September 29, 2018
Senator Ted Cruz
404 Russell Senate Office Building
Washington DC 20510
Dear Senator Cruz,
When I was nearly five years old, a man approached me at our apartment complex swimming pool. He had a doughy round face and body, a pale complexion, dark hair and eyes, and I’m guessing he was in his late teens or twenties. He said he had something to show me and led me behind the laundry room where he pulled down his swimming trunks. He told me to touch his penis, and then he laughed and laughed when I ran away. My mom was looking for me when I ran back. I never, not even to this day, told her what happened. I don’t remember the name of the apartment complex; it was on Rye Street in Metairie, Louisiana; I never knew the name of the pervert who approached me, I never saw him again, and, as I said, I never told anyone. I didn’t understand what he was doing or why, but I knew it was creepy, and I felt guilty for leaving the pool when I knew I shouldn’t have.
This was in 1975. I’m now 48 years old.
When I was 18, I was home from college and met up with a group of girlfriends in New Orleans. It was crowded that night. A group of men, I’m guessing in their twenties, were walking towards us on Bourbon Street. One of them cocked his head, sneered and said, “Big tits,” while proceeding to grab and squeeze my breast – hard – before moving on. It happened fast. My friends witnessed it. We did not go to the police. I did not know it then, but that was assault.
During the summer of 1989, I was home from college and got a job at a locally owned video store called Captain Video. It was in a strip mall on Veterans Boulevard in Metairie, Louisiana. We were busiest on weekend evenings but had normal retail hours. It was rarely busy on weekday afternoons, so the owners only had one staff member work during those times. We had regular customers, and it was a small business with a friendly, “family” atmosphere. One of our regulars was Randy. He came in one busy Saturday or Sunday evening with his two young, precious daughters – looking back, I’d say the older girl was no more than 5 or 6 years old. He introduced me to them and then gave me a hug, which may sound strange in and of itself, but when he hugged me, he also “wiggled,” for lack of a better term. I thought maybe I imagined it, or that maybe he didn’t mean anything by it. I was 19 years old. No one had ever done that.
The Monday after that weekend, Randy came into the store when I was working alone. He offered to get me some food or a margarita from the Mexican restaurant next door. I thought that was awfully nice of him; since I was the only one there, I couldn’t leave for lunch. He went and got some chips and a margarita and brought them to me. He came around the corner of the counter and got behind me to set down the food and drinks. And then he slipped his arms underneath mine and squeezed my breasts. I jumped up and said, “Randy! Stop!” and I grabbed some videos that needed to be put away. He followed me around the store. He told me he had sex in the store with Mary, one of my coworkers, and that Rebecca, another coworker, liked to watch. I’d gone back around the counter to get more tapes to put away; again he came up behind me. He pressed me against the counter, grabbed my breasts again, and this time, he rubbed his erect penis against the small of my back.
All this time I’d been dodging and weaving and trying to change the subject. Now, I felt trapped. Just a few feet over, there was a panic button, but I was second-guessing myself and second-guessing Randy. Was he going to rape me, or was I overreacting? He was a regular customer, he knew the owners. Would they believe me? Would the police? I finally said to him, “Randy, if you don’t stop, I’m going to tell your children what you’re doing.” He dropped his hands, backed up and left the store. Had he not, I’d like to think I would have pressed the panic button, but I was definitely afraid of causing a scene, of being accused of overreacting. I stayed, in shock, at the store until one of the evening shift people came in. I told him I wasn’t feeling well and I left.
When I got home, I called a good friend of mine from high school and told him I needed to talk. He came and picked me up, and I told him what had happened at work. He turned right back around, brought me home to my parents, and stayed with me while I told them what happened. They called one of the storeowners; she questioned why I hadn’t called them or the police. I said I was scared. That I knew he was a regular customer. That I thought they were friends. That it’d be his word against mine and I wouldn’t be believed. Later the owner called my parents back; she said she questioned Randy and he corroborated what I said, and they’d banned him from the store. They still wanted me to work for them. But I never set foot in that store again. You know what else I never did? I never reported the incident to the police, and neither did my parents. I thought since he hadn’t actually raped me that he hadn’t done anything illegal.
Now I’m 48 years old. Now I know I was sexually assaulted.
These three incidents aren’t the only ones. These are the ones where I wasn’tat a party; where I wasn’tdrunk; where I had no reasonable expectationof being sexually assaulted – and it pains me, galls me to even have to qualify the situation, as if there’s evera valid excuse for sexual assault.
Brett Kavanaugh may be a fine man now. But that doesn’t preclude him from having made bad decisions then. His stonewalling refusals to answer the questions of your colleagues’ “on the other side of the aisle” certainly don’t vindicate him. His repeated assertions about being a varsity athlete and hard worker certainly don’t vindicate him. His love of “beer” and denial of getting blackout drunk while drinking “beer” certainly don’t vindicate him. Because we all know that good people do bad things. Either you believe Dr. Blasey Ford, or you do not.
I am your constituent. I generally vote “on the other side of the aisle,” so I doubt you care about, and you certainly don’t represent, my interests. But if you vote to confirm Kavanaugh’s nomination to the Supreme Court, do it with your eyes open. Do it knowing you’re choosing his word over Dr. Blasey Ford’s; acknowledge that you think she’s a liar. Acknowledge that Blasey Ford, and women like her – women like me – are an inconvenience, if not a roadblock, to achieving your agenda. Acknowledge that the most important thing to you is confirming the Supreme Court seat before the midterm elections and NOT because Brett Kavanaugh is the best man for the job. He is not.
Sincerely,
Your constituent
Mommanon 