The Final Loss of Innocence (Copy)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AN EXCERPT FROM
The Final Loss of Innocence
BY KYOMI JOHNSON
©2023. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Womanhood is often defined by anatomical characteristics, such as the possession of a womb and breasts, and is often reduced to nothing more than the ability to give life and satisfy the opposite gender. For me, womanhood is the act of losing one's innocence. Not just any kind of innocence. I'm not referring to the innocence lost when you become absorbed in your career and lose your passions, or when a loved one passes away. I mean the innocence of how you perceive your role in the world. Yes, anyone can experience this loss of innocence, and I do not intend to offend anyone with my words. I am speaking from a personal perspective. Many women can relate to the specific loss of innocence I describe—the realization, brought on by unfortunate events, that you are often seen in a way you do not wish, all because of your womanhood. This goes beyond the experience of carrying a child, as many women who are unable to do so have also felt this loss. It is the loss of feeling that you possess strength and the realization that, for many in society, you are merely an object of desire.
My earliest memory of this realization is when I was 10 years old. While shopping with my grandmother, I bent down to get something for her, and an older gentleman, around the age of 70, told me, "A pretty thing like you should be careful showing off like that." I hadn't completely understood what he meant, yet I felt completely defiled. My grandma, in disgust, called him a nasty old man and told me not to think about what he said. And yet, 12 years later, I will never forget that moment. The next time I had a bit of that particular kind of innocence stolen from me was when I was 12. I was bolder by this time and had been given a bit more freedom. With this newfound freedom, my cousins and I often played with other children in our neighborhood, enjoying ourselves. Not long after, we became acquainted with boys much older than us. Despite one of my cousins lying about her age, it was very obvious that we hadn't hit puberty yet.
At first, I saw them as older brothers. They were freer than I was, and I admired that. I found them to be exciting, and more than that, I found comfort in them. One night, while we were together, the topic of sex came up. At the time, I had no interest in the act at all and was, in fact, deathly afraid of it and all the possible consequences that followed. I immediately felt uncomfortable as they continued discussing the subject and found myself silent as the rest of the conversation went on. My dear cousin, who had lied about her age, had no problem talking about it, and part of me felt upset that I couldn’t be as mature as she was. I decided to join in and explain that I didn’t have an interest in it because of risks like STDs.
Such an odd addition to their conversation, but I wanted to feel included. This need to be included ended up making me hate a part of myself for years. After I spoke my opinion, one of the boys told me, “That sucks because you have DSL.” I had no idea what that meant and found myself feeling incredibly stupid as all the boys around me laughed. I asked what it meant, and they told me the abbreviation stood for “dick-sucking lips.” I immediately felt offended and tried to defend myself, saying I would never do that and that I didn’t even know what it was. The boys laughed and told me to “chill” because another cousin of mine also had them. She seemed to take it much better than I did, and once again, I felt as though I was immature and maybe even overdramatic. Later, while at home, I stared in the mirror for what felt like ages and tried to make my lips smaller. I began to grow a deep hatred for something I had never once noticed about myself.
could go on with more minuscule moments in my life where I was reminded of my gender, but then this wouldn’t be a short story. Instead, I’d like to share the defining moment in which I lost that last bit of innocence—the moment when I realized just what my place was as a woman on this earth. I was just about 16 and proud of my new age. See, 16 is one of the most defining ages for us all. It’s when the changes within our bodies—both physical and mental—are most noticeable to us. It’s when you start to really care about how others perceive you and how you let the world define you. I wanted to be seen as bold, brave, outgoing, and all the other typical things most teenagers want to be. As a teenager, your view of the world changes every day, but as a teenage girl, it’s so much more than that. Not only does your view of the world shift, but so does the world’s view of you. As your body grows and the curves you’ve inherited become more defined, you find yourself with unexpected attention. The gaze of others tends to linger longer, clothes fit tighter in certain areas, and you find yourself no longer a “girl,” but a “woman.” Meanwhile, our male counterparts don’t lose their “boyhood” until well into their 20s.
As a girl, when you’re fully thrust into womanhood at such a pivotal point in your development, you’re left with two options regarding the change in attention given to you: embrace it or run from it. Because I wanted to be mature, I embraced it, but deep down, I felt like a fawn left alone in the middle of dark, cold woods. I ignored those feelings and began to change to fit into the mold society had set before me. I did my makeup, wore tighter clothes, and tried to be the woman the world saw me as, despite having only been 12, not even five years prior. These changes brought boys into my life, and again, I embraced it. In fact, I found myself becoming interested in my peers in a way that went beyond just friendship. However, these boys were not the ones who took my innocence from me.
It was someone much older. The man who stole my innocence was a man of God; a deacon, in fact, and a father figure to me. I had spent many days with him prior to the situation I’ll share soon. He had said I was like the daughter he never had, and as a girl whose father was gone, I grew a deep affection for him. I saw him as someone I could confide in, finding comfort and solace in his presence. I was proud to be seen as his daughter and considered him like a dad. I fully trusted the man, and that ended up being my biggest mistake.
While with him, my mother, and a couple of other people at my mother's friend's house, this man of God decided to run to the store for something and asked if I wanted to come along. He told me he'd buy me whatever I wanted if I went. With the mindset of a child, I immediately jumped at the opportunity and excitedly thought about the gummy worms I'd pick. I sat happily in the passenger seat, singing along to the radio and talking about my favorite things with the man I thought of as Dad. He made jokes with me, complimented my interests, and told me I could achieve whatever I wanted in life.
At the store, I got my candy, he got what was needed, and he picked up a bottle of alcohol. Before this moment, I had never drunk before, and although I knew what it was, I was very wary of it, as my mother was highly against it. I ignored the feeling, got back in the car, and we headed back to the house. Halfway there, he opened the liquor and drank some. He then asked me if I had ever tried it. Wanting to seem "mature," I lied, saying I had once or twice. He offered me some, and when I winced and coughed at the harsh taste, he laughed.
On the way back, he continued to urge me to drink, telling me I had done well and seemed older. I basked in the compliments, and with the mixture of alcohol, I felt like a real adult. I was quickly reminded of my immaturity and naivety when his hand crept to my thigh and began to caress it. I sat for a while, completely confused, and then attempted to move, assuming the alcohol had caused him to slightly forget who I was. He told me to relax, said my name, and assured me everything would be fine, moving my leg back toward him. Thoughts of fear washed over me as I began to subtly realize what could be happening. Thankfully, we made it to the house, and I, trying to pretend the situation had never happened, rushed inside to the restroom, stating I had to pee. This is where modernity enters: when I reached the bathroom, I immediately told my friends what had happened in an online group chat. I was met with advice on what to do and validation of my feelings, for which I will forever be grateful. Many suggested I wait the entire situation out in the restroom, and for a while, I thought that would work—until the man of God knocked on the door, asking if I was alright. I froze for a while, telling my friends the entire situation as it happened, then said yes, and that I just didn’t feel great.
He told me to open the door, and he’d help me out. This was when I called a friend, hoping that if he saw me on the phone, he’d leave me alone. I opened the door, told him I felt better, then went to my mother. I told her I wanted to sit in the car to talk to my friend because the house was too loud, and she gave me her car keys. While in the car, I tried to rationalize what had happened with my friend, writing it off as drunkenness. But then, he knocked on the door. I rolled the window down, explaining that I was talking to a friend, and he urged me to open the door instead so he could hear me better. Reluctantly, I did. As soon as I opened it, he began to grope me, explaining how pretty and cheerful I was. Tears began to fall down my face as I realized this wasn’t just drunkenness; the very man complimenting my cheerfulness was robbing me of it in the same breath. I tried to move his hand away and reminded him again that I was talking to a friend who could hear everything. He continued, saying it was fine and that he just loved me and cared about making me happy.
I explained that I was fine and didn’t need his help, but he just ignored me. I cried harder, telling him that I didn’t like what he was doing, but he continued. This is the part where I often felt I bore some responsibility, as I stopped using my voice and began to silently cry, while my friend did the same, telling me she was so sorry. Even as I write this now, I cry thinking about the absolute helplessness in her tone and the cracks in her voice. I was 16, becoming a woman in the worst way, and she was too far to help. I thought to myself, 'Is this what maturity brings? Is it an invitation for this kind of pain and humiliation? Did I unknowingly ask for this?' So many questions flooded my mind that night, all circling around how I could have possibly been the one at fault. After excruciating minutes of misery, my mother came out, and he immediately moved his hand and jumped back, as if confirming to me that what he was doing was wrong.
My mother asked what we were doing, and he said he was checking up on me because I seemed sad. She noticed my tears, asking why I was crying, and I told her my friend and I had been talking about the ending of a show. She said I was always so dramatic, laughed, and then said she was ready to go home. He gave her a hug, then asked for a hug from me. I hesitated and slowly got out of the car to give him a hug. As I got closer, all I could smell was alcohol and his cologne—both are things I will never forget. On the drive home, I silently cried to myself and felt a type of dirtiness I’d never felt before. I felt as though the filth on me went beyond my body and settled into my soul. When I got home, I did what most people in those circumstances do: I took a shower.
I scrubbed my body, desperate to erase his touch, his scent—but neither left my mind. His hands between my legs, the hunger in his eyes as he stood over me, replayed over and over in my head, alongside the same compliments he’d whispered countless times before. I felt tainted, as though something deep inside me had been changed. That night, I lay alone in my room, unable to sleep. Tears soaked my pillow. For the first time, I understood how vulnerable I truly was in this world, and the thought of being alone terrified me.