When the story first broke about Penn State football defensive coordinator Gerald “Jerry” Sandusky, and his alleged molestation of children, my mind immediately went back in time to when as a young child, I was molested.
I think of the children and the pain they will face in the back of their consciousness for the rest of their lives. Sure, they won’t live with the deceit 24 hours a day, but the “bruise” on the soul stays with you, and is just beneath the surface of life to make up the individual the child becomes. They can go one of two ways… one of a destructive life, hurting themselves and those around them, any way they can, or like me, they can create a protective wall around them, where the screen is always up, and a heightened sense of fragility prevails where the wrong tone of voice, or choice of words, can leave me in tears. It took me many years to trust men outside of my father and brothers.
I was about 3-4 at the time. Just around the corner on Emerald Place, I was playing in the backyard of a neighborhood friend. Growing up in the 60’s – 70’s in a small town, a child of that age could just walk the 15 or so houses without accompaniment, or perhaps I was delivered to the house by a sibling. That detail does not seem to matter.
I was in the backyard, playing on the jungle gym. For whatever reason, I have totally blocked out who I was with, or why I was there. Recently, through the open walls of Facebook, the last name surfaced (a rare name), and it is of a woman that would be my age, that grew up in my town. Maybe it was she that I was playing with that day.
Anyway, as I played in my dress and pigtails gleefully in the backyard, an older brother (of whomever I was playing with) of about 18 came to the backyard, and summoned me, as he wanted to show me something. I do not recall other adult supervision, as perhaps he was it.
He led me to his room, which I can still visualize in the typical tract home model of the day.
He said he wanted to show me something, and without missing a beat, he sat with his hand holding his erect penis for my inspection. “Isn’t it pretty? ” he asked. “Come over and touch it”, and with that, he pulled my hand over to stoke him.
Following a few moments of stoking he put my head to his penis and instructed me to lick it just like a lollipop. I am not sure what ensued next, as with most children of molestation a bit of blacking out takes place. Or a fog. Who rightly knows? Either way, by the time I went back to the backyard, and climbed the jungle gym, it was with the biggest voice I could muster, that I screamed the “f” word.
I am not sure how I came up with that, or why that was the word of choice, but it sure worked. With that shrill little voice came one angry brother from my house. The second oldest, and 8 years older than me. He came and grabbed me by the hand and dragged me faster than my pigtails could fly. I was in BIG TROUBLE for having such a mouth!
Fine by me. A spanking ensued, and I never spoke of what happened on Emerald Place that day. The pond scum who took my innocence told me not to.
Instead, I built my glass wall of protection. I call it glass, because you could see me. I could see you, but I was not letting you in. No one. EVER!
At that point in life, I felt alone. Alone in a big family of 13, to parent myself. I sprained my arm as a preschooler and told no one. In elementary school, I bled so much from my nose once, that I soaked a bath towel. All without telling anyone. This is what molested children do. They go into a world all their own, because you feel alone. If no one would save me then, then I would always just protect myself.
It is not that the parents don’t care. They don’t know! It is what children do to protect themselves.
The years that followed were difficult. I was a beautiful little girl with raven black hair, creamy white skin dotted with freckles, and sapphire blue eyes. Men were always patting me on the head, or making comments about the beauty I was.
What I did was ignore them at all costs. A lovely older gentleman just two doors down, was always so nice to me, but what I did to avoid him, was cross the street to pass his house. I was not rude, but I would not talk to him either. He could be just like the guy around the corner. If a male teacher were to touch my shoulders, I stiffened. It remained so, to early adulthood. Men in authority or perceived authority got to see me only through the glass wall. My guard was always up.
I was always cautious with dads of friends, and any man in general. And then I turned 11. My walls were up, and I remained safe, until it happened AGAIN!
At 11 years old, my parents sent me on what they thought was the chance of a lifetime. A trip around the world on a 32 foot sailboat. That story is for another time. But, it is in getting to the first leg of the trip that my story of molestation continues.
At LAX in 1973 or 1974, the glory days of flying. I boarded Pan Am as an unaccompanied minor to PagoPago, American Samoa, to meet up with the people I would spend the next 15 months of my life with.
The first leg of the trip was perfect, and I even sat in Operations with Pilots and Crew in Honolulu as we waited for the next leg of the trip. They were all so attentive, seeing to my ever need. Even gifted me with the Pan Am blue travel bag!
On board my flight, I was seated with a native Samoan in his early 20’s. Not a big man, but he seemed pleasant enough as we chatted about where I was going, and why, and how exciting to be embarking on such an adventure.
The travel had been long, and as I slept beneath the Pan Am issued blanket, I woke a bit startled as I realized something was up my skirt. And there it was. The Samoan man sitting next to me, thought to take advantage of this young child travelling alone, and his hand made its way up my thigh to a place no strangers hand belongs.
I immediately awoke, gathered my self, and threw off the blanket. Without a word, I pushed the button for the Stewardess.
Still in the glory days of flying, the beautiful PanAm Stewardess (in this time reference, they were Stewardesses) came to me with that big helpful smile, and with one look at my face knew something was not right.
The perportrator looked at me with such evil, that I knew I was not to say a word.
So very far away from home, I lied and I told the Stewardess, that I did not feel well and was queasy. She took immediate action; so as to understand what might be wrong with me. I must have been white as a sheet. The idiot next to me looked at her as if he had no idea what was up, then looked back at me with pure evil.
The Stewardess was concerned, and offered to walk me up to the bulkhead, where she could keep a better eye on me, and maybe I would feel better. I gladly gathered my things and moved forward.
The crew had been with me since Los Angeles, and they were extremely protective of this unaccompanied minor travelling so far from home. I don’t know if she knew what occurred, as I somehow blocked that.
I do know that when the plane landed, I was first off, and was escorted to the people waiting for me.
What happened after that? I built a bullet proof wall of glass around me, so that no one would get through. I was to be the perfect girl that says yes, obeys, and stays out of the way.
I never complained once on that trip around the world. The most miserable time of my life, and yet I never complained.
In my minds eye as a child, I felt that it must have been my fault. Or … this is normal. It happens to everyone. I don’t know. I just knew it was my secret shame, and one I would share with no one.
This is the first time I have told this story in its entirety. As a mother, I can only wish I could scoop up that little child, and protect her, and tell her all would be well. Instead, I made it my mission to care for children, and keep them out of harms way. Away from corrupt adults who say and do terrible things to children.
As a parent, I never give blind faith to any organization. I feel for these young boys who had no way out. Just like private time with a Priest back in the day, as a kid, you have made it to the big leagues when you get to hang with such a prominent name at Penn State.
And that is where my feathers go up. If it seems too good to be true, it is. A child should never have time alone like this. These children showed signs. No one payed attention (or perhaps turned a blind eye), until finally it came to light. Those who know Sandusky personally don’t want to believe he may be a bad man.
How does a boy shower in a locker room with a grown man, go home, and no one knows? Sandusky admitted to touching and showering with boys, but said he was not a pedophile. Clearly the man is delusional and needs serious help. Either way, the story will continue to unfold, and in the wake will be damaged boys trying to make sense of their lives.
I got myself out, in both situations, but at what cost? I lost my childhood. The bruised soul remains. If an adult wants to spend an unusual amount of one on one time with your child, proceed with caution. There are signs. Listen to your gut, and most of all listen to your children.
In telling my story, I can honestly say… The truth has set me free.