Cori Bush - The Forerunner: A Story of Pain and Perseverance in America

Some people start their political careers with a run for the local school board or a statewide seat. Not me. Thats not my story.

In 2016, I ran for the U.S. Senate, challenging Missouris then secretary of state in the Democratic primary. That August, I lost the race. But Id gained invaluable experience that would later serve me in the two subsequent runs for Congress Id make before winning my seat representing Missouris First Congressional District. Twenty sixteen wasnt my time to win. I licked my wounds and went on with my life. I had two beautiful children, Zion and Angel, to parent as a single mom, and I was working full-time as the nursing supervisor at a community mental health agency. But four weeks after I lost that Senate race, I experienced something much more devastating than a political setback. I was raped.

Two years prior, I was fighting on the front lines of the Ferguson uprising, which rose up in the aftermath of the killing of Michael Brown Jr. when he was just eighteen years old. Being out in the streets, protesting the needless killings of Black folks by the police, the very people who are meant to protect us, made me a target of harassment.

Id had my tires slashed while my car was parked in front of the complex in which I lived. Id come home to find the doorknob tampered with, my front door left ajar. On one occasion, my daughter had been home when someone entered our first-floor apartment. That day, I came home from work to find paper scraps strewn about the floor of our living room and kitchen. Angel was in her bedroom, mercifully unaware that she hadnt been alone. I, on the other hand, was coming to the growing realization that my family and I were no longer going to be safe in our home.

So when a local faith leader posted to social media that he had a house for rent, I quickly replied to him, asking to set up an appointment to take a look. That day started off rough. A member of our protest family was found murdered that morning. When I heard the news, I was in disbelief. The last time I saw him we were at an event unrelated to protests. He saw me come in the door, smiled at me, and came over and gave me a hug. We chatted for a few minutes, and then he went back to his seat. If only I would have known Id never see him again, I wouldve hugged him longer and taken more time to talk. I wouldve said, I love you, bro, while looking him in his eyes instead of saying it while we were hugging. I can think of so many things I wouldve done differently.

I cried getting ready for work, on the drive to work, and even in my office. I ended up on a call with my friend Chris Phillips, a talented, young Black filmmaker whom I met on the streets of Ferguson during the uprising. He would be in the midst of the tear gas collecting footage in the heat, rain, or snow. Chris allowed me to cry and vent as he listened and tried to console me. Later that afternoon, I checked my Facebook timeline to see if there was any new information on my murdered protest brother. I began to cry all over again seeing the posts that made it all the more real. He was one of us, and he was gone.

I didnt have many details about what happened to our protest brother, but I felt even more unsafe than I had. Seeing the social media post from the faith leader, I felt this could be a quick way to a safer living situation. That faith leader was someone I had known for more than a year and we had done community work together before. The idea of renting from someone who knew me and might be willing to waive a credit check so that my name wouldnt be connected to my new address was appealing. The death threats on account of my activism were real.

At that point, Id lived through several evictions, the result of periods in my life when Id made poverty wages and when domestic violence shaped my entire world. Plus, a credit check would allow my new address to be searchable for someone whos looking for it. This faith leader and I decided that I would meet him at the rental he was offering after I finished up work at the clinic for the day.

I was back on the phone with Chris for the drive from work. I updated him on how the rest of my workday went and filled him in on the news that I was on my way to look at a home for rent. When I approached the address and parked in the driveway in the back of the home, I told him I would call him back as soon as I finished looking at the house.

I had on a white scrubs top, blue scrubs pants, and sturdy Nike boots as I walked up the back steps at the address the faith leader had given me. The two of us walked through the one-and-a-half-story house together, alone. The truth was that I wasnt crazy about the place. But I wanted to hear what he was asking for it before telling him I wasnt interested.

We talked money while standing in front of a table where Id set down my phone and keys. My phone rang, the screen displayed the name Chris Phillips and I reached for it, but the faith leader also looked at the screen, grabbed first my arm and then both of my wrists. He pulled me toward him, and continued to pull me with him, as he walked backward toward a bedroom. What are you doing? I asked him. Where are we going? When we got to the threshold of the door, I saw the bed. I wasnt confused anymore and struggled to break free. I couldnt. What are you doing? I asked in panic. I wouldve done this a long time ago if I didnt know your history, he responded.

I looked at him and understood in that moment that I was looking not at a man but at a monster. He twisted me around and pushed me face-first onto the bed. I scrambled, trying to get on all fours and then stand, but to no avail. He pulled my scrubs pants and panties as far down my legs as they could go, just above my boots. He forced himself into me. At first, my body struggled against his. But the more I tried to get up, the harder he would thrust his body into mine. Eventually, I stopped fighting, and my mind floated away. There was a window off to the side of the bed, and I stared out of it. I whimpered through the pain. It seemed like forever. I felt like dying. I wanted to die.

When he finished, I rushed to pull up my clothes, scampered to the other room to grab my keys and phone, and made a move to run out of the room toward the door. Instead, the faith leader grabbed me and asked me why I was crying. I was afraid of what he would do next. Boundaries were broken. I didnt think he would let me leave alive. Im hurt, I said to him through my tears, not wanting to upset him more. Why are you hurt? he asked. I could be his girlfriend, he told me. We could do this all the time.