In the past, I’d often played along with misogynist jokes. I liked being the cool girl who could laugh with the boys—an attitude that provided safety in places where I felt outnumbered. But as my profile started to rise, that kind of stuff started to piss me off. When my work in television gave me a public platform, I used it to advocate for equality, pointing out systemic gender biases, and calling for public acknowledgement of and ending to rape culture. Hearing rape survivors’ stories didn’t seem to trigger me. It pissed me off in a way that I thought was activism. I’d hold their hands and listen. “One in five women experiences sexual assault. It’s not your fault,” I’d tell them. “You are not alone.” All the while thinking how fortunate it was that I had never been raped.
And then one day, more than ten years later, it all came back to me. I was on a plane from Singapore, where I had finished filming Crazy Rich Asians. I’d just woken up from a nap when the realization hit me like a flood. Ty raped me. He raped me, and I hadn’t done anything about it. A strange sound involuntarily croaked out of my throat, almost a squawk. Embarrassed, I hoped no one on the plane heard me. My heart was pounding. For a split second, I panicked. But then I talked myself out of the panic:
Oh. Oh my gosh. Oh. Well. Huh. I guess that was . . .
I mean, I know it was.
But it feels weird to call it that. It’s also weird that I forgot.
But I’m honestly fine. I don’t feel traumatized.
Oh, and he was trying to be a nice guy. He kissed my forehead and held me close.
I’m fine.
I couldn’t call it “rape.” Like, I couldn’t even say the word. It felt way too dramatic and out of control for something that had been so . . . quiet.
I did talk about it with my therapist. She said it was rape and that the lack of violence didn’t change that. She called it a trauma, a designation that felt wrong at times, convenient at others, and sometimes made me cry surprise tears. But what was most mysterious to me, what I couldn’t fucking get over, was how could I have forgotten? And why had it suddenly come up out of the blue? More than ten years later?
What would have happened if I had remembered it sooner? If I had realized it was rape back when it happened, I could have reported it . . . but who would have believed me? After I had orgasmed, cuddled with him, pretended I was happy, accepted his gift, kissed him good night, even texted him home safe, thank you. He had text receipts and all I had was my voice saying I’m not ready for sex. I hadn’t, like, recorded it! Who would have believed me?
If the memory had resurfaced right when my activism was finding its voice, I could have utilized it as a courageous confession to reinforce my political stance. But then I likely would have lied about the orgasm to simplify the story and protect myself from criticism.
Instead, the memory came back after I’d just finished a movie that would go on to be a huge success. I had money in the bank, I’d paid off all my debts, I had a steady TV job I was returning home to. I’d spoken at colleges and on panels where people came to hear me and listened to what I said. I think that’s why the memory decided to resurface then. Because it was finally safe. I was financially and professionally secure. I’d reached a place in my life where people actually listened to me.
That’s when it all came flooding back: The way he cooed at me. The excited, greedy look on his face as he unwrapped the condom. Me repeating, I’m not ready. I’m not ready. Feeling small. The way his chest hair was thick and dry, like warm, loose moss. The dirty white kitchen cabinets in his studio apartment.
But still, it was all in my memory. There wasn’t any physical proof so it didn’t feel real.
Then, I remembered the short story.
It was a quiet summer day when I went upstairs to where I kept my big accordion file box. I hadn’t pulled it out in a long time. It was dusty, the out-facing side of the box faded several shades lighter than the rest. The house felt quieter than usual, only the sound of my fingers skimming the files, a few cars on the street outside. And there it was. “The Beating Heart of the Forest.” My heart sank and I simultaneously felt a helpless anger rising as I pulled it out. The paper was so stiff it made a crackling sound. For some reason, I couldn’t believe the ink was still so crisp. It seemed impossible. As though, after so many years, I had expected the ink to disintegrate into the earth like compost. As if, like my mind had done with my memory, it could just fade away.