When I was around 6 years old, I was molested by a man who lived in my sisters husband’s home.
I went to their house after school because my mother worked in a nursing home from 3pm-11pm and she did not want me to be home alone.
My sister worked at Cleveland Clinic Hospital and she got home at 5:30. My mother thought my being at Cynthia’s house for two hours, (I got out of school at 3ish) was better than the alternative.
Besides, Doc was there. The friend of her husband who was in between jobs and helping him with the chores and maintenance of the house would keep an eye on me.
My mother was wrong.
Doc not only had his eyes on me, but his hands. He was a sick and twisted little man and I was not equipped or prepared to defend my 30 or 40 pound self against his attacks. I should not have had to be, but this is the land of The REAL not the SHOULD BE.
This was 1978ish. There were no cellphones and 911 was a joke. There I was. A beautiful little brown girl who had to figure it out.
I eventually figured it out by writing 3 letters documenting his transgressions and crimes against me. I left one in my desk at school, I put one in my sister’s dresser drawer and I had the other in my pocket.
I was ready to defend myself after months of abuse and I was going to do it with pen, paper and my voice.
When Doc approached me after school that day and told me to pull down my pants I said “no!”.
He laughed and said “you will”. I pulled out that letter and began reading it out loud.
His face became ghostly white. Eyes filling with tears.
I informed him that a copy was at school in my desk and another was hidden in my sisters bedroom and if he did not stop touching me everyone was going to find out and my father was going to kill him!
He mumbled that he was sorry and something about not wanting to die. I had grown 6 feet and was 350 pounds. I was a heavyweight . He was a humiliated mess.
I was no longer a scared little girl.
My voice. My pen. My paper. Duly noted.
Doc promised through tears not to ever touch me again. He became powerless as I waved that letter in the air and screamed “you will not touch me again!” with all the BGM one can imagine in 2021.
After I watched him sob and snot, I went to my sisters room and retrieved the other handwritten copy and tore them up in his face. He scrambled to pick up the pieces of paper.
I reminded him that there was a copy at school and he said again “I won’t bother or touch you again. I promise, I promise”. And he didn’t.
I was so pleased with myself. I never told my mother or anyone in my family. I knew Mommy had to work. She thought I was safe. I was not going to burden her with guilt.
My sister was at work. She thought her baby sister was safe. I do not know where her husband was. He was back and forth, in an out of Africa. Importing, exporting, something.
My daddy would have had a one way ticket to the penitentiary. I wasn’t saying a word. I was protecting everyone, including Doc. He didn’t want to die, yet no one was protecting me.
It was a moment that defined me. But a moment I have protected my daughter from and one I vowed she would never have. In 13 years, I have never and I mean never taken my eyes off of her, she does not spend time alone with anyone and no one spends the night at my house.
Now, that she is getting older, I want her to be able to have appropriate outings with her friends and enjoy some independence so I enrolled her in martial arts and because she enjoys going to the gun range with me, I have designed for her a custom 38. I will pull the manufacturing trigger right in time to gift it to her for her 16th birthday. I will be right there for her first and future gun safety classes. I will be right there as she advances through her belts. Her coaches said she will be one of the youngest in the history of their coaching to get a black belt. She is on track to complete her training in 8 years instead of the typical 10.
Snap a neck or pull the trigger. I pray neither but I am the chic who prays and prepares.
This is the first time I am sharing this publicly although I have shared it privately. My children have no knowledge of this chapter of my life and don’t read my blog unless I text them a READ THIS note and the link.
Guess what I wont be doing?
Texting either of them this link. Lol. My trauma is not for them to carry.
I am sharing this here and now because I want Mommies to not only guard their girls, love their girls, protect their girls but equip their girls!
We know the battles. The fights and the wars they may be presented with. We know. So let’s do everything we can to ensure they are equipped and empowered. No father, brother, uncle, cousin, family friend, neighbor or citizen is coming to the rescue if they find themselves alone with a maniac. Too often, one of those dudes is the maniac!
The Docs of the world are still among us and its our responsibility to prepare our girls for them. By whatever means necessary.