The hardest part is not knowing... (May '07)

I wasn't going to write this blog.

To be honest, my intention two nights ago was to sit down and type a brief explanation of how my life has been touched by the victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. The whole thing started when Kerry sent out a bulletin telling us all about a heart-rending, but important blog entry by Pam. As I read that entry, I was overtaken by a flood of memories--memories from not so very long ago.

My parents never had a great deal of money. I can only remember two times when my family ever just went on vacation, and both instances involved camping. We brought our own food and our own sleeping arrangements. My father built most of our house with his own two hands, piece by piece over the years as he could afford it. I can remember years at a time where he didn't sleep more than four or five hours a night. The rest of the time he was working to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads. I still remember months when my mother just asked us to pray because there was no money to pay the mortgage, and we needed God to provide. He never missed a payment.

I say all of that to say this. Amidst all of their hard work and striving, my parents never allowed themselves to develop an internal focus. They were very well aware the most of the world was much worse off than we were, and they did whatever they could to help out. In these same times when we were using food stamps and praying our way to a mortgage payment, my parents opened our home time after time to those in need. I've written about a couple of the crisis situations they helped others to face. Perhaps one day I will write about the two Vietnamese families who lived with us at different times, or the Eritrean refugee who my parents took in and sheltered, or the foster children who found a home when they had no other (and one of those foster children is now my adopted sister, by the way.)

This generous spirit was not limited to their encounters with refugees and orphans. Many of my friends at school and in town were not what you might call "good kids." A few of my friends spent time in and out of youth correctional facilities, and some of them did not have the best reputation with other parents in town. My mother cared not a whit for any of that. My home was always open to any of my friends, and my mother always had good food and a warm smile for any of my friends who should choose to pop in for a visit. She didn't see "good kids" and "bad kids." She saw kids who needed love and kids who needed more love. She saw the causes of behavioral problems, and she was moved to compassion. As an adult I appreciate that more than I ever did as a child.

One friend in particular had more serious social issues than most. Looking back, I am amazed that he functioned as well as he did socially and behaviorally. I believe that success was due to a strong will and a very loving mother (his own.) His name was Rico.

Rico's mother became pregnant with Rico when she was twelve or thirteen. I don't know how old Rico's father was. I only know that he was an adult. That says a great deal about the situation in and of itself.

Rico's father took Rico's mother to live with him back in his native Puerto Rico. There they had another child, Rico's little sister. I don't know what their life was like during those years. I only know about the year that Rico turned five, and how they got out.

Rico had a scar on the top of his head that looked a lot like a famous cartoon character. We used to laugh about it sometimes. One night after I had known him for a couple of years, Rico told me how he got that scar.

Rico's father had been molesting both Rico and his toddler sister for as long as he could remember. I can't tell you if Rico's mother knew about this, but I want to say that she did not. It probably didn't matter anyway, as Rico's father beat Rico's mother on a regular basis. One night Rico's mother wanted to put a stop to all of it. As I understand it, she tried to intervene. Rico's father became violent, beating her severely. Five-year-old Rico tried to stop him. Rico's father became enraged and shot both Rico and Rico's mother. Rico was only grazed on the top of his head, but it left a scar that I am quite sure he still has to this day.

Rico's father was sent to prison, and Rico's mother fled back to Rhode Island to try and live with her family. I don't know what happened next, but I do know that she was forced to live on her own. Rico's mother got a job, and worked hard to raise her children. When Rico was eight, a social worker told rico's mother that she was not earning enough to support both of her children, and that one of them would have to go into foster care. Can you even imagine being faced with such a choice? Rico overheard the social worker and told his mother that he would go, because his little sister needed to have her own mother.

Rico went in and out of a series of foster homes, most of them right therein our own town. During this time, Rico was sexually assaulted by at least one of these foster parents, beaten by a few, and had a bottle broken across his head by one of them. I know he tried hard to keep all of this from his mother, but I have no idea how that worked out.

Finally, Rico's mother got a good job in a bank and married a great, stable guy. Rico was able to move back in with his mother at around twelve or thirteen, so all was not lost. This was not the end of Rico's problems by any stretch, but it was the first ray of hope in an absolutely brutal childhood.

The reason I'm writing about Rico is to tell you about those later years. The btter years. I got to know Rico during those later years. We were actually pretty good friends. That's how I know that Rico had been seriously damaged by all of those years of abuse. Rico had very strong sexual fixations, and was not averse to discussing them at length and in almost any company. Rico engaged in public masturbation in at least two instances that I can recall. Rico asked some of us more than once what type of animal we would prefer to have sex with if we had to have sex with an animal. Rico talked at length about the various sexual practices had had talked some of his young girlfriends into trying. These included the insertion of foreign bodies and the penetration of multiple orifices. This was not idle boy chatter. His stories were at times corroborated. Most of these happened before Rico was fifteen years of age.

Rico also had an extremely violent temper. I remember a time in his late teen years when his mother called several of us in a panic, wanting to know where he was. His father had just been released from prison, and Rico had decided to go find his father and kill him. Three days later he showed back up. Thankfully, he had not been successful.

I'd like to tell you that with counseling and patient effort, Rico overcame his personal demons and was now a productive member of society. The truth is, I don't know what happened to Rico. I know he went to college at one point, but whether he finished or where he went from there, I just don't know.

What I do know is that Rico is very likely to end up as an offender himself one day. Statistics and anecdotal evidence both indicate that the odds are stacked very strongly against him, and against those whose lives become involved with his. The same goes for Tom, and probably for Jessica. What children have modeled for them during those formative years has been shown to be a great deal more powerful than any teaching that follows. That does not mean that these children are doomed to become offenders, or that they are doomed to repeat as victims, but it does mean that they have been dealt a very, very, very difficult hand, and that the odds against them are far higher than any odds in their favor.

So what can you do? I've said it for two nights, and now I'm saying it for a third night. Don't close your eyes. Don't think that it's better to assume the best than to ask hard questions. Don't be afraid to get involved. Don't be afraid to get the authorities involved. If you are in a situation like this, know that there is no shame in being a victim. The real shame falls on the heads of those who could help, but prefer to stand by and do nothing.

I started this blog by saying that I wasn't planning to write this. Now I'm going to tell you why I did. Today I received four e-mails from victims of abuse, including current victims who are suffering in heartbreaking circumstances as you read this.

This is too important to ignore.

Even if you think this doesn't affect you, does it affect your neighbor? What about the kids that your kids are playing with? What about the workers at the schools and the daycares? What about those children you see down at the playground who always seem a little gaunt, and who always seem to have bruises and scrapes. Must have tripped while playing, huh? Maybe they're just accident prone. Maybe not...

The hardest part is that we just never know. I grew up in a safe place, in a safe town, surrounded by loving, caring people who watched over me. I went to church every Sunday, to school during the week, to day camp in teh summers, and I never wanted for food or shelter. I didn't grow up in a housing project or the inner city. I grew up in the suburbs, in a college town by the beach.

And yet, by age fifteen, I had already known Jessica, Tom, Rico, and several other victims of physical, emotional, sexual, and verbal assault.

The truth is, we'll probably never know what's going on behind closed doors all around us. What we can know is what we'll choose to do about it when we find out. What will you do?

I hope you can figure out the answer to that question before it's too late.

If you think this was important, and you think other should see this message, please do me a favor and continue to spread the word. Again, I don't care about subscriptions or views or kudos or comments or any of that nonsense. I care about the friends I've had, the friends I've lost, and the new friends who contacted me this very day. The least that any of us can do is to spread the word. Nothing will change as long as we keep silent. God bless, and thank you.