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I promised to tell you a story:

When I was a sophomore in high school, I dislocated my right ankle while sliding into home base during a softball game. I was in a cast for the rest of the spring semester and started physical therapy during the summer.

A few weeks into therapy, my doctor told me I was strong enough to walk around for maybe 15 minutes a day, and after that I should put my walking cast back on. Being that I’m stubborn and by that point in the summer I had cabin fever, I decided to walk to the beach, hang out for a bit, and then walk back. (If my leg started to swell, than maybe I would put my walking cast back on.) The beach is only a few blocks from my home in San Diego, so it wasn’t like I had far to go.

On my way there I crossed a street at which a red corvette was stopped at a stop sign. A guy, mid-30s, yelled out of his car, “You havin’ a good time?” I ignored him and kept my eyes forward.

The following is an excerpt of a short story I wrote on what happened next:

I imagine he watched me cross the street, cross in front of his car. I imagine he watched me continue to walk down the street. I guess he figured I was an easy target; I was limping slightly. There’s no other explanation.

I continued to walk toward the beach. The one a few blocks from my house. My beach, in my quiet, quaint, little beach town. If he drove by I didn’t notice. He had the same car as my grandfather; that’s what I remember most. A red sports car. It was an older model, probably from the early 90s. My granddaddy loves to be flashy.

I went to a few of the beach stores. Just to look. I hadn’t been out of the house without crutches for three months. My ankle wasn’t hurting, so I went to the beach. I saw him pass me in his red sports car. It doesn’t register. It looks just like my grandaddy’s.

There are too many people at the beach; I want to go back home. Not the normal way. A longer way for more sunshine; I want more sunshine. He must have been watching me the entire time. There’s no other explanation.

I went through a neighborhood. He didn’t follow behind me. A civilian would have done that. I made a turn here and a turn there. I’ve never been in this neighborhood. No matter, I lived to the north of where I was. Go north till you hit the water and my house is right there.

I’ve never been on this street. I’m at the end of the block. There is a barrier because of construction. Right, left, or back the way I came. I only have three choices.

And here he comes. In my granddaddy’s car. He turns the corner, and it hits me. Rebecca, he is following you. Oh my God. God help me.

His car stops in front of me. He yells something at me. Something about giving me a ride. I can’t hear. My heart is pumping. He presses the gas slightly, and drives up next to me. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

Oh my God. God help me. Stop it Rebecca. Think. Process the situation. He’s talking to me. My body is frozen. My brain is running a marathon.

He’s wearing camo. He’s in the military. No Rebecca, not necessarily, any loser with $50 can buy a camo uniform. Wait, the sticker. He has a sticker of an American flag on his car. He has clearance to get onto base. He is in the military. Father in heaven please help me. You’re alright, he’s still talking to you. Keep thinking.

I walk forward next to a large white van. He can’t see you, keep thinking. He puts the car in reverse. I can see the back of his car through the window of the white van. Oh my God. God help me.

“So you wanna run?” The southern accent I usually find adorable is now repulsive.

The engine turns off. He’s in the military, Rebecca. If he gets out of that car and gets his hands on you he’ll rape you. Maybe even worse. Defend yourself. Defend yourself, Rebecca.

The engine is on again. Thank you Lord. I hear him switch gears. He drives forward. I walk forward. I’m behind another car. He still can’t see me. He yells something. I can’t hear anything. I can only hear the instructions screaming from my brain.

The car switches gears, and he accelerates forward from 0 to 50mph in what seemed one second. He turned left on the corner, trying to cut me off around the block. I’m in pain. I look down, and my not yet healed ankle is swollen about twice the normal size.

It doesn’t matter, run Rebecca. Right, left, or back the way I came. I only have three choices. I’ve never been in this part of my small little beach town. I’m about half a mile east from my house. Run, Rebecca. I pick left.

I run; there are more houses. I can hear his engine stalking me. He’s on the other side of the block. I make another left. It’s a cul-de-sac. Great. The engine is getting louder. Hide, hide right now.

There is a house with a wall. I hide behind it, as the sound of the engine grows louder. He drives up right beside me, looking. I can hear the engine roaring loudly. He’s looking for me. A few minutes pass, and he turns and drives out the way he came; bored I guess.

I wait until I hear utter silence, and then I begin to run home. I zigzag through the blocks to make sure it isn’t easy to follow me. Every now and then I hear the engine of a muscle car. It’s not him, but the fear in my heart says it is.

I run into my house. I lock the gate. My ankle is huge and bruised. Not five minutes later my mother walks in the door.

She stops in the doorframe, staring at me, wanting to know what’s wrong. I tell her, she calls the police. They come, but that’s about it. There are plenty of blonde white males in their 20s between 5’9 and 6’1 with shaved heads wearing camo driving red muscle cars. This is a military town.

Needless to say, that was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. I had been harrassed by men before, but I had never been stalked for hours like that. The worst part is that I have seen him around town since that incident.

At the time I was running on adrenaline and my instincts—stay calm, put distance between myself and my predator, and then escape. It worked pretty well, but what I should have done was ask for help after my initial escape. I was in a neighborhood full of cars in the driveway and other indications that people were at home. I had my cell phone, but I also didn’t think to call 911 because my focus was on putting distance between myself and my attacker. He was in a car and I only had one good leg.

Since that incident I have been changed. For about a year afterward I was terrified of young white men. It was terrible because someone would introduce themselves to me, and I would have to breathe very slowly and tell myself that he was not going to hurt me just in order to shake his hand. I knew that fear was irrational and with the help of my family and friends I was able to overcome it. I would also get scared at the first faint instance of a roaring engine, something I also was able to eventually work through.

But there have been some positive changes as well. Whenever I go to a new place, I immediately scan the room for exit routes. It’s not paranoia, just preparation. If I am in a room with a bunch of men that I don’t know, it’s also now second nature to compare their height and weight to mine, just to see how big of a fight I will have to put up if they attack me. Again, this is not paranoia, just preparation.

Every woman must be prepared to defend herself. You must know what to do in any situation. Take a self-defense class and read up on the warning signs of an attack. 

I send up the petition to Our Lady that you never have to face a situation like I did, but you must be prepared to defend yourself.

~Rebecca

Before I get into talking about actual self-defense, I want to address a post I read back in September on a popular feminist blog.

Maria Goretti is a Catholic martyr, who was killed by her would-be rapist. She’s a saint because, apparently, it’s better to die than to be unchaste.

Her murderer and attempted rapist was forgiven and attended Mass with Maria’s mother, where he took communion (something not offered to many pro-choice politicians). He claimed to pray to Maria and referred to her as “my little saint.”

When Maria was canonized, here’s what Pope Pius XII told the crowd:

“We order and declare, that the blessed Maria Goretti can be venerated as a Saint and We introduce her into the Canon of Saints.” Some 500,000 people, among them a majority of youth, had come from around the World. Pope Pius XII asked them:

“Young people, pleasure of the eyes of Jesus, are you determined to resist any attack on your chastity with the help of grace of God?”

A resounding “yes” was the answer.

That’s right, ladies: Better dead than not a virgin. Better to die than to survive rape.

Note that it was never attempting to fight off her rapist that made Maria great; it was her supposedly choosing death over sexual “impurity” — because apparently, being raped means that you’re impure. Did I mention she was 12?

For someone who does not value the concept of chastity or may not understand the saints and martyrdom, I think the writer’s thoughts are natural conclusions, though extremely misguided.

She’s a saint because, apparently, it’s better to die than to be unchaste.

First of all, this assertion is a very narrow one. A rape victim who does not act of their own free will is not unchaste.

The church does not condone rape or violence of any kind unless it is to protect oneself or the life of another. (Read CCC 2263-2267.)

The writer does not take into account the entire context of Maria’s attack. Alessandro Serenelli had been making advances toward Maria for years. On that fateful night the little saint yelled:

“No! It is a sin! God does not want it!”

After she said that, Alessandro stabbed her 14 times. Maria was not saying “please don’t rape me because I will be sinning.” She was resisting his advances for consensual sex, something he had asked for many times before.

St. Maria Goretti did not consciously choose death, she chose to say no to impurity (sex before marriage) and henceforth was murdered in the process. Alessandro’s attack was premeditated; he had known her for years and she had resisted his advances during that time.

Is the Church saying, “Better to die than to survive rape?” No. What the church is saying is that it is better to die a martyr’s death than forsake your beliefs. It’s a nuanced argument, so stay with me.

The author has a problem with the Church recognizing St. Maria because she wanted to keep her purity by saying no to Alessandro. But would it have been better for Maria to just have sex with Alessandro? One of the most important rules in surviving an attack like rape is to PUT UP A FIGHT & MAKE AS MUCH NOISE AS POSSIBLE. (Please remember that.)

In all honesty, I think I would rather fight rape and be killed in the process than lay down and let a man assault me. (I was faced with this choice once as a teenager, and will tell you the story in the next post.)

When I was taught about St. Maria Goretti as a child, the emphasis was not put on her attack, but rather her actions afterward. What kind of individual, let alone a 12-year-old girl, forgives her murderer on their deathbed? A holy individual worthy of praise.

But that’s not why she is also hailed as a martyr. CCC #2473 says:

Martyrdom is the supreme witness given to the truth of the faith: it means bearing witness even unto death. The martyr bears witness to Christ who died and rose, to whom he is united by charity.

Pope Pius’ question to the crowd, “Young people, pleasure of the eyes of Jesus, are you determined to resist any attack on your chastity with the help of grace of God?” does not mean, “Hey girls, be prepared to die for your virginity!” His statement was meant to ask the crowd to ask themselves if they would be willing to die for the Gospel, a question we should all be prepared to answer.

Pope Pius XII also said:

“She was so human and so aware of others that she could see in the terrible incident more Alessandro’s danger than her own. Her cry, ‘You’ll go to Hell!’ was a warning, not a threat, as we must see in her [deathbed] pardon of her assassin, which was free and unforced despite the atrocious suffering she was still enduring because of him. She was, even not yet 12, a valiant woman.”

St. Maria Goretti, pray for us.

~Rebecca