BRATTLEBORO — “Do you think that you should be saying these sorts of things about other people?”
“Why can't you forgive?”
“Do you know what you started? Don't ever call here again.”
“This issue is irrelevant.”
“We're only providing a place for him to play. He can't play anywhere else, because of what you did.”
“Why can't you forget about it and move on?”
“I hope that this has not caused you too much trouble.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
These are just a few of the comments made to me as an adult by members of my own community when information was provided to them about an individual who had abused me and others as minors.
I was shocked at some of these responses by educators, directors of local organizations, board members, and a college president, as well as well-meaning allies who did not know how to respond to my disclosure but who were not surprised.
I knew that it was going to be an uphill battle to get any sort of action, accountability, or understanding in regard to this issue because the offenses had occurred so long ago and were not reported.
Lucky for me, I had a letter in which the perpetrator admitted to the behavior.
This proof has aided me in getting organizations to address the safety of children, but has not made it any easier for me to live in my own community or to address my own lack of access.
Just simple trips to the grocery store or the food co-op or attempts to attend concerts or arts events can trigger PTSD and bring me into contact with those who knew about this behavior yet did nothing, those unwilling to do anything now, or even the perpetrator.
So I practice avoidance.
I cannot even feel safe attending my own church, because a board member of one of the organizations providing access to the perpetrator is actively involved there and refuses to address my concerns.
I cannot stomach the hypocrisy of someone who otherwise stands strongly in support of the vulnerable of our community.
What about me?
* * *
Which brings me to the question of why didn't I report.
First of all, I didn't completely comprehend as a young person the damage that the abuse caused me.
Secondly, I had come into contact with many adults who knew about this individual's behavior and did nothing to stop it. Why would they ever help me?
My most searing memory is something seemingly simple: walking through the hallways of my high school after school with the perpetrator, walking past administrators. I remember other teachers greeting him warmly as he brought me to an out-of-the-way room above the auditorium to abuse me.
Not one person stopped to ask what he was doing, where we were going, or why I was there.
Only once, as we were exiting, did a janitor who was putting something away in an adjacent broom closet, look askance at him.
He just gave him the evil eye, and moved on, as if saying, “How dare you question me?”
If only one person had questioned me, perhaps my life would have been different.
Perhaps I could have avoided the years of self-blame, suffering, and anxiety that ultimately led me to report, when I could not stand living in my own self anymore.
* * *
I suspect that Christine Blasey Ford could not stand it any longer either and that she had to do what was right for herself and for her own dignity.
In doing so, she has laid bare the wounds of our culture: of women, men, and children who have stayed silent far too long and who have suffered the repercussions for a lifetime, and of men who cannot begin to understand the damage they have wrought.