For Christine Blasey Ford

What if mine was a shoo-in?

Would I say something?

Would I write a letter?

I don’t know.

Nothing happened-happened. I got out.

Do I owe it to his future interns to stand up?

What do I owe his wife, who surely doesn’t know? What do I owe his children?

Nothing happened. Not really. And besides, I don’t remember exactly where we were. Hoo boy, they’d have a field day with that one. I don’t know if I’d even recognize him. It’s been years. I didn’t know him well. I’d been drinking. It was dark. Hoo boy.

But if they put him in a smell lineup I could pick him out, like babies who stop crying when they smell their mothers in the dark. Yeah, like that. I’d go quiet. It worked once before.

If mine stood in the pulpit on Sunday would I say something? Or would I just stop going to that church? You can do that sometimes when he’s a pastor, a professor, a date, sometimes.

The thing is, sometimes you can’t get out.

If mine was laughing on CSPAN what would I do after I turned off the tv?

I don’t know.

Would I call someone?

No, I have no proof. Yes, I’m sure. I was there. No, I’ve never been to rehab. No. Nobody is paying me. Yes, I’m married. My credit is fine, thanks for asking.

Would I be humiliated? Put another way, would I permit their questions to humiliate me? Would I believe I didn’t deserve to be humiliated? I don’t know. That’s how I feel, still, sometimes.

Would I have transcripts of sessions in which I told someone safe, a decade ago?

What if I had nothing but my word?

No, I don’t have pictures. But I could draw one, if you needed me to. I could draw a whole strip of them, starting with what I imagine my face looked like when— well. Give me a pen.

Would I do anything at all?

If I did, that would be as good as saying that my life matters as much as his does. Does it? He’s running. I’m just a soft-bellied mom, walking on a treadmill.

If I did, that would be as good as saying that those few minutes (no, I don’t know how many) (hoo boy) should be as important to his life as they were to mine. Should they? He went to such a good school. I check my balance before I put gas in the car.

If I said something, that would be as good as stepping in the ring. Would I dare weigh in? Would I lace up for the beating, knowing that at least there’d be witnesses this time?

Would I do it?

She did.

So now, I think I would too.

Alternate ending:

Would I do it?

She did.

I don't know. I still don't know.