I Am Only Thirteen

This haunting essay reveals the strength and vulnerability of a thirteen-year-old girl. La’Tasha Strother refuses to cover the ugly truth in pretty words, instead using sparse language and frequent repetition to build tension. Her anger and indignation are palpable throughout the essay, but even more important is her determination as she stands up for herself, first with her “cold face” and finally by leaving “the predator” behind. While her young cousins and even the predator’s wife seem oblivious, Strother exposes his nature and her own strength so that readers cannot remain unaware or indifferent.

“You should come take a seat beside me.” I hesitate. I can sense his motive. I look over at the table in the left corner. My cousins are laughing. I want to laugh with them. He repeats his request, asking as if he cannot see the look on my face. “You should come take a seat beside me.” I look down at my plate of food; it no longer seems appetizing. He has ruined my appetite. His wife looks up and smiles at me. Doesn’t she see my hesitation? As a woman, does she not recognize this face? This face is the face that every woman makes when a man tries making unwanted advances. Is she oblivious to this situation? Why is she not coming to my rescue? I’m only thirteen, and I can identify a predator. She married a predator. The first lady of Rock Hall Baptist church married a predator. Now he is asking me to take a seat beside him. I took one last look at my plate of food then I watched my child-sized feet walk me over to the chair beside him.

This predator has a name, Pastor Beasley. He smiles. I hate his smile, so like always, I refuse to smile back. If I smile back, he might think I’m weak. He might think I won’t tell, so I make a cold face. I make the coldest face a thirteen-year-old girl can make. His wife smiles again. I wish I could wipe the smile off her face. How does a woman smile when a predator is in the room? With the fork in my right hand, I push my food in a playful way to the left side of my plate. Then I glance over my right shoulder. My cousins have forgotten about me. Do they not see me sitting beside this predator? I see them sitting beside each other. I see them chatting with each other as if there is no predator in the room. I wonder if the predator has asked them to take a seat beside him. Does the predator only like young ladies? My cousins are young, but they are not ladies.

Would the predator have asked me to take a seat beside him if I was a young boy? Am I not safe in this girl’s body? The predator must think so because he begins to coax me into a trap. “You’re growing up; it’s time for us to consider what role you want to take on in the church. We should have a meeting and discuss this matter.” I look at him. I look at him with the face you give when you know someone is lying. I’m only thirteen, yet I know the Pastor is lying. I know the predator wants to take me into his office alone. I know the predator wants to see what I look like alone. I want to see what the predator looks like exposed. I want to expose the Pastor for who he is. I want to stand up in the church dining hall and make an announcement. I want to say, “Excuse me, the man that you call pastor is really a pedophile.” I want to expose the man of God before he exposes me.

I am only thirteen, but I still know when a man wants to do things that your body is not old enough for. The predator brings his elbows to the table. I watch him raise his hands to the left side of his face. While blocking his wife from seeing his next move he then blows me a kiss! The pastor blows three consecutive kisses to a minor. How often does this heinous act occur in religious settings? How often do spiritual leaders abuse minors? How often do girls and boys make cold faces to scare away the predator? I look down at my plate. Somehow the predator’s kiss has made my appetite return. I square my thirteen-year-old shoulders while lifting my chin. I look directly into the predator’s eye, and I glare my truth. Without words I make known my appetite for justice. I am not your victim. If no one else will fight for me than I will fight for myself. This thirteen-year-old body belongs to me. I gently pick up my plate of food while authoritatively standing up from the dining hall table to join my cousins in laughter.