We have to keep swallowing our rage and our trauma. I don’t think I can swallow very much more. There is no room. It isn’t in the Epstein files. And I wasn't in the House of Representatives. I was a 17-year-old girl stuck in a private school, an institution that, above all else, wanted to protect itself and its entrenched patriarchal world view. The children who attended that school, especially the girls, were of little importance.
I was lucky. I chose this word carefully because there wasn't anything I did that ensured my safety. I was just lucky. But my friend wasn't. She was systematically isolated and manipulated. She was chosen for years of verbal, physical, and sexual abuse by a teacher. The narrative I was told by the “adults” at the school: she had chosen the relationship, she hadn’t stayed away. None of the adults wanted to hear the truth: she was a victim of sexual violence. The word rape was unthinkable; that only happened in dark alleys by unknown men like Jack the Ripper. The rape would continue for years. And no adult stopped it. My friend survived and her full life amazes me. And yet still, I grieve and ache and remember. I’m sure you can guess the rest of the story. She wasn't his first victim. She was one of many. He of course was not the only teacher sexually abusing students. Sadly, many students, both boys and girls, were raped by predators protected by the elite school. No one did anything. I pleaded. I followed the rules. I broke the rules. I went through the correct channels. I shut down. That was in 1994. As a 50 year old woman I still think of ways I could have made it stop; I imagine standing in front of the school as a 17 year old with a sign in bold black letters that read “Kids are being raped at this school.” I thought things would get better after the #MeToo movement. I thought after forcing my private school through an investigation, there would be some movement by the institution toward reconciliation. I thought after years of therapy and writing I wouldn’t be so seething mad. 31 years later and the president of the United States is a convicted sex offender. Things aren’t better. As I was walking my dogs this morning, wrapping my head around the latest, that not only is our president a convicted sex offender but also a pedophile, my anger rose from a place deep inside me. I began making a timeline as if I could prove to the world that the needle hasn’t moved.
I imagined an addition to my timeline:
When will we act with any urgency to end the epidemic of sexual violence in our country? At least a quarter of the women I have served as a pastor have been victims of sexual abuse and or rape in their childhood homes. Brothers, uncles, fathers, stepfathers, cousins. These stories do not include the many stories of “date rape”, sexual harrasment, or partner rape that I have beared witness to in my 25 year career. The legacy of sexual violence has followed every survivor I know into their adult lives. These survivors have sought healing through therapy, anti-depressants, spiritual disciplines, group therapy, treatment for maladaptive behaviors such as addiction and eating disorders, and finally publicly speaking out about their abuse. And yet still they all ask, along with me, when will we outrun this trauma? One individual had a breakdown when her daughter became the age she was when she was victimized by her brother. She didn't know why she was falling apart until the connection came crashing down on her. Was her daughter safe? This is just one story articulating how trauma insidiously disrupts survivors’ adult lives. We are told again and again that it's getting better. But is it? We elected a man who is a convicted sex offender. He was elected after he was heard saying, “I don't even wait. And when you're a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. ... Grab 'em by the pussy. You can do anything." And now there is incredibly strong evidence that he is also a pedophile who raped young girls. I wasn’t the only one angry this morning. One friend told me she wasn’t sure she could get out of bed this morning. She did get out of bed because she began vomiting. She asked me, “How do I exist in a world in which we elect a president who is a pedophile? I am the survivor of such a man.” When will it stop? When will adult women, such as myself and my friend, stop sobbing when more news breaks out about another powerful man abusing girls and women while everyone averts their eyes? When will we stop being afraid for our daughters? When will we rather encounter an unknown man instead of a bear? Another survivor spoke truth to me today: “We have to keep swallowing our rage and our trauma. I don’t think I can swallow very much more. There is no room.” When the president himself is unsafe, how can we feel safe in the world? I am tired. I am defeated. I want it to stop.
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