This speech is called “A Letter to My Younger Sister,” dedicated to all the older sisters looking out for their younger ones. I would like to preface this with a warning that this speech contains graphic depictions of sexual assault or harrassment that might be distressing to some people in the audience and you may leave and take a break if and when you see fit. I would also like to add that I am not confirming or denying that any of these stories are mine: unfortunately, sexual assault is a very pervasive issue among youth and one that constantly populates headlines everywhere. These experiences are not unique to one person, but rather a culmination of collective survivor experiences. I hope I can do all the survivors in the audience justice as well as convey the sheer pain sexual harassment and assault entails.
Daisy. A.K.A the girl who goes days without showering and has the audacity to roll around in my bed. A.K.A the one who threatens to kill me when I eat her fruit loops. A.K.A. my sister. Daisy, you’re so annoying, but I love you so much. More than you could ever fathom. More than you will ever know or understand. My love for you is immaterial; it is the wind that shakes the trees and cools you down on a hot day and the grass that cushions you when you fall off your skateboard. The moment you were born, my world turned to color. You are my best friend. My rock. Even though I’m mean to you sometimes. The way your eyes sparkle when you make me laugh, when you chose a sticker over a piece of candy after winning a relay race because you know I love those, when you’re violent and mean in the morning. I love every part of you, Daisy. You are brimming with more joy and your soul is more beautiful than anyone else’s in this world. Words cannot begin to explain how much I love you. But actions do.
There’s a reason I clutch your hand so hard in public, Daisy. There is a reason I yell at you when you leave my sight. Why I freak out when I don’t know where you are. Why I scream at you when you hide between the clothing racks at Target. You are the most special thing in this world, Daisy, and God forbid anyone touch you the way I’ve been touched. Objectified, sexualized at 15, the butt of homophobic jokes while those same people brag about being able to “turn me straight” in my DM’s. Touched and stared at, poked and prodded as if I was some type of exhibit, expendable at the hands of the oppressor. You have no idea what I try to protect you from, Daisy, and even though I’m not religious like that I find myself praying every night hoping that you never have to know.
God Forbid anyone call you dramatic for feeling a certain way, a slut for dressing in what makes you confident, boring for being quiet about your sexual experiences. God Forbid you are in your seventh grade class as multiple boys peek at your underwear through your shorts while one details everything he would do to you-- consensually or not, just for them to get a slap on the wrist and for you to get the age-old “boys will be boys” speech from a woman who looks old enough to be your great grandmother. God forbid some middle schooler creep asks your best friend behind your back if you would send pictures of your naked body to someone because he can’t keep his belt buckled and his ugly mouth shut. God Forbid you’re out of my sight for even a second as an old man blows kisses from his car and stares up and down your body at 12, his eyes carving into the nonexistent contours of your prepubescent body. God Forbid you get into a relationship with an idiot who doesn’t know what consent is and follows it up with a “whoops, my bad” as if you didn't stare into their eyes hoping and praying it would end so you could go home and vomit. And last of all, GOD FORBID you feel like any of that is your fault. Like you should’ve worn pants, taken the shortcut, said you didn’t feel well. God Forbid you grow up and leave my sight.
Sometimes I laugh to myself because I know that’s inevitable. Of course you’ll grow up, I’m watching you do it now. But how long will it be until it happens to you? What will happen if I find myself sitting for too long or turning my back for a half second? How long will it be until you’re chewed up and spat out, like the gum you begged Mom to buy for you, discarded like the unopened vegetable packet you choose not to have with your instant ramen, left to rot like the half-eaten apple in your trash, like I have been. Like I am. And so I find myself in Target, burying my fingers into the top of your palm as if my life depends on it.
