Things We Didn't Talk About When I Was a Girl: A Memoir

by Jeannie Vanasco

Every time I think about him, I feel pissed off and sad. I understand now why nostalgia, for hundreds of years, was considered a chronic mental illness. I want to hate him, but I can’t.

If a rape victim’s friends don’t believe her, then why would she bother with authorities?

Hemingway, my boyfriend, my dad, my homeroom teacher. Did I have female influences?

So, I believed in boundaries—could even set boundaries. The problem: in the moment, I found it hard to articulate what those boundaries were—because doing so might embarrass a man. I treated men how I treated literature: I feared misinterpreting their intentions.

That’s kind of an interesting point. Because in progressive circles, there is an expectation to vilify certain behaviors and people, and how you get from one category to another is sometimes more complicated than we would like it to be.