Your UnSlut Project

Submitted by @Teenage_Tragedy0616

I was always different from my dad's family, and they never let me forget it. My mother was Hispanic, and my dad was half white. But for some reason, even though my grandmother had married a Hispanic man, they ignored that fact, and acted as if it never happened. So my dad grew up associating himself as simply white, and never acknowledged his other half. But then he met my mother as a one night stand, and everything changed.

I can't even imagine the look on my dad's face when my mom walked up to him with her swollen belly one day and said those words that would haunt him and the rest of his family for the rest of their lives, "It's yours."

Of course, my grandmother being my grandmother, she demanded a paternity test to show that I was really his, and when it came back positive, my mother and father were rushed into a marriage that neither of them wanted. For years, I grew up hating having to go to my grandmother's house, where my blonde, blue eyed cousins and my uncle would tease me, bully me, and do the most horrible things to me. My only savior was my papa, my grandfather, who was Hispanic like my mother and would beat the crap out of my cousins if he caught them bullying me. But that didn't stop them from bullying me when he wasn't around.

And they forced me to never tell on them or else, "My daddy would beat you, and you know it. He don't care that you a beaner, and he'll beat you if we tell him to."

A "Beaner." That's what they would always call me.

I remember one time, my cousin, the only girl in the bunch, had her four brothers bring me into the backyard and hold me down while she stuffed cold beans from two days before down my throat, all while chanting, "Beaner, Beaner, we got ourselves a Beaner!"

I was 6.

My uncle and grandmother had their own ways of bullying me. They would look at me with such hatred in their eyes, it was like fire doused in gasoline, the flames getting bigger the longer they looked at me. My grandmother would pull at my thick, dark curls and scream at me that I was a sinful child, a bastard child. My uncle would tell his daughter to stay away from me, and I heard him one day telling her, "Stay away from Nya ya hear? She gonna turn into her mother, the slut, that border jumper, and you shouldn't associate yourself with them sorts."

I was 8.

My grandfather, bless his heart, died when I was 7, and it felt like I was alone in my world. But I couldn't escape my family. My dad must have known of the things they did but he loved his family too much to abandon them.

The sad part? It didn't stop with my family. The people at school, ugh. At first, I didn't know the boys saying those crude things to me were bad. The other girls always giggled at them and went along with it, and I assumed that that was how it was supposed to be.

I had always noticed the way boys looked at me. Even in elementary, I would catch a boy staring at me from across the class and I would blush, and look down at my paper but it never bothered me, in fact, it made me feel nice. I was one of the few mixed kids in my schools, with my dark, curly hair and brown eyes, but my skin was lighter and I had a few blonde and red streaks in my hair.

I had matured early, gaining my chest and period in the 4th grade, and while the girls gave me nasty looks, the boys would blush whenever I looked at them. In middle school was when I got my first few boyfriends, and I was never afraid to go to certain lengths with them. Again, all the other girls did it, so I never wondered if it was wrong. But now, now I realize that no, it wasn't right when the boys would snicker when I walked down the hallways, or would whistle and grab my ass when I went to pick up a pencil or paper from the floor. I realize that, I was in middle school! I shouldn't have done those things, but peer pressure got to me and the, "Don't worry, everyone's doing it." And the, "God, Nya, don't be such a pussy."

And it wasn't right that my boyfriends called me a tease when I wouldn't want to go as far as them, and that it wasn't right that they would get mad and make me feel bad and horrible about myself and make me think I was a bad girlfriend. Eventually, towards the end of 8th grade, I realized it was wrong, and ever since then, especially since my parents divorced and my dad moved to Houston and I lived with him for little over a year, I barely saw my family.

And it really opened my eyes when I began to meet new people, different people of so many diverse cultures and personalities. I became the person I am today.

But then, I came back to live with my mom. And this, this is when it gets hard for me to write this. Surely you remember those cousins I mentioned towards the beginning of writing this. You know, the ones who called me a beaner. Well, I went to visit my grandmother for the first time in what felt like forever. And it was nice, God, was it nice. My cousins, the oldest boys, the twins, they took me to see a movie during the day, we laughed and had fun, and it felt like everything that had happened in the past was just that, in the past. Even though their sister still didn't like me, still doesn't, and their younger brothers stayed away from me, I felt as if this could begin something. A friendship. The one that I always wanted from my family.

I was so happy, that I spent the night. And that was the worst mistake I ever made in my life. I remember that night, and I don't think I will ever forget it. I was sleeping, content and finally feeling somewhat at peace with my family, when I was awoken by a body lying on top of me. My cousin, the younger of the twins. I won't go into details, it's not something I want to describe, and it's not something anyone should ever envision inside their minds. I was crying silently, pushing whatever was happening out of mind, and chanting to myself in my head, "It's just a dream, and it's not real. It's just a dream."

But it wasn't a dream, and I even wish I could call it a nightmare but no, it was something worse, it was reality. It was my reality. When it was done, I remember him calling me the name I heard so much during my childhood:

"Slut."

I didn't sleep the rest of the night. I texted a couple friends of mine asking if they were awake, but none of them answered. I was left wide awake for hours, crying and feeling a part of me break. In the morning, I hid myself from him. I quickly grabbed my clothes and changed in the bathroom, and I went into my grandmother's room and told her, "I need to tell you something."

So I did. I told her what he had done to me, and she just looked at me. And it wasn't that look she would give me as a little girl, that look she gave me when she called me a bastard or a sin, it was a look you give someone when you lose hope for them. And then she told me, "Don't tell anyone else, or else I'll get your uncle to beat you." My heart broke. For the rest of the time I was there that day I kept to myself, and hid from my cousin.

My mother came to pick me up and asked if something was wrong, but I was so afraid she would give me a similar response as my grandmother had that I told her that nothing was wrong, that I was fine. To this day, only my grandmother, my cousin, perhaps my uncle, and three of my friends know. One of those friends turned into my boyfriend, but we broke up a couple months ago. It's almost been a year since it happened, and I still can't think about it without wanting to curl up in a ball and cry.

But I know it's not my fault, that I am not a "slut" and I shouldn't be afraid of my culture. And I know it's not the nicest story, or the shortest one, but I wanted to share it because I want people like me to know that it isn't their fault. It's never the victim's fault. If you are like me, you are not alone, there are people who will listen and will help you and if you don't know someone like that then I am that new person for you. Come to me and talk to me if you need to, because I will be there and I know how it feels. You don't need to be alone, you deserve so much better than that.