So, a few weeks ago, my mother and I had a fight. We've had many, in our long history together. Whose fault, what about? Not important. It's not easy to live with either a middle-aged woman or "mature" one (as my mother insists on being called now, not liking "the O word" or "the E word"). It's really not easy for them to live together, especially if they're mother and daughter. More interesting was my mother's reaction: she decided not to celebrate Christmas this year.
Yes, you read that right -- no Christmas for Mother this year, to the extent that she decided to pull down all the Christmas decorations she had just spent the previous two days putting up. (Wow, Claudia, for real? Oh, yeah!!!)
So, in the days since Mother's Great Christmas Kibosh, I have been, as I always do anyway this time of year, revisiting Christmases Past, and ruminating upon my attitude toward Christmas.
You see, for the most part, I am, and have been, since age 15, somewhat of a Scrooge. But it didn't start out that way.
Like all kids, I loved Christmas. Of course, I loved the presents under the tree. Even in the middle of the adolescent growth spurt, when toys had been replaced by clothes, I was grateful and happy to replace the too-short and tight tops and "flood-pants" that had been the right size when purchased in August. I remember a certain cardigan sweater from my 14th Christmas with fondness, and wish I still had it. But for me, most of the happy Christmas memories from days gone by consist of traditions and occurrences that I could count on happening, year after year:
The scrumptious cookies my mum baked, especially the chocolate chips, with and without walnuts, and the enormous quantity she had to turn out to keep up with the gluttony of my stepfather and still have enough to share with others.
The brass "Joyeux Noel" horn that hung on the door. The living-room archway adorned with festive holiday cards, the likes of which I never see anymore, either quality or quantity. My stepfather going out to get the tree on the designated Saturday, with my mother admonishing, "Don't get too big a tree like you always do!" The way that, despite her best efforts, his trees were always humongous, requiring pruning if not surgery, as well as much shifting of furniture, arguing and cursing before the tree was set up in its stand and my stepfather making his escape to wisely spend the afternoon at the bar. My mother muttering darkly about husbands leaving the hard work for wives to do while she spent the afternoon decorating the tree.
All the Christmas carols we sang in music class and Scouts.
Getting to stay up late during vacation. What can I say? I'm a night owl, honey!
That lovely last day of school before vacation, just sitting around talking and playing, no classes, everyone happy, buoyant, eyes sparkling in anticipation of the big day. Walking home, slipping and sliding on the snow and ice, someone always firing a snowball, much hooting and hollering and many more snowballs before cries of "See ya after Christmas!" and "Call me and tell me what you got!" were heard.
Pap, excited as a kid, showing for our admiration his beautifully decorated tree.
Grandma's Christmas Eve "Feast of the Seven Fishes", well, in her case, two fishes: fried shrimp and oysters, with french fries, all done to a perfect golden-brown in her patented Presto Fry Daddy, and her noodle and walnut casserole. Then the next day, her turkey and stuffing with raisins or ham, yams, and pineapple.
And some Christmases were just awesome for reasons all their own:
In 6th grade I was one of the kids chosen to put up the Christmas bulletin board in our school's hallway, which made me feel important. Those of us chosen got out of alot of classes in order to put up the board. That same year I was included in the group chosen by our music teacher, to sing Christmas carols in the hallway. We would stop by each homeroom on the last day before Christmas vacation and sing, the homeroom teacher would open the door, and the kids would all get up, listen, and smile. Did any of you do that? Again, made me feel special and important.
The year that Grandma let me borrow (and wind up keeping, as I was the only one that read them) a Reader's Digest Condensed book which contained among others, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Good Earth, and The Adventures of Robin Hood and His Merry Men. If it wasn't enough to have Christmas to look forward to, I had the excitement of something new to read on Christmas Eve. For me, books have always been among my best friends, and reading my greatest pleasure, so that was really huge. Also that same day, we were invited to a Christmas party being thrown by a friend of my stepfather, whose kids I went to school with. What a day! Especially after Grandma's Feast of the Fishes.
The year our Girl Scout leaders took us caroling all through the neighborhood. Getting to go out in the dark, with snow gently falling on us, and singing all the merry songs, the smiles on all the faces of all the folks who opened their doors to listen to us. Truly a special memory! And after we were done caroling, coming back to the fire hall where our troop held its meetings and finding steaming hot chocolate in a personalized mug for each of us, as well as a bag of candy and cookies. How warm and welcoming! Thank you, Mrs. Brosky and Mrs. Davis!
A bit of a corner was turned my 13th Christmas. My mother and stepfather, having heard horror stories of the drug use in our school district, and evidently not trusting my resistance to peer pressure, decided to move to a "safer" district in the town next door. The move occurred less than two weeks before Christmas, 1978. I was very unhappy, totally not in favor of the move, and filled with all the apprehension anyone faces in that situation. The poor teachers from my new school trying to deal with me right at the end of the semester! Amid all the stress, the first thing I did was get sick. A very bad ear/throat infection, temperature over 102 F. My mother gave me a dose of penicillin (the perks of being the daughter of a nurse), instructions for the rest of the day: rest, (yeah, like dizzy Claudia intended to move!) fluids, take antibiotic at such-and-so times, etc., and went to work. Well, then my stepfather came home, quickly ascertained how sick I was, and, very dismayed at seeing me not wanting to read, watch TV, or listen to music, called my mother to confer. She told him her treatment plan, but, not satisfied with that, he called the doctor, bulldozed him into squeezing me in for an office visit, and, lo and behold, I went and got a shot of penicillin. And let me tell you, there was hell for him to pay, in the form of cold shoulders and snippy asides from my mother for days after that, because Nurse Sylvia did not appreciate any whiff of having her nursing or her mothering called into question, but for me, the proof is in the pudding: With the shot, Claudia began feeling like a human being the day before Christmas; without the shot, definitely would've been a least a few days later. To this day, I defend my stepfather's call on that one. (Now taking me out after said doctor visit to Montgomery Wards to get a new coat, because "You got sick because you didn't have a warm enough coat," [!!!], through icy parking lots with me dizzy, that could've waited. But I digress). We had two more normal Christmases as a family, then came The Christmas From Hell.
As detailed in a previous post (The Sad End of One Era..."), in 1980, the summer I turned 15, I got fed up with my stepfather's abuse, verbal, physical, and sexual. One July day, after the umpteen zillionth time in our long history of his browbeating, culminating with him standing over me, literally poised to strike, a circuit finally blew in my brain and I faced him down, stating my intention to kill him if he ever put his hands on my mother or me again. After all those years of bowing, scraping, appeasing, cowering, and walking on eggshells, I was done. I knew it, and he knew it. His response to his slipped control over me was to drink even more, and about five weeks after our confrontation, to have an encounter with a woman that worked at the steel mill he and my mom worked at. The whole workplace knew about this assignation, (not his first) and since most of them hated my stepfather, ran to tell my mother. Surprisingly, she did not divorce him right away, but as his behavior continued to spin out, so did her stress level. It took about 16 months and a pretty attention-getting illness related to that stress, but she finally threw my stepfather out right before Thanksgiving, 1981.
Of course his parents, trying to get them back together, implored my mother to still come to their annual Thanksgiving feast. Left to her own devices, my mother probably wouldn't have gone, but I was close to Pap, and, while I was happy enough to lose a stepfascist, to lose the only person who, to this day, has ever spoiled me even a little bit, not so much. So we spent a very awkward Thanksgiving pretending everything was still the same. Oh, God, how horrible! Lesson learned: it's always best to make a clean break.
When Christmastime came, even I didn't want to go through that again, so my mother declared our independence from their holiday early on and determined to develop our own traditions. My stepfather decided to spend his Christmas in Atlantic City.
So Christmas Day, meal and gift-giving complete, my mother sat watching an old movie, and I repaired to the tub to let Calgon take me away. Assisting Calgon was a jar of Mauna Loa macadamia nuts and a multi-band radio on which I had managed to find a radio station playing a reggae/calypso program. Comfortably ensconced in a tropical Rastafarian fantasy, I didn't hear the phone ring, just my mother's subsequent reaction to what became a series of harassing and threatening phone calls from Atlantic City. These continued over the course of the next couple days, during which time my mother became convinced that my stepfather would come back and shoot us.
Calls to her divorce lawyer provided little sympathy -- or help. "Get a Protection From Abuse order," he suggested. "Will that stop a bullet?" was my mum's response. Which standoff continued until finally my frantic mother called my aunt and uncle and asked for asylum. We packed some clothes (and I packed up my precious Anne Murray and Gordon Lightfoot albums), and went to stay there for a few days, until the divorce lawyer convinced my mum she was making a big mistake: "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded of my mum. "You're paying me alot of money and I'm working very hard to win you that house in the divorce, and now you abandon it? You're gonna be damned lucky if you go back home, and he hasn't moved in! Do you know what a hassle it'll be to remove him? Sylvia, go back and claim the house as your own, before he does!"
Well, my mum quaked in her boots at the prospect, but with the lawyer, (and increasingly my aunt and uncle) not understanding the Battered-Wife Syndrome, nor fathoming the level of fear she was dealing with ("They think I'm a hysterical female," she wailed to me at one point), my mother decided to go home.
And when we got home, we were extremely lucky. Oh, my stepfather had been there, but for reasons of his own, decided not to attempt to occupy the house, and indeed even left a mea culpa letter. "Do we dare to believe it?" was my comment. "Probably still thinks he can get me back," was my mother's. Yes, an anti-climactic and relieved end to a drama. But still a ruined Christmas.
And my mother, God love her, during subsequent Christmases, she tried. She loves Christmas and attempted bravely to establish our own traditions but the true light and joy had gone out of it for me. We were not really that close to my aunt and uncle, and the one year we celebrated with them, the rest of the assembled family participated in a Secret Santa that we were excluded from. The experience left me realizing that though we shared common bloodlines, these people had no idea who we were and not much interest in learning. With no siblings, I just felt like alot of the family element had gone out of the festivities, and nothing my mother tried could replace it. I endeavoured (largely unsuccessfully) to communicate this to her, but not having had divorced parents, she just couldn't understand my new dim view of Christmas. After a few years I gave up the pretense of even trying to enjoy.
Then one year my mother hit on a novel idea: "Claudia, help me bake cookies this year." She reasoned that my Baklava was rather popular -- why didn't I make that to share with everyone, along with anything else the spirit might move me to bake? My vanity thus appealed to, I set about making Baklava, Pecan Sandies, Macadamia Snaps, Mexican Wedding Cookies, Linzers, and God-only-knows-what-else. Our cookies were a big hit and over the next several years we expanded our roster of people to share them with so much, the total we baked one year was a stunning 200 dozen.
Then came the year the bottom fell out: 1994, the year my mother became disabled. She had suffered a fall in the dark, icy parking lot of the VA Hospital where she worked in 1987. She received treatment over the next 6 1/2 years, but steadily experienced more and more pain until she could no longer do her Charge Nurse job there. This resulted in two unsuccessful attempts to win Worker's Compensation, and one equally futile stab at getting SSI Disability, before she finally won that in the fall of 1996. 1994 began as a year full of fear, commenced to an embarrassing but brief stint for us on Welfare while I built up a cleaning business, babysat (and I hate kids), sold Avon, and worked for a piano player. It was a very rough year, and near the end of it, my mother asked me if we could afford to do the cookies and if I had time -- and energy -- to make mine. I didn't have to think twice. We scaled back, cut our roster a bit. We also did not exchange presents that year, even with each other, deciding instead to budget for the cookies and our usual Christmas Eve and Day meals. I took a couple of extra holiday cleaning/babysitting jobs to help things along, and regretted it a bit when I got my sixth cold of the year right before Christmas. Rarely have I been so happy as when I finished my last cleaning job of '94, we delivered our last load of cookies, and I could come home, get into my jammies, eat and take medicine for my pounding head and raw throat.
The next Christmas for whatever reason, financial winds did not so much blow our way, and neither mother nor I wanted to spend another Christmas not exchanging gifts, so we made the difficult decision not to do cookies that year. In a way, I was glad -- two years doing four jobs had taken their toll -- but I knew the decision would not be popular, at least to some.
Sure enough, my mother went to get a trim the week before Christmas, and her hairdresser asked when we were bringing the cookies. My mother said we weren't doing cookies this year, due to finances. "Well, can't Claudia do them?" the hairdresser wondered. "Claudia's working seven days a week just to support us," my mother replied, "and I wouldn't ask her to do more than that." That quashed the matter temporarily, but, amazingly, it was brought up again mother's very next visit and boy, was she pissed! "Claudia is working seven days a week at four jobs and doing the best she can, but it's hard to make ends meet. Would you ask anyone to work that much, take care of a house, and then come home and bake cookies? And you know," this with fire in her eyes and acid in her voice, "the previous Christmas Claudia and I didn't even have gifts for each other, but you all still got your cookies!" This seemed to end the matter with these ones, but sadly, another business that we had been involved with for years that had always had appointments for us when we brought cookies, as petty as it sounds, suddenly were booked up and very cold in their manner for awhile when we didn't.
None of this brightened my attitude toward Christmas, and in the late 90's through the mid-00's my mum had three back surgeries, after which I took care of her for several weeks each. Two of the three surgeries were right before Christmas.
In recent years I have run hot and cold. Two years ago I really had no desire for Christmas, resented the carols piped over the airways at work, and other than baking baklava and buying presents for my mum, skipped the whole thing. But last year, I came home inspired by the Christmas music, and often put on more of it while I walked on the treadmill, singing all the way. And for the first time, I put a jacket on and toured the neighborhood, checking out the Christmas decorations, admiring the creativity (and the sheer bonanza being collected by Duquesne Light) and mentally awarding a prize for the best display. The downside was that although my mother and I had officially ceased baking cookies sometime early this millennium, I continued baking baklava and taking it into work for Christmas, but last year the plaza cut my hours and I couldn't afford to make baklava. Then, a week before Christmas, I wound up with some kind of throat infection, got well from that and promptly got the flu, and wasn't really back up to par till around the second week of January, so baking would've been impossible anyway.
So this year my mother and I squabbled and she nixed the Xmas. Anyone would bet that would wreck Christmas for me. Yet, ever the contrarian, I've watched all my usual Christmas faves -- Silent Night, Eight Is Enough Christmas, Auntie Mame, Always Remember I Love You, Brady Bunch Christmas, A Charlie Brown Christmas; took a turn two weeks ago checking out neighborhood decorations; and thanks to The Plaza giving out Christmas gift cards, I was able to afford to bake baklava, which I just finished doing. Last year, in the midst of my illness, I stopped off at Walgreens to get medicine, and they were selling little replica Charlie Brown Christmas Trees on clearance for $5. I bought one and put it up in my room. I joyfully put it up again this year right after Thanksgiving. And like last year, changed my iPod screen saver to different holiday themes. Bought presents for Mother and kitty. (Will Mother accept her presents? I'll keep you posted...)
With my mother in her seventies now, I wonder what my Christmases will be like when she's gone. Will I bake, decorate? Who will I exchange presents with? What will I cook? (A legitimate question, as my mother and I have each been, in recent years, on a single-minded crusade to lose weight. She's done such a good job, losing 166 lbs. to date, and now she's off insulin. Our fat- and carb-laden holidays have been replaced the past two years with Chinese food carefully chosen and conveniently delivered, but not traditional). As long as Mother lives and wants to stay off insulin, she must continue eating very carefully. And I'm not going to do anything radically different for the holidays or any other time till I lose another 19 lbs.
I remember going to church some time in the late 90's, and they needed bell-ringers for the Salvation Army. I volunteered, much to my mother's amazed bafflement, to a two-hour stint on a Saturday morning. (Claudia doesn't do mornings, as well as being hot/cold on Christmas). I went down to the local Giant Eagle to ring the bell on the appointed time and had a blast. Nearly everyone that passed dropped some money in the kettle. Spirits were high -- the joy was infectious. A lady came out with a can of Coca Cola for me -- "Honey, you looked thirsty..." Naturally, she wouldn't take any money from me, so heck, I donated to the kettle myself. My favorite Christmas memory from adulthood. Now I'm not condemning anybody's way of celebrating. I just think when my mother is no longer with us, I'm gonna be doing alot of thinking and weeding out of things that were her, and us, but not me. And I think I will be exploring some less commercialized ways to celebrate, more spiritual ones, 'cause that just resonates with me. Maybe making Christmas my own will help me to enjoy it completely again. 'Cause I'd really like to.
I do wholeheartedly wish all of you a Merry Christmas and lots of love and prosperity in your New Year. May you be blessed.
Claudia
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Hopeful, Part 2
"The jury just came back in the Sandusky trial. Jerry Sandusky was found guilty of 45 of 48 counts."
That lightning bolt, from Ali, employee of the Sunny Times Gas Station that shares the building with three busy Plaza concepts, shattered my hard-won Friday evening peace June 22. I had punched out ten minutes earlier after a hectic day at Coffee Paradise and was cruising the candy bars at Sunny Times and talking optimistic Pirate baseball (for a change) with Bill, another Sunny Times inmate.
"OMG, OMG, O...M...G....!!!!!!!"
I didn't say it out loud. I don't recall what I did say, but I remember that I strove to seem calm, to hide, as I am accustomed to doing, the worst of the disquieted chaos that frequently are my feelings surrounding this issue. My first instinct was to sink into the candy bars and cry, but with a smoothness accrued from years of practice, I made appropriate responses with some aplomb, desiring only to walk home slowly and absorb this complex and mostly happy news. The tears would come the next day, after I'd had a chance to process a bit.
When I got home, my mother had the news on and was all but bursting with joy at the verdict:
"I called you and left a message on your voicemail, did you get it?"
"No, but Ali filled me in."
I sat down to watch WTAE's coverage. Of particular note to me was the fact that the correspondents interviewed several families outside the courtroom who had come with their young children to await the verdict, seizing the opportunity to extract from this evil a teachable moment that might protect someone in this or some future generation. I am buoyed by the realization, that, though I am often discouraged by the ignorance surrounding this issue (despite the best efforts of many of us, including Oprah, and the rest of what I consider to be a pioneering generation) and the apathy of our society toward effecting any real and lasting change (reflected in the often pitiful response by the justice system), at least our comfort level with talking about sexual abuse, and disseminating it in sometimes exhaustive detail on TV, internet and social media has vastly increased, something I would never have dreamed of in 1984 when I first began to widely discuss my experience with sexual abuse.
The Freeh Report, released July 12, details the results gleaned after Judge Louis Freeh and his firm researched more than 3 MILLION documents pertaining to this case. Their findings reflect very badly on Tim Curley, Gary Schultz, Joe Paterno, and former PSU President Graham Spanier, as well as Penn State itself. (For those masochistic enough, as I am, to read through 267 pages, the Freeh report is available at http://www.thefreehreportonpsu.com ). On July 23, eleven days after the release of the Freeh report, the NCAA handed down its sanctions against Penn State: a $60 million fine, the vacating of 112 wins, a four-year post-season ban, a four-year football scholarship reduction, the athletic program on probation for five years. The Big Ten issued its own concurrent five-year probation for the athletic department, as well as a four-year ban on post-season play, not that Penn State has too much chance of post-season qualification for awhile anyway.
One bright spot is that money from the NCAA fine, as well as the Big Ten post-season ban, will be used to fund causes dedicated to preventing child abuse, assisting victims and the protection of children.
Well, of course, the was merely Phase 1. We still have legal proceedings against Schultz and Curley, both accused of perjury and failure to report suspected child abuse, to wade through. There is at least a possibility that more charges could be filed against Sandusky, as victims, including his adopted son, Matt, continue to come forward, unfurling allegations dating back to the late 70's. There's the new bio, Paterno, by Joe Posnanski, due out August 21, which may shed some new light on Paterno's role in this tragedy. There is always the vast possibility that, as more details come to light, Spanier could face charges and that the university could be sued. (Note, Friday, August 24th, this today from the Associated Press: Victim 1 is suing Penn State; "another Sandusky accuser has filed a federal lawsuit related to the scandal and a second victim has filed a court notice that he will file complaint." I rest my case). I predict this thing is a long way from over.
A long way from over for the victims, as well. The after-effects of child sexual abuse into adulthood are legion, and well-documented. Depression, suicide, substance abuse, eating disorders, sexual and reproductive system dysfunctions are just a few I can name off the top of my head. Girls who are sexually abused are more likely to marry/become involved with physically, sexually and verbally abusive men; boys are more likely to become abusers themselves. For a much more complete list of the costs of child sexual abuse to our society, check out D2L.org -- go to the tab on the top left "The Issue" and click on "Statistics" and "Economic Impact" in turn and you will learn plenty, believe me.
One of the more astonishing findings, even for me, is that childhood sexual abuse shrinks the hippocampus and the pre-frontal cortex, parts of the brain that deal with memory and stress responses. This explains why abuse memories can be locked away for many years, also why they can "pop up" often at unexpected and inopportune times. It also helps explain the tendency for victims to develop post-traumatic-stress-disorder (PTSD), and depression, and why those conditions are so resistant to treatment. The theory is that this shrinkage is caused by stress hormones released by the brain at the time of the abuse. Stress hormone levels can remain high for long periods of time after an incident of abuse, and if abuse is severe or frequent, high stress hormone levels can be constant. My guess is that scientists will find links to higher incidence of other conditions in survivors relating to stress hormone levels, such as obesity, heart disease, cancer, strokes, asthma, ulcers, and inflammatory bowel disease, among others. I'm only guessing this because high stress hormone levels are linked with these diseases in the public at large.
The most striking after-effects I've suffered are asthma, PTSD, depression, lack of trust in others, tending to expect/believe the worst in others, lack of respect for authority, obesity, and a feeling of isolation, of being different from others. Sometimes this difference takes the form of feeling superior -- "look at so-and-so, (s)he's whining about _____, imagine him/her being molested. (S)he'd never be able to handle it." Followed by a rather smug self-smile. (Yes, I know. I'm not proud of that, but I'm being honest. We're only as sick as our secrets, after all). But much of my feeling different is centered around watching others play The Mating Game. Oh, some people are very good at it. And I know that The Mating Game is difficult for a good many people who have never been molested. But trust me when I tell you being molested adds a much deeper shade of difficulty than anyone can imagine who has never been there. It is very difficult to conduct any kind of interpersonal relationship when you can't trust and you feel you must be in control all of the time, especially in intimate relationships. Often, I'm aware of it if I start trying to control other people, and I stop. But surprises? Spontaneity? Not much in Claudia's vocabulary. Flirting? Kinda scary unless I'm well acquainted with someone. It's hard for me, maybe for most survivors, to feel genuinely comfortable playing The Mating Game, doing that whole dance. It's a struggle, almost more of a struggle than it's worth sometimes. Trying to play can be very frustrating; the alternative is a steady dose of loneliness. It's hard to find a way to win.
It may be that my situation is more complicated than most. My abuser lived with me. (Strangers account for about 10% of abuse; acquaintances, 60%. About 30% of abusers are family members, not all of whom live with the ones they abuse, so those that live with their abusers are way in the minority). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Child_sexual_abuse
I think it's very different when your abuser lives with you. When your abuser is someone you see only occasionally, you may have at least an illusion of safety; the abuser has occasional access -- you can prepare for their advent, perhaps find an excuse to be somewhere else or not to be alone with them. They definitely do not have the access to you that someone who lives with you does. When your molester lives with you, they have many more opportunities to be alone with you. You never know when they are going to victimize you; whenever you and they are at home, or together as often as someone who lives with you will be, you are fair game -- tell me that doesn't do something to a child's stress/fear level! You never feel safe. I once knew a woman who was bulimic. She had been raped -- and I know that being raped once is bad enough -- she wouldn't go to any beach at all, ever because she was raped on the beach. Imagine being molested in any and every room of your house -- do you think you would have flashbacks? What would just getting up everyday and living there feel like?
Also, my abuser was not just sexually abusive -- he was a controlling, physically and verbally abusive alcoholic. He was so controlling, he didn't allow my mother and me to listen to anything but the local country music station. Deviation from this rule earned ridicule, name-calling and the like. Watching my beloved Penguins was verboten. Once when my stepfather caught me watching them, he cursed me out, forbade me from watching them again because "only pussies and faggots play hockey" (!!!). When I was 11, my stepfather came home from a hunting trip. My mother and I had been at my aunt and uncle's house since the previous day, my dog had been alone in the house, and feeling abandoned, he had torn a softball-sized hole in our sofa. My stepfather beat the dog and kicked him, then while picking my mother and me up, bragged to my aunt, uncle and later my grandparents that he had "beat his ass and punted him like a football" down the cellar steps; then he kept him penned in the garage through a record-cold 1976-77 winter, where Rex's food and water frequently froze, forbade my mother and I from petting or playing with him, and when the dog didn't run away after a year of this, he took Rex up in the woods and shot him. This is the kind of abuser some of us must live with.
In all probability, the long road has just begun for Sandusky's victims. Based on my experience, it is my belief that this time is crucial for them. First of all, Sandusky was convicted of 45 counts. This was happy news to people like me because it means he's off the streets, he can't harm any child as long as we keep him there, which hopefully will be until his death. (In about a month, he will be sentenced, and we will know the answer to that). It is my hope that he is sentenced to the maximum for each count, not so much to send a message to potential child molesters -- I believe that they are in the grip of a disease that, in all probability, is aided and abetted by a biological/biochemical process that may be almost as irresistible as puberty or menopause. (More on that in a later post). No, I would like to see a long sentence for Jerry Sandusky in order to send the appropriate message to society.
Basically, the response of a survivor's loved ones during this time and for years to come will, in my experience and what I've seen in other survivor's lives, make or break the degree, speed, and quality of the survivor's recovery. Period. And our society has much to learn about how to support the survivor.
People have a fear and revulsion about sexual crime. Understandably so: Rape and molestation are very searing, intimate crimes that we all sense can do profound damage. We cannot, do not want to think of that kind of trauma. We want to shy away from it, avoid it, minimize it. We certainly don't want to think that someone has been an innocent victim of such a crime; if it could happen to them, it can happen to us, too. So if we find a way to blame the victim, we can convince ourselves it may have happened to them, but we would do this or that differently, so it would never happen to us. No one not elected for public office is second-guessed more than a sex-crime victim, from the advent of the crime, through prosecution (if that occurs), and recovery (if that occurs). And that is counter-productive and hideously wrong. I know, I've been there, and I can tell you that after being molested by the abuser, a survivor can wind up feeling raped by the justice system, and assaulted by his/her loved ones and some of their reactions. The aftermath can feel much worse than the abuse itself. A social worker I once discussed this topic with assured me that these reactions are "due to ignorance and not lack of love" on the loved ones' parts, but sometimes this is hard to believe or remember.
No matter what it takes, it is incumbent upon us as a society to work past these knee-jerk reactions if we are to help victims. The recovery of the victim, their transformation into survivor, and finally victor, depends upon our willingness and ability to put the victim and his/her recovery above our discomfort, to not second-guess or blame them for any action they took or failed to take during and immediately after their abuse, nor minimize their suffering during their recovery.
A couple of recent incidents at The Plaza remind me that, although we've come a long way with sexual abuse since I came of age, we still have a long way to go. It's very hard, painful and frustrating for me to watch victims fight the same battles I've been fighting for some 30 years. Sometimes it feels like we can never make enough headway, nor fast enough.
There is a man around 50 years old who comes to Coffee Paradise virtually every weekday. He used to come in, talk an overly long time with one particular young girl, ask her rather personal questions, ask about her when she wasn't there, and just generally acting in a way that made her uncomfortable, "creeping on her", the kids call it.
He never really quite crossed the line, you understand: he was known to exchange pleasantries with a few of us, but he didn't get that personal, ask about, or hang around anyone else. The young girl in question told me she felt uncomfortable, so I told her to report her feelings to the manager-in-charge (MIC). The MIC that day, a female in her late 50's, kind of blew off the girl's concerns, saying, "Oh, he's just from a time and a place where people want to know who's serving them. Alot of people that age from small towns are the same way." I told her I thought he was creepy and that I had only seen him behave that way with this one girl. She did not report the girl's concerns up the chain of command. I confess, being rather battle-worn and cynical about society's response to this issue, and having seen our company's lack of response to more mundane matters, that other than to comment privately to the MIC in question that I still thought this guy was trouble and the whole thing should be further pursued, the fact that the girl herself did not further pursue the situation at that time temporarily stifled me (and my own history, as well as the MIC's response, caused me to second-guess myself), and I didn't report the situation up the chain of command either. I won't be making that mistake again. However, several of us covered for the girl repeatedly when the guy came around, hiding her. And I made a point of unobtrusively bringing him to the attention of other MICs.
It took an incident a few months later on one of my days off to take matters to the next level. One of our college students was working with the girl one day when the man came in. The student, who had been away from Coffee Paradise at school for a few months, saw his strange behavior, heard the girl's tale, and, no shrinking violet she, called on the MIC, (a man a few years younger than me who doesn't work as many evening shifts and didn't know the situation), told him what was what and basically strongly requested action. The MIC (who is also The Plaza's assistant manager) went up the chain of command and was told to handle the situation. My understanding is that he spent more than an hour explaining to the customer that he was scaring the girl, why his behavior was inappropriate, and that he needed to tone it down or he would be barred from The Plaza.
What brought the whole thing to my attention again was that one day, about a week after his talking-to, I was on my break buying a Coffee Paradise fruit cup; the customer was ahead of me in line, but motioned me to go in front of him. He asked me the name of the MIC who had spoken to him. I gave him the name and he said, "Well, he was very mean to me the other day -- my feelings were hurt." I asked him what had happened. He told me basically he was told that the girl had been put off by some of his behavior and that he had been told to tone it down or take his business elsewhere. The MIC in question happened to be there that day, so I asked if he wanted to talk to him or another manager; he said no, but reiterated his feelings were hurt, so I told him I'd look into it.
While still on break, I was called to the office on another matter, so I mentioned the whole thing to the store manager, and between her and the MIC who had spoken to the guy, I got a portrait of a hour+ long conversation with a creeper who evidently played dumb as to why his behavior was upsetting the young girl, but did agree to tone it down. The MIC and I were both rather agape at the customer's narcissistic "hurt feelings" -- I said if it had been me, I'd have been rather embarrassed that I had upset anyone that much if my actions were innocent.
So, although management's response was appropriate, I wish I could say the same for some of our co-workers, many of whom acquired the opinion "he's harmless, he's not going to do anything wrong, (the young girl) just wants attention, she's making a mountain out of a molehill, she needs to shut up and get over it..." This even before the assistant manager had dealt with the situation.
Funny how people said the same thing about me after I suffered at least ten years of abuse a generation ago.
Funny, too, that some of her detractors had formerly protected her, warning her when he was in the building, and waiting on him so she wouldn't have to.
(The customer has since toned his behavior down and the young woman waits on him like any other customer. But those of us concerned are always on guard until he leaves the building).
I think I am most surprised and disappointed when a survivor makes a detractor-like comment. Not long after the NCAA's sanction announcement, I talked to a survivor friend who is another employee at Sunny Times. We usually agree on most things, especially in regards to this topic, so I was a little taken aback to hear her disapproval of the sanctions:
"They're punishing innocent people along with the guilty. Kids are gonna lose their scholarships, and they won't be able to play football. Those boys (the accusers) should have spoken up alot sooner and then most of this never would've happened. If people didn't listen, they should have just kept on telling people until someone did something," she fumed.
I think it goes without saying I was dumbfounded. Disappointed, angry, devastated. My friend Chris is notoriously fast on her feet. Adroit, clever, dryly amusing. Laugh-out-loud so, frequently. Sometimes quite cutting. Almost daily I wish for just a touch of her ability. This one time I'm glad I didn't have it. I would have lost a friend. I'm loquacious, articulate, especially in print. But when I'm upset, my Gemini silver tongue often fails me, and I stutter or fall tongue-tied. A thousand thoughts crowded my mind. If any kids were losing a spot on the team or a scholarship (which I was pretty sure was not true, but I didn't want to say that until I had investigated, in case I was wrong), what about all the thousands of students, employees and others who benefited all these years from an opulent football program that prospered on the backs of at least ten innocent abused boys? Punishment's unfair? That's a matter of opinion. But I believe the message Penn State and our society in general needs to receive here is to get our priorities in order. Football is not more important than education. And nothing is worth the sacrifice of one precious soul to abuse. Nothing!!
And innocent people besides the victims are routinely sacrificed in the area of sexual abuse because our society hasn't yet risen up righteous to rid itself of this evil. Those who have relationships with us, for example. Yes, some of them are informed beforehand and consent to enter into relationships with us. But I doubt that many of them would make that choice, if they truly knew what they were getting into. Our children, for another. They don't choose their parents. (One reason I chose not to have kids is because being molested changed the way I see the world. I see the world through the filter of ANYONE COULD BE A MOLESTER. I wasn't safe when I was a kid, how can I be sure I could keep my kid safe? I would not be able to stand having my kid resent me the way I resent my mother at times for failing to protect me). The punishment, if it was affecting scholarships, etc., I thought, simply symbolized the way things are in the larger world. If people are mad about that, they need to do their part to end sex abuse, then this will no longer be a problem.
But the remark about the accusers was the one that devastated me. ARE YOU KIDDING ME, I thought. Those ten boys who hung in there together through spotlight-glare, death threats, and accusations of fortune-hunting are the reason Jerry Sandusky is no longer molesting boys. They and the jury who convicted Sandusky, and I feel that the NCAA and Big Ten gave a punishment that fit the crime.
It's fine to talk about disclosing abuse until someone takes action, but this case is alot more complex. For most of us, telling on the abuser is hard enough. They may have threatened us. They may be giving us goodies as part of the grooming process -- in this case there was access to the team, the university, going to big games, staying in nice hotels, the (non-sexual) attention of rich and influential men of the community. Adults have trouble deciding to give up benefits like these; you're asking a child to make a moral decision like that? (And in this case, underprivileged boys with few male role models). And these kids were probably well aware that dealing with a man the stature of Jerry Sandusky would involve court, publicity. Who would want that many people aware of their victimhood, wondering if they'd asked for it, questioning their sexual orientation, which frequently happens when boys are molested by other males. All of this in the spotlight, for the public record. Who among us is that brave? Probably not I. Maybe not 90% of us, even if we're capable at that age of making the moral decision of putting a creep away to protect others. Those boys are heroes.
(For more on why many victims don't report their abusers, see www.prevent-abuse-now.com/stats.htm/ . Scroll down to "Disclosures" and "Allegations", and there will be plenty for you to see).
Those and probably a thousand other thoughts bumped against each other in my head, screaming to be heard. I did articulate a few of them, not very well, but at least fairly quietly, considering my level of turmoil. Then I put in the rest of my day and went home very depressed that we're still fighting some of these battles.
(BTW: those at Penn State who are able to transfer out to another team can do so without penalty; those who can't will still be able to retain their scholarships -- I think my friend heard an erroneous news report about that).
In my previous post on this topic, I asked you not to be detractors. We need you to be supporters. After the molestation is over, victims start off at the Dead Sea, way below sea level, carrying hundreds of pounds of weight in the form of our pain, shame, fear, anger, betrayal and mistrust, which we must carry hiking a long path of healing in the dark and cold that leads to a place that's as high as Mount Everest. We may or may not have a map for this journey. Hopefully, we can drop the extra weight along the way, or at least at the end of the journey, but there are no guarantees. It's a long, hard and scary journey. Simply put, if you're not for us and with us, helping us on this journey, you're against us. If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. If you're not a supporter, you're a detractor. Shut up, get out of the way, and let us make our journey in peace.
We must remember, if we're able to successfully complete the journey, we will stand at the top of the world.
That lightning bolt, from Ali, employee of the Sunny Times Gas Station that shares the building with three busy Plaza concepts, shattered my hard-won Friday evening peace June 22. I had punched out ten minutes earlier after a hectic day at Coffee Paradise and was cruising the candy bars at Sunny Times and talking optimistic Pirate baseball (for a change) with Bill, another Sunny Times inmate.
"OMG, OMG, O...M...G....!!!!!!!"
I didn't say it out loud. I don't recall what I did say, but I remember that I strove to seem calm, to hide, as I am accustomed to doing, the worst of the disquieted chaos that frequently are my feelings surrounding this issue. My first instinct was to sink into the candy bars and cry, but with a smoothness accrued from years of practice, I made appropriate responses with some aplomb, desiring only to walk home slowly and absorb this complex and mostly happy news. The tears would come the next day, after I'd had a chance to process a bit.
When I got home, my mother had the news on and was all but bursting with joy at the verdict:
"I called you and left a message on your voicemail, did you get it?"
"No, but Ali filled me in."
I sat down to watch WTAE's coverage. Of particular note to me was the fact that the correspondents interviewed several families outside the courtroom who had come with their young children to await the verdict, seizing the opportunity to extract from this evil a teachable moment that might protect someone in this or some future generation. I am buoyed by the realization, that, though I am often discouraged by the ignorance surrounding this issue (despite the best efforts of many of us, including Oprah, and the rest of what I consider to be a pioneering generation) and the apathy of our society toward effecting any real and lasting change (reflected in the often pitiful response by the justice system), at least our comfort level with talking about sexual abuse, and disseminating it in sometimes exhaustive detail on TV, internet and social media has vastly increased, something I would never have dreamed of in 1984 when I first began to widely discuss my experience with sexual abuse.
The Freeh Report, released July 12, details the results gleaned after Judge Louis Freeh and his firm researched more than 3 MILLION documents pertaining to this case. Their findings reflect very badly on Tim Curley, Gary Schultz, Joe Paterno, and former PSU President Graham Spanier, as well as Penn State itself. (For those masochistic enough, as I am, to read through 267 pages, the Freeh report is available at http://www.thefreehreportonpsu.com ). On July 23, eleven days after the release of the Freeh report, the NCAA handed down its sanctions against Penn State: a $60 million fine, the vacating of 112 wins, a four-year post-season ban, a four-year football scholarship reduction, the athletic program on probation for five years. The Big Ten issued its own concurrent five-year probation for the athletic department, as well as a four-year ban on post-season play, not that Penn State has too much chance of post-season qualification for awhile anyway.
One bright spot is that money from the NCAA fine, as well as the Big Ten post-season ban, will be used to fund causes dedicated to preventing child abuse, assisting victims and the protection of children.
Well, of course, the was merely Phase 1. We still have legal proceedings against Schultz and Curley, both accused of perjury and failure to report suspected child abuse, to wade through. There is at least a possibility that more charges could be filed against Sandusky, as victims, including his adopted son, Matt, continue to come forward, unfurling allegations dating back to the late 70's. There's the new bio, Paterno, by Joe Posnanski, due out August 21, which may shed some new light on Paterno's role in this tragedy. There is always the vast possibility that, as more details come to light, Spanier could face charges and that the university could be sued. (Note, Friday, August 24th, this today from the Associated Press: Victim 1 is suing Penn State; "another Sandusky accuser has filed a federal lawsuit related to the scandal and a second victim has filed a court notice that he will file complaint." I rest my case). I predict this thing is a long way from over.
A long way from over for the victims, as well. The after-effects of child sexual abuse into adulthood are legion, and well-documented. Depression, suicide, substance abuse, eating disorders, sexual and reproductive system dysfunctions are just a few I can name off the top of my head. Girls who are sexually abused are more likely to marry/become involved with physically, sexually and verbally abusive men; boys are more likely to become abusers themselves. For a much more complete list of the costs of child sexual abuse to our society, check out D2L.org -- go to the tab on the top left "The Issue" and click on "Statistics" and "Economic Impact" in turn and you will learn plenty, believe me.
One of the more astonishing findings, even for me, is that childhood sexual abuse shrinks the hippocampus and the pre-frontal cortex, parts of the brain that deal with memory and stress responses. This explains why abuse memories can be locked away for many years, also why they can "pop up" often at unexpected and inopportune times. It also helps explain the tendency for victims to develop post-traumatic-stress-disorder (PTSD), and depression, and why those conditions are so resistant to treatment. The theory is that this shrinkage is caused by stress hormones released by the brain at the time of the abuse. Stress hormone levels can remain high for long periods of time after an incident of abuse, and if abuse is severe or frequent, high stress hormone levels can be constant. My guess is that scientists will find links to higher incidence of other conditions in survivors relating to stress hormone levels, such as obesity, heart disease, cancer, strokes, asthma, ulcers, and inflammatory bowel disease, among others. I'm only guessing this because high stress hormone levels are linked with these diseases in the public at large.
The most striking after-effects I've suffered are asthma, PTSD, depression, lack of trust in others, tending to expect/believe the worst in others, lack of respect for authority, obesity, and a feeling of isolation, of being different from others. Sometimes this difference takes the form of feeling superior -- "look at so-and-so, (s)he's whining about _____, imagine him/her being molested. (S)he'd never be able to handle it." Followed by a rather smug self-smile. (Yes, I know. I'm not proud of that, but I'm being honest. We're only as sick as our secrets, after all). But much of my feeling different is centered around watching others play The Mating Game. Oh, some people are very good at it. And I know that The Mating Game is difficult for a good many people who have never been molested. But trust me when I tell you being molested adds a much deeper shade of difficulty than anyone can imagine who has never been there. It is very difficult to conduct any kind of interpersonal relationship when you can't trust and you feel you must be in control all of the time, especially in intimate relationships. Often, I'm aware of it if I start trying to control other people, and I stop. But surprises? Spontaneity? Not much in Claudia's vocabulary. Flirting? Kinda scary unless I'm well acquainted with someone. It's hard for me, maybe for most survivors, to feel genuinely comfortable playing The Mating Game, doing that whole dance. It's a struggle, almost more of a struggle than it's worth sometimes. Trying to play can be very frustrating; the alternative is a steady dose of loneliness. It's hard to find a way to win.
It may be that my situation is more complicated than most. My abuser lived with me. (Strangers account for about 10% of abuse; acquaintances, 60%. About 30% of abusers are family members, not all of whom live with the ones they abuse, so those that live with their abusers are way in the minority). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Child_sexual_abuse
I think it's very different when your abuser lives with you. When your abuser is someone you see only occasionally, you may have at least an illusion of safety; the abuser has occasional access -- you can prepare for their advent, perhaps find an excuse to be somewhere else or not to be alone with them. They definitely do not have the access to you that someone who lives with you does. When your molester lives with you, they have many more opportunities to be alone with you. You never know when they are going to victimize you; whenever you and they are at home, or together as often as someone who lives with you will be, you are fair game -- tell me that doesn't do something to a child's stress/fear level! You never feel safe. I once knew a woman who was bulimic. She had been raped -- and I know that being raped once is bad enough -- she wouldn't go to any beach at all, ever because she was raped on the beach. Imagine being molested in any and every room of your house -- do you think you would have flashbacks? What would just getting up everyday and living there feel like?
Also, my abuser was not just sexually abusive -- he was a controlling, physically and verbally abusive alcoholic. He was so controlling, he didn't allow my mother and me to listen to anything but the local country music station. Deviation from this rule earned ridicule, name-calling and the like. Watching my beloved Penguins was verboten. Once when my stepfather caught me watching them, he cursed me out, forbade me from watching them again because "only pussies and faggots play hockey" (!!!). When I was 11, my stepfather came home from a hunting trip. My mother and I had been at my aunt and uncle's house since the previous day, my dog had been alone in the house, and feeling abandoned, he had torn a softball-sized hole in our sofa. My stepfather beat the dog and kicked him, then while picking my mother and me up, bragged to my aunt, uncle and later my grandparents that he had "beat his ass and punted him like a football" down the cellar steps; then he kept him penned in the garage through a record-cold 1976-77 winter, where Rex's food and water frequently froze, forbade my mother and I from petting or playing with him, and when the dog didn't run away after a year of this, he took Rex up in the woods and shot him. This is the kind of abuser some of us must live with.
In all probability, the long road has just begun for Sandusky's victims. Based on my experience, it is my belief that this time is crucial for them. First of all, Sandusky was convicted of 45 counts. This was happy news to people like me because it means he's off the streets, he can't harm any child as long as we keep him there, which hopefully will be until his death. (In about a month, he will be sentenced, and we will know the answer to that). It is my hope that he is sentenced to the maximum for each count, not so much to send a message to potential child molesters -- I believe that they are in the grip of a disease that, in all probability, is aided and abetted by a biological/biochemical process that may be almost as irresistible as puberty or menopause. (More on that in a later post). No, I would like to see a long sentence for Jerry Sandusky in order to send the appropriate message to society.
Basically, the response of a survivor's loved ones during this time and for years to come will, in my experience and what I've seen in other survivor's lives, make or break the degree, speed, and quality of the survivor's recovery. Period. And our society has much to learn about how to support the survivor.
People have a fear and revulsion about sexual crime. Understandably so: Rape and molestation are very searing, intimate crimes that we all sense can do profound damage. We cannot, do not want to think of that kind of trauma. We want to shy away from it, avoid it, minimize it. We certainly don't want to think that someone has been an innocent victim of such a crime; if it could happen to them, it can happen to us, too. So if we find a way to blame the victim, we can convince ourselves it may have happened to them, but we would do this or that differently, so it would never happen to us. No one not elected for public office is second-guessed more than a sex-crime victim, from the advent of the crime, through prosecution (if that occurs), and recovery (if that occurs). And that is counter-productive and hideously wrong. I know, I've been there, and I can tell you that after being molested by the abuser, a survivor can wind up feeling raped by the justice system, and assaulted by his/her loved ones and some of their reactions. The aftermath can feel much worse than the abuse itself. A social worker I once discussed this topic with assured me that these reactions are "due to ignorance and not lack of love" on the loved ones' parts, but sometimes this is hard to believe or remember.
No matter what it takes, it is incumbent upon us as a society to work past these knee-jerk reactions if we are to help victims. The recovery of the victim, their transformation into survivor, and finally victor, depends upon our willingness and ability to put the victim and his/her recovery above our discomfort, to not second-guess or blame them for any action they took or failed to take during and immediately after their abuse, nor minimize their suffering during their recovery.
A couple of recent incidents at The Plaza remind me that, although we've come a long way with sexual abuse since I came of age, we still have a long way to go. It's very hard, painful and frustrating for me to watch victims fight the same battles I've been fighting for some 30 years. Sometimes it feels like we can never make enough headway, nor fast enough.
There is a man around 50 years old who comes to Coffee Paradise virtually every weekday. He used to come in, talk an overly long time with one particular young girl, ask her rather personal questions, ask about her when she wasn't there, and just generally acting in a way that made her uncomfortable, "creeping on her", the kids call it.
He never really quite crossed the line, you understand: he was known to exchange pleasantries with a few of us, but he didn't get that personal, ask about, or hang around anyone else. The young girl in question told me she felt uncomfortable, so I told her to report her feelings to the manager-in-charge (MIC). The MIC that day, a female in her late 50's, kind of blew off the girl's concerns, saying, "Oh, he's just from a time and a place where people want to know who's serving them. Alot of people that age from small towns are the same way." I told her I thought he was creepy and that I had only seen him behave that way with this one girl. She did not report the girl's concerns up the chain of command. I confess, being rather battle-worn and cynical about society's response to this issue, and having seen our company's lack of response to more mundane matters, that other than to comment privately to the MIC in question that I still thought this guy was trouble and the whole thing should be further pursued, the fact that the girl herself did not further pursue the situation at that time temporarily stifled me (and my own history, as well as the MIC's response, caused me to second-guess myself), and I didn't report the situation up the chain of command either. I won't be making that mistake again. However, several of us covered for the girl repeatedly when the guy came around, hiding her. And I made a point of unobtrusively bringing him to the attention of other MICs.
It took an incident a few months later on one of my days off to take matters to the next level. One of our college students was working with the girl one day when the man came in. The student, who had been away from Coffee Paradise at school for a few months, saw his strange behavior, heard the girl's tale, and, no shrinking violet she, called on the MIC, (a man a few years younger than me who doesn't work as many evening shifts and didn't know the situation), told him what was what and basically strongly requested action. The MIC (who is also The Plaza's assistant manager) went up the chain of command and was told to handle the situation. My understanding is that he spent more than an hour explaining to the customer that he was scaring the girl, why his behavior was inappropriate, and that he needed to tone it down or he would be barred from The Plaza.
What brought the whole thing to my attention again was that one day, about a week after his talking-to, I was on my break buying a Coffee Paradise fruit cup; the customer was ahead of me in line, but motioned me to go in front of him. He asked me the name of the MIC who had spoken to him. I gave him the name and he said, "Well, he was very mean to me the other day -- my feelings were hurt." I asked him what had happened. He told me basically he was told that the girl had been put off by some of his behavior and that he had been told to tone it down or take his business elsewhere. The MIC in question happened to be there that day, so I asked if he wanted to talk to him or another manager; he said no, but reiterated his feelings were hurt, so I told him I'd look into it.
While still on break, I was called to the office on another matter, so I mentioned the whole thing to the store manager, and between her and the MIC who had spoken to the guy, I got a portrait of a hour+ long conversation with a creeper who evidently played dumb as to why his behavior was upsetting the young girl, but did agree to tone it down. The MIC and I were both rather agape at the customer's narcissistic "hurt feelings" -- I said if it had been me, I'd have been rather embarrassed that I had upset anyone that much if my actions were innocent.
So, although management's response was appropriate, I wish I could say the same for some of our co-workers, many of whom acquired the opinion "he's harmless, he's not going to do anything wrong, (the young girl) just wants attention, she's making a mountain out of a molehill, she needs to shut up and get over it..." This even before the assistant manager had dealt with the situation.
Funny how people said the same thing about me after I suffered at least ten years of abuse a generation ago.
Funny, too, that some of her detractors had formerly protected her, warning her when he was in the building, and waiting on him so she wouldn't have to.
(The customer has since toned his behavior down and the young woman waits on him like any other customer. But those of us concerned are always on guard until he leaves the building).
I think I am most surprised and disappointed when a survivor makes a detractor-like comment. Not long after the NCAA's sanction announcement, I talked to a survivor friend who is another employee at Sunny Times. We usually agree on most things, especially in regards to this topic, so I was a little taken aback to hear her disapproval of the sanctions:
"They're punishing innocent people along with the guilty. Kids are gonna lose their scholarships, and they won't be able to play football. Those boys (the accusers) should have spoken up alot sooner and then most of this never would've happened. If people didn't listen, they should have just kept on telling people until someone did something," she fumed.
I think it goes without saying I was dumbfounded. Disappointed, angry, devastated. My friend Chris is notoriously fast on her feet. Adroit, clever, dryly amusing. Laugh-out-loud so, frequently. Sometimes quite cutting. Almost daily I wish for just a touch of her ability. This one time I'm glad I didn't have it. I would have lost a friend. I'm loquacious, articulate, especially in print. But when I'm upset, my Gemini silver tongue often fails me, and I stutter or fall tongue-tied. A thousand thoughts crowded my mind. If any kids were losing a spot on the team or a scholarship (which I was pretty sure was not true, but I didn't want to say that until I had investigated, in case I was wrong), what about all the thousands of students, employees and others who benefited all these years from an opulent football program that prospered on the backs of at least ten innocent abused boys? Punishment's unfair? That's a matter of opinion. But I believe the message Penn State and our society in general needs to receive here is to get our priorities in order. Football is not more important than education. And nothing is worth the sacrifice of one precious soul to abuse. Nothing!!
And innocent people besides the victims are routinely sacrificed in the area of sexual abuse because our society hasn't yet risen up righteous to rid itself of this evil. Those who have relationships with us, for example. Yes, some of them are informed beforehand and consent to enter into relationships with us. But I doubt that many of them would make that choice, if they truly knew what they were getting into. Our children, for another. They don't choose their parents. (One reason I chose not to have kids is because being molested changed the way I see the world. I see the world through the filter of ANYONE COULD BE A MOLESTER. I wasn't safe when I was a kid, how can I be sure I could keep my kid safe? I would not be able to stand having my kid resent me the way I resent my mother at times for failing to protect me). The punishment, if it was affecting scholarships, etc., I thought, simply symbolized the way things are in the larger world. If people are mad about that, they need to do their part to end sex abuse, then this will no longer be a problem.
But the remark about the accusers was the one that devastated me. ARE YOU KIDDING ME, I thought. Those ten boys who hung in there together through spotlight-glare, death threats, and accusations of fortune-hunting are the reason Jerry Sandusky is no longer molesting boys. They and the jury who convicted Sandusky, and I feel that the NCAA and Big Ten gave a punishment that fit the crime.
It's fine to talk about disclosing abuse until someone takes action, but this case is alot more complex. For most of us, telling on the abuser is hard enough. They may have threatened us. They may be giving us goodies as part of the grooming process -- in this case there was access to the team, the university, going to big games, staying in nice hotels, the (non-sexual) attention of rich and influential men of the community. Adults have trouble deciding to give up benefits like these; you're asking a child to make a moral decision like that? (And in this case, underprivileged boys with few male role models). And these kids were probably well aware that dealing with a man the stature of Jerry Sandusky would involve court, publicity. Who would want that many people aware of their victimhood, wondering if they'd asked for it, questioning their sexual orientation, which frequently happens when boys are molested by other males. All of this in the spotlight, for the public record. Who among us is that brave? Probably not I. Maybe not 90% of us, even if we're capable at that age of making the moral decision of putting a creep away to protect others. Those boys are heroes.
(For more on why many victims don't report their abusers, see www.prevent-abuse-now.com/stats.htm/ . Scroll down to "Disclosures" and "Allegations", and there will be plenty for you to see).
Those and probably a thousand other thoughts bumped against each other in my head, screaming to be heard. I did articulate a few of them, not very well, but at least fairly quietly, considering my level of turmoil. Then I put in the rest of my day and went home very depressed that we're still fighting some of these battles.
(BTW: those at Penn State who are able to transfer out to another team can do so without penalty; those who can't will still be able to retain their scholarships -- I think my friend heard an erroneous news report about that).
In my previous post on this topic, I asked you not to be detractors. We need you to be supporters. After the molestation is over, victims start off at the Dead Sea, way below sea level, carrying hundreds of pounds of weight in the form of our pain, shame, fear, anger, betrayal and mistrust, which we must carry hiking a long path of healing in the dark and cold that leads to a place that's as high as Mount Everest. We may or may not have a map for this journey. Hopefully, we can drop the extra weight along the way, or at least at the end of the journey, but there are no guarantees. It's a long, hard and scary journey. Simply put, if you're not for us and with us, helping us on this journey, you're against us. If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. If you're not a supporter, you're a detractor. Shut up, get out of the way, and let us make our journey in peace.
We must remember, if we're able to successfully complete the journey, we will stand at the top of the world.
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