I TOLD MOMMY A WEEK LATER.

She looked at me hard and then she hugged me even harder. She asked why I’d waited seven days to tell her, but I didn’t have an answer. Mommy didn’t say anything else; we just went and rode home from her job in silence.

Of course Daddy denied it; I expected that. I didn’t expect Mommy to believe him, and she didn’t.

So after Daddy finally confessed, I assumed Mommy would throw him out; all along, I had thought that Mommy stayed with Daddy because he was sick and she felt sorry for him.

But she didn’t make him leave.

It was her house, she paid the bills, and she worked. He didn’t. Why did she still care for him and let him stay, after what he’d done to their daughter? I was so filled with rage; I couldn’t understand her pain and I didn’t understand her choices. How could she, after all this, love us both equally, maybe even love him a little more than she did me? Even though he raped me, it was treated as something we were both guilty of; I just refused to wear my half of the shame.

My father attended our church sporadically. His health was always an excuse for absence while his photography afforded him plenty of opportunities to be seen at his best. Our pastor, reverends, and deacons all held him in high regard, so when my mother sought advice from our church, it was treated much in the way as the counselor had. No one could believe it. They left us to deal with the matter the best way we knew how, on our own.

A counselor coworker of Daddy’s warned my mom that she should let him stay because if my father were forced to leave, the overall damage to our family could be irreversible. I thought it very ironic, given all the times my father was unemployed, that it was an associate of his who came to our aid. As a counselor, he volunteered his services to the family as a favor to my father. This doctor, like most of the people my father was in contact with, believed him to be a good and decent man.

“Your father told me what happened, Tracey,” the counselor said as I sat on the edge of the chair in his hospital office two weeks later. “Do you think you can forgive him?” he asked.

My parents sat on the couch on the other side of the room, my mother on one side, gripping her purse, and my father quietly on the other, his head down and his eyes up. It was the second time in two weeks that I’d been asked to forgive something I was struggling to comprehend on the most basic level. (Daddy had also asked me for my forgiveness, after he stopped denying to my mother that he’d raped me.)

The psychiatrist paused expectantly, as though I’d missed my cue.

“I’ll try,” I said.

“Good, good, good, Tracey,” he said.

“My name is Sharisse,” I said. “Only Daddy calls me Tracey.”

Daddy, and his whole family, had wanted me to be a boy, so they never used my first name: they all called me Tracey because it could conceivably be a boy’s name.

“Okay, Tracey . . . sorry, Sharisse,” the so-called counselor droned on. “I’ve had a long talk with your father. I know him quite well, you know. He’s very sorry and I don’t think he will ever do this again. This was just a onetime thing.”

Daddy’s friend was so glib about Daddy raping me, as if it was just a fluke, a regrettable blip on an otherwise unblemished record, like that one time you drove blackout drunk, or that one time you stole your grandmother’s purse and did black tar heroin: that one time you raped your only child.

“Besides, you’ll come back to see me. We’ll talk about whatever’s confusing you. You’re a good girl, Tracey, right? Tell me, Tracey, where’s your favorite place to go?”

“What do you mean?” I said, without correcting him about my name again.

“You know, your favorite place!” he said enthusiastically, as if it were a perfectly natural segue from talking about That One Time Your Father Raped You Which Will Totally Never Happen Again He Swears.

“I think the three of you should go someplace. As a family. You pick!”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“C’mon, Tracey,” he wheedled. “Where’s your favorite place to go? Where would you really like to go? Anyplace at all!”

“I just went to Magic Mountain with my eighth-grade class.”

“That’s it,” he said, clapping his hands with a satisfied grin at my stricken parents. “Magic Mountain. There. Take her to Magic Mountain.”

WHEN MY FATHER WAS INSIDE ME, THERE WAS A MOMENT that I didn’t cry. The minute before I didn’t cr...