They say when a person speaks out about abuse it can free others to speak.
I don't want to say #metoo, I mean, being a 6-year-old boy I can't be objective as to what actually happened all those years ago, nor can I righteously judge the severity that "me too" demands as far as I'm concerned. Is there anything that can mitigate the actions of the boy only 3-4 years older than me? But if speaking out can help someone, anyone, well I have to be me, I have to be fiercely honest.
Around the year 1966, my family lived in Evansville, Indiana. Down from the house we lived in on First Avenue, there was Wolfs BBQ where the school I attended, Highland Elementary was across the street. We lived next door to my grandparents where you'll now find Ziemer Funeral Home. They used to own that land along with the very modest two-bedroom house that set on it. I was a happy camper during that time. On my way to school every morning I'd run down to my grandparent's house to meet up with my aunt Kay and uncle Jay to walk to school. Somehow, my grandmother always had 3¢ to give me for extra milk, that and a kiss, but what kid doesn't love extra milk at school right!
But that neighbor kid from the house on the opposite side of our house desired physical contact. Behind our house was an overgrowth of shrubs and bushes. In that area, he'd be, beckoning me and 2-4 other boys my age to meet with him. We always did. He'd request us to do things to him and to let him do things to us. I vaguely recall none of it meant anything to me, except for the shame that was introduced. Telling would have consequences. I thought none of us wanted the consequences, shame can be a powerful motivator for a boy. Then someone's feelings were twisted and he became angry, he wanted to cause trouble and he did. My mother would hear about what happened.
Had my mother confronted the next-door neighbor's parents by herself, maybe things could have turned out different. It started out that way until she called me forward to face them, soldiers, no matter how tiny, do what they're told. It turned into a thing where my mom wanted me to tell the boy's parents with certain clarity what had happened to me, while at the same time the boy's parents were looking directly at me and earnestly telling me, "That didn't really happen. Right?" The shame became the darkest, ugliest beast I'd ever faced in my young life. I timidly told them "No". My mother became angry, "Son, tell them it did happen to you", and I dutifully but tearfully told them it did. Then his parents repeated back to me "It didn't really happen, did it." Sometimes soldiers aren't equipped to fight beast's so dark, so I retreated, running into my house so I could jump into bed to cry like a boy of 6 can cry.
Not long after that, my mother came into my room and I could tell that she was furious. She asked me in her loud angry voice why I had made her look like an idiot and why I didn't tell the truth. I told her I was scared, but I didn't know how to tell her she was making me feel like I was being bad. Beyond that, I don't remember much, I do know I was traumatized and emotionally scarred. Still and somehow, this toy soldier soldiered on. The experience proved to me how shame around sex was warranted. That shame, in various and sundry forms stays with me to this day.
This is where I can say life isn't always simple or simply understood. If this conjures up any thoughts or memories in anyone, I understand and I know life can be hard. If you need to talk, please talk. If you need to say something, please say something. If you want, my # is 812-463-2148.
My shoulder is your shoulder. Sometimes, silence isn't a good thing and beauty can always be found in sunlight, trust me.
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