Many of these writings were lost in their electronic version and were retyped from hard copy. I haven't had a chance to proofread and edit the entries the way I would like to. Please forgive formatting inconsistencies and gross errors and typos.
Pork chops. Thick, center-loin pork chops dipped in egg, coated in my breadcrumb-Parmesan mix with my secret blend of spices. The pork chops fry while the small red potatoes and carrots roast in the oven. With fresh salad and French bread, oozing with real butter and gobs of fresh garlic and parsley and Italian seasoning, it is a dinner to make us all fat and happy—except I am cooking this meal for lunch.
Amara and Mike always elect me Queen of the Kitchen. I love to cook, and we all love to eat.
“I need to go to the store. Will you stay here with the girls? I don’t want to wake them from their naps,” Amara asks as I carry dishes to the sink. She and I met at the beginning of the year when we were working for the legislature. Her boyfriend is in jail, and Mike is one of his best friends. When Amara and I aren’t at work, the three of us are inseparable. On this particular day, we are at Amara’s house. She and her boyfriend have two beautiful little girls; the older one is three, and other is still an infant.
“Girl, you know you don’t have to ask. Of course, I’ll stay with them. Besides, I want to finish cleaning the kitchen.” I say as I wrap leftovers. “What’d you think of those pork chops?”
“They were awesome—like always. I probably gained twelve pounds!” She says chuckling. “I’ll be back in a little bit. I just want to get some diapers and pay the phone bill. You sure you don’t mind staying?”
“I don’t mind at all. Go. Don’t worry.” I reassure her. “We’ll be fine.”
“Okay then, I’m gonna go. I’ll be back in a bit.” She says, picking up her keys. Mike decides he wants to go with her. As they walk out the door, I walk into the hall, peek into the girls’ room to make sure they are still asleep, and return to my post in front of the sink to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. The soapsuds tickle my skin while the warm water caresses my hands. An occasional cool breeze, uncommon for an early August afternoon, dances through the window, bringing a cleansing and invigorating life to the entire house.
Amara and Mike are only gone minutes when from the kitchen window I see a man about my age, whom I don’t recognize. He walks up to the front door, and without knocking, walks in. It flabbergasts me that he feels comfortable enough to enter a home he doesn’t live in. I turn as he enters the kitchen and casually asks me, “I’m looking for Amara and Mike. Are they here?”
Perturbed by his lack of manners and failure to introduce himself, my response is assertive and business-like, “No. They went to the store. They should be back in a while. I can tell them you stopped by. Who are you?”
“Oh, they know who I am. I’m a friend.”
“Well I don’t know who you are, and Amara isn’t here, so I think you need to leave. I’ll have her call you when she gets back.”
I’m not sure if he doesn’t hear me or if he’s ignoring me, because he continues to walk, across the floor, toward the hallway perpendicular to the kitchen. “I need to use the restroom.”
“No. You need to leave.” His presence in the house is unsettling. My heart pumps harder, faster. I am apprehensive about him going into the same hallway as the girls’ bedroom. As I come closer to him, his dirty smell overwhelms the freshness of the breeze meandering through the house.
“I just need to use the restroom and then I will leave.”
My irritation shifts to terror, as a sense of urgency overcomes me. My body becomes defensive, my stance uncompromising. I move to block his entrance to the hallway as I say in an overwrought voice that escalates to a shout, “No. You aren’t going in there. You need to leave now!”
“Damn! Quit trippin’! I am just going to the bathroom.” Not taking my rejection serious, he tries to push me to the side. Resisting each other’s efforts, he tries to get into the hallway, and I try to keep him out. Realizing that I am unable to overpower him, and that he does not intend to leave, I hurry to the sink. Surprised by my sudden abandonment of our struggle, he turns to see what I am doing. Before he can comprehend that my hand has found a large chef’s knife, with fierce determination, I drive it into his abdomen.Leave. Those. Babies. Alone. I won’t let you hurt them.
His skin provides some initial resistance, but it quickly yields to the force of the weapon. Once it penetrates the surface, it goes in effortlessly. It continues to go in. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Each pierce of the glistening blade becomes easier. The knife enters his body rapidly, as if he were a pincushion. In and out. In and out. My motions, automatic. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! My hand, a fist around the handle of the blade, pummels his chest…again and again and again, the same way I chop parsley and garlic—quickly, mechanically. I have no idea of how many times the knife pierces him, or how long it takes his body to wilt. Time means nothing to me; it is nonexistent. Although I am here, I have also left. Both present and absent.
My awareness returns as I look down on the punctured, shredded, and motionless body of a man I have never met, a man whose name I don’t know, but whose blood journeys across the kitchen linoleum. It forms branches and creates rivers and streams of deep, rich crimson from a larger lake whose floodgates have opened—like fingers reaching out for me, calling me to it, trying to grab me—chasing me. Come here...
I won’t touch him. I don’t need to. I already know he’s dead. I just killed him. Oh my god! He’s dead, and I killed him! Why…why…why? He didn’t give me any reason to hurt him. The pools and lines of blood rapidly grow in size, and come closer and closer to me, trying to capture me. What am I going to do? How am I going to explain this? I know he wasn’t going to go into the bathroom. He was going into the girl’s room to get them. The police won’t believe me. He didn’t even make it into the hallway, let alone their bedroom. Did he have any weapons on him? He wanted to hurt them. I couldn’t let him damage those precious babies! What am I going to do? My gaaaawd… what am I going to do?!”
I think of prison—my entire life—and as horrible as it feels, I feel triumphant. I protected the girls—protected them from him.
My eyes snap open. Sweat seeps from my skin as I lay trembling and unable to breathe. It feels like a huge cork has been wedged into the dryness of my throat. I want to cry, but I’m unable to release tears or sound. My chest aches as it works strenuously, feebly, to suck air into my cast-iron lungs. The harder I try to breathe, the more suffocated I feel. My heart is a fist—punching its way out of its confinement. Blankets that cover me are now binds holding me captive; I am a paralyzed prisoner. The whole episode was vividly real. The sound of the water running as I filled the sink to wash dishes. The feel of the warm water and soapsuds on my hands. The smell and feel of the breeze on my face and in my nose. And…the feel of the knife penetrating him, the satisfying feeling of penetration, the rich color of his blood, and his dirty smell—so authentic in fact, that after all my questioning, I’m still uncertain.
Was it really a nightmare? Is there any chance I might have killed someone? I replay the scene. Again and again and again. I realize that although I was at Amara’s house in the dream, in reality the house belonged to my uncle.
I begin to feel thankful for the awareness that I didn’t commit murder, but I’m still distressed by the fact that I could think such morbid, realistic thoughts. Do I, somewhere deep inside myself, have secret desires of killing? Am I really a psychopath? How could I so easily kill another person—even in a dream? I must to be crazy. What if I really killed someone? What if I open my door and there he is, lying dead and savagely destroyed outside of this room? I stay in the darkness of my room, confined to my bed. I know that no person of any level of sanity would dream such a horrible thing, and yet be so comfortable with slaughter the way I was, satisfied, as if it were perfectly natural, second nature—expected.
Part 3
Dreams of death and dying. Stabbing. Sword impaling. Impaling. Impaling. Impaling. In and out. In and out. In and out and…in. Mangled bloody body. Second-hand flesh. Cold, limp, lifeless form, hurting no more. Free. Free. Free...
Help me! Someone help me… pleeeeease! He’s going to hurt me! Please, someone… anyone! Screams try to escape me. My icy body trembles with terror. The harder I attempt to scream, the more silent I became. My mind hears the shrieks and cries, but my ears hear nothing. My mouth is sealed shut, unable to move. My throat is unable to create sound. Open your mouth! Work damnit! Scream! No one is going to hear you if you don’t make some noise. The rest of my body follows the lead of my mouth—rigid, cold, petrified. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to beg for help, but all I can do is sit—sit motionless and wait—wait for him—for him to come and get me. I stay, cemented to the big chair in the living room, heavy and immobilized by the weight of the concrete that has been poured into my body.
“The kitchen window is open too,” I tell Megan as she walks through the house shutting and locking widows.
“Well get your ass up and close it. Damn! Why do I have to close all of them? Your legs aren’t broken!” She says with a blend of humor and annoyance. Please don’t make me get up. Please. If I just sit here quiet, maybe he won’t know I’m here. Shhh…be quiet. Shhh…shhh…
Somehow, I manage to release myself from the hold of this invisible perpetrator. I make my way, zombie like, to the kitchen window, close it and lock it, and move away as quickly as I can—just to be safe. Megan, my roommate, and I were watching television, on this warm, sultry August evening, just before midnight, when the house unexpectedly filled with blackness. Logic reassures me that there is no reason to be alarmed. From our living room window, we see that the lights are out on the entire block.
“Someone must have hit a power pole,” Megan says, “but we should shut and lock the house just to be safe.” Although rationally I know it’s nothing more than a power outage, something inside me tells me he’s coming to get me—to hurt me. Boogey Man’s gonna get you… I don’t feel like he wants to kill me, and I didn’t know who he is. I only knew that this predator is a man who desires to hurt me somehow, someway.
“Well since we don’t have any electricity, I am going to bed.” Megan says matter-of-factly. Isn’t she afraid of him?
“No! I know! Let’s pretend we’re having a slumber party. You know, we can take flashlights and tell stories—just like we did when we were kids and we were supposed to be sleeping. Ah, come on! It’ll be fun!” Act normal. Act normal. Normal? I’m not afraid. I’m not. I’m…not....
“Are we going to tell ghost stories too?” Megan asks with tired cynicism.
He’s not a ghost—he’s the Boogey Man! “I guess we could, but what if we get ourselves too scared?” I force a chuckle that only I know is fake. “Besides, what if there’s some weirdo running around? Please, whatever you do, don’t let him get me. You know, there’s strength in numbers.” You have to convince her to stay with you, or he’s gonna get you. Boogey man gonna get you! “Just think, if we go to sleep some psycho ax-killer might come in and hack us into tiny, unidentifiable pieces just like in those horror movies.” I force myself to laugh and make it sound like a silly, far-fetched idea—a sales pitch to stay awake—especially since I rarely sleep before dawn, but I know the truth. “Anyway, you know there is no way I am going to be able to sleep this early, and with no light or electricity for me to read or watch TV, I’ll be harassing you to wake when I’m bored and can’t sleep.” Keep going. She’s almost convinced, but do not, under any circumstances tell her the secret. “Come on…It’ll be like when we were kids.” I can’t tell her what was really going on with me. She’ll certainly know that I’m crazy—that I’ve crossed the border into complete madness.
Megan and I grew up next door to each other, like family. We fight and curse each other, and yet we have an unbreakable loyalty to each other. I am the sister Megan never had, and she is the sister that I wish my sister could be.
“Okay, I will stay up for a while, and then I am going to bed.”
“It will be fun!” Still shaken and terrified, I am soothed by the knowledge that Megan will stay up with me. I know he won’t prey on me with someone else around. I’m safe as long as I’m not alone.
I have no idea how long the power remained out. I can’t recall what Megan and I talked about during the darkness, but I can remember I found security in the distraction and my fear passed by the time the electricity returned.
Megan and I said good night, and I went into my room and fell asleep.
Part Four
Greasy, jet-black, baby-oiled hair. Hamm’s beer, old and nauseating. Smell of stale cigars enveloping, choking. Buried alive beneath weight unbearable. No air to breathe. Small, coarse, curly black wires. Purple-headed, spitting snake, slithering, slithering—strike! Be still! Shhhh…be still. Fly away, fly away…little watcher from the sky.
Mere days separated my dream killing and my fear of falling prey to my unknown predator, but there had been countless other dreams and nightmares. Sometimes, terror would visit me in the middle of the day, sometimes in a public place, and always without warning. The demons that lived in my mind would seize me and hold me hostage. I would become stiff, and rendered powerless by a smell or a sensation, and once again I would be unable to breathe—numb—lifeless, my body torpid, with not a lone tear able to find an escape.
I had always felt my mental stability was anything but stable, and at times, even as a small child, I wondered if one day I would go completely crazy. It seemed that lunacy was finally making its appearance—at the young age of 24. I spent every day waiting, just as I had waited for him. Waiting for the day that I would truly go over the edge—to become one of “them”—the crazies who were damned to institutions, thewalking dead. I carefully presented myself to the world as every bit a person of sound mind. It would only complicate matters if people really knew what was going on in my head, my own prison, my very own hell—all mine. All mine…
Part Five
Prince of Death, take me from this hell. Prince of Death, liberate me from these demons so they can harm me no more. Rescue me. Rescue me. Rescue me…
I had one friend I could share my secret with. One friend who I could tell about the prison riots of my own mind. One friend who made me feel better. Made me forget the pain. Reassured me of my sanity. Al. Al and I spent countless nights together. Sometimes we hung out alone. Frequently we hung out with some of my friends, but he never, ever, told anyone my secrets. Shhh…it’s a secret. Our secret. You can’t tell anyone. Promise? He never mentioned the murder or madness. He never spoke of the pain or my predator. My secrets were safe with him—until one night, that night. We partied with friends after work from 7 o’clock in the evening until we decided to head home at 5:15 in the morning.
Driving home, I see the flashing illumination of red and blue. The siren shrieks. I pull over. The officers approach my vehicle. They see me; they don’t see Al. They only smell him.
“Ma’am, have you been drinking?”
“I had a couple.” I learned from my first time to never admit the exact amount.
“We need you to step out of the car please.”
On the side of the freeway, cars race by. Zoom…Zoom…Zoom..Zoom. Zoom. I can jump into the lane. If I time it right, they won’t be able to stop me. This will all end. I’ll make sure I do it right this time. I’ll defeat them! No more madness. Do it! Do it! Do it! Now! Jump, jump, jump … jump …….. jump ……… jump ……… ……..what are ‘ya…chicken?
“Ma’am, we would like you to stand on one foot, bend your other leg at the knee, put your arms out like this, and tilt your head back” says Officer Goode.
“Did you take her license?” Officer Mau asks. I recognize him. He’s one of them. I can see the evil behind his eyes. He’s a demon too, but he’s disguised. I know. I’ve seen demons before. I can smell you. He hurts people, but I won’t let him hurt me.
“Yes. She already gave me her license.”
“We’re taking her in, right?”
Officer Goode places the cuffs on me as gently as he can, and guides me to the center of the back seat in the patrol car. He gets in after me and sits to my right and begins questioning me. Officer Mau makes degrading, humiliating, comments to me from the driver seat. One, two, three. Three people in a police car. He doesn’t realize that I knew who he is. Even though I have never seen him before, I know him. He’s one of them.my time to strike, “Hey, Asshole,” my stare solidifies. My demons are geared up for battle. Through the rear-view mirror, Mau and I make eye contact. Our gazes lock. It’s
“You think you’re a tough guy, don’t you. I know you. I know who you are. I know your secret. You get off on little girls, don’t you. They make you feel soooo good, huh? They make you feel strong, don’t they? I bet they make you feel in control.” Suddenly he’s silent, refusing to look at me. His silence confirms what I know. “Do you like sticking your big man dick into little tiny girl holes? Does that make you feel good? Do you tell them that if they tell anyone, they’ll have to go to jail? What do you tell them? Do you have a daughter? Do you and she have a secret—just between the two of you? What’s the matter, tough guy? You sure are quiet now. Talk your shit now. Say something, fucker. Say something! Say something, dammit!!! What, you’re not such a tough guy? Are you scared? Did I just tell your big secret? Say something.” From the depths of my stomach I bellow, “Talk, bitch!” Mau doesn’t take his eyes off the road. As quickly as my roar came, my cool demeanor returns. I finish my interrogation with, “Or are you scared because I just hit the nail on the head?” My eyes remain locked on him, while my mouth forms a smirk of cocky victory.
Officer Goode, with his calm patience gently repeats, “I know you’re upset. Calm down. Just settle down. Settle down.”
I spend the night at the newly built main jail. Unlike my last visit, I have a private room, no prostitutes or dope fiends. There are no bars, only glass and concrete. I sit in my temporary dwelling—alone. I sporadically slam my head into the glass and the concrete walls. Maybe I am angry because I didn’t have “Mama,” the old street walker, to watch over me like she did last time. Maybe it is because I felt that Al had let me down. After all, it is just as much his fault. He promised me I would be okay. He told me he would take care of everything. He promised. He had penetrated me— at a level of 0.18, albeit his invasion was by my invitation.
My visit in the tank is a little longer than it was in the past. Maybe it is because I let Officer Mau know that I know who he is. Maybe it was because they know I am a lunatic. Am I? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know…
I am finally released on my own recognizance. When I walk out into the daylight, Amara is parked in front of the jail.
Lonely child with pinpricked and poked flesh…carved covering…sliced skin. Demons be gone! De-part! I will control the pain. Hear me! I will control the pain. I will…I will…I will…
Amara and I exchange few words while she drives me to my house. I’m exhausted, physically sick, and emotionally beaten.
As I walked in the door, Megan comes out of her bedroom, still in her pajamas, and asks, “How are you? Are you all right?”
“I wish I was dead. I’m probably going to lose my job over this.” The legislative session just ended, and I’m off work until the new session starts in January. I’ll deal with work then.
She looks at me. I can tell she’s hesitant to speak. “Um…you’re mom called last night…”
“Fuck her. I have nothing to say to that bitch.” My mother is the last thing I want to deal with. I tried to reach out to her a couple months ago, when everything was starting to spiral out of control. I called to ask her to meet me for coffee, but she was too busy with work. I still don’t know how she couldn’t hear the quivering and panic in my voice when I spoke. She remained light and giddy when she asked me what I wanted to talk about. She trivialized my feelings. She trivialized me. I didn’t want her to do anything she didn’t want to do. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal” I told her just before I hung up the phone. I haven’t talked to my mother since.
“She wants you to call her. She said she got your letter.” Yeah, the letter that I wrote the last day I spoke to her. Every bit of my fear, anger, madness and hatred came out in that letter. The penmanship looked as if someone with an 800-pound hand wrote it. My tears left warped spots on the paper, stinging salt signatures. That letter contained all the pain, rejection, and revulsion that she had given me for so many years, and I decided to return to its rightful owner.
“Why does she suddenly want to talk to me now? Did you tell her where I was last night?” Now she wants to talk to me? What about when I sent the letter—almost two months ago? What about before that when I tried to talk to her?
Megan responds with a nervous, “yes.” Her eyes try desperately to understand the bitter, angry, disheveled woman standing in front of her.
“Thanks for the message. I’m going to bed.” As I walk into my room, I lock the door. Dropping onto the bed as if my legs were kicked out from under me, I curl into a tight ball and pull the covers over my head. I don’t cry. I pray that I never wake up. I’m already dead. Long ago I died emotionally and spiritually. What remains is only the casing of a human.
Just as I began to drift to sleep, I hear them laughing. They know they’re defeating me. The demons are having a celebratory party.
Part Seven
It’s early in the evening when I wake up. I drag my damaged, cumbersome body into the kitchen, look for something to saturate Al’s residue—the reminders of our time together last night. Megan, bless her heart, tries to be sympathetic. She tries to talk to me, but I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m pissed that I’m still alive.
I sit at the table eating when I hear a knock at the door. Megan gets up from the big living room chair and answers the call. It’s my mother. As she walks in, Megan disappears into another room.
“I got your letter,” she says, towering over me as I sit at the kitchen table.
“Oh.” I continue to eat without looking at her.
“What the hell is going on?”
“What do you think?” I respond aggravated. That’s a stupid question. I already know she talked to Megan. “I fucking got arrested. I spent the night in jail, and I’m probably going to lose my job. That’s what’s going on. Fuck.” I won’t look at her. I don’t want her here.
“Look at me please.”
“No. Say what you have to say so you can leave.”
“I want to talk to you about your letter.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Just forget I ever sent it.”
“I’m not going to forget it. Will you talk to me?” My mother is different. I’ve never seen her like this, so calm.
“There’s nothing to talk about. I said all I had to say in that letter.”
“Let’s go have coffee.”
“I don’t want to. I’m going to finish eating, and then I’m going to go back to bed.”
“If I come back in a few hours, will you go have coffee with me?” Is this really my mother? She actually seems like she’s trying. My mother? She isn’t yelling at me. She isn’t screaming at me like she did all those times I did something she didn’t like.
She won’t leave until I either talk to her or agree to meet with her. I do what I need to so I can go back to the safety of my room. “Fine. I don’t care. Whatever.” I say without ever taking my eyes off my plate.
Part Eight
In the nearly vacant pancake diner, my mother sits on one side of the booth, I on the other. The lack of customers makes it feel like they closed the place just for us. We linger, awkward, silently debating what to order, both knowing that it is only a matter of time before we address the real reason for our meeting. Either it’s all gonna come out, or we’re gonna fight. Either way, I don’t care. I stare at the etched glass dividing the booths. I look at the hanging silk ferns. One, two, three. One, two, three. I turn so I can see them all. One, two, three…one, two. Three, six, nine, plus two equals eleven. Eleven hanging plants. I read the signs for special, limited-time-only pancakes. I stare at the empty tables. I look at everything except my mother. I notice the stark contrast of the dark night sky outside the window, and the bright lights inside. I look at the decanters of syrup: pecan, blueberry, boysenberry, and strawberry—the color of blood, thick and sticky. My fingers run over the shapes of the smooth glass containers, the sporadic rough edges on the plastic handles. One, two, three…plus one. Three plus one equals four. Four jars of syrup. Suddenly, without looking up, I said in a low, angry, confrontational tone, “You never comforted me. You never hugged me. You never made me feel safe.”
As she starts to speak, I raise my head to look at her. My eyes shoot darts into the centers of her eyes. “You wouldn’t let me. I tried, but you wouldn’t let anyone near you. You never let anyone touch you.” She looks scared, nervous. Is she hiding something, or is she afraid? Ear, eye, nostril. Nostril, eye, ear. Mouth. One, two, three. One, two, three. One. Three plus three plus one equals seven. Seven holes in a person’s head.
“Did you ever wonder why?” My voice becomes tense. I’m ready to brawl. “I’ll tell you why. Because someone hurt me. That’s why. Someone did things to me that he only should have done with his wife.” I begin to cry. All those tears that for so long were unable to escape have finally found their way out, and they begin to flee in hoards. And, I notice that my mother begins to weep.
“Who? Who hurt you?”
With no hesitation, I blurt out “Your father.” I’m now sobbing. My tears have finally found the voice that has been lost for so long.
My mother’s gaze shifts from me to somewhere unknown. Her head shakes faintly from side to side as she exhales a quick disgusted puff before her eyes return back to mine. “My god. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.” She begins to cry harder. “I thought you were safe. I really did. Her hands shake as they nervously squeeze her napkin into what looks like a piece of chewed gum. “My earliest memory of him doing it to me was when I was ten.” She looks down at her hands, then she looks back at me. “I thought that I got you out of that house in time.” Suddenly, we are allies. “I thought that by getting you out at three you would be safe.” For the first time, I notice that my mother had beautiful brown eyes that hold their own stories. We are both fighting the same demon. “It all makes sense now,” she says, as if she has just been blessed with an epiphany, “all the behaviors. At times I wondered, but when I tried to hint around about it, you avoided the subject.”
“I blocked a lot of it out.” I say. I find myself surprisingly more comfortable than I was only moments ago. “This summer it started to come back to me. His black hair was oily. He smelled of stale beer and cigars and cheap after shave. I remember the wiry, coarse, curly black hair on his belly, below his navel, and on his legs near his groin. He had scars on his abdomen.”
“Yes.” She looks like she wants to vomit. “Yes…he did...” She can see him too.
“I remember. I remember his body vividly.” We both sit silently, possessed by the memories that haunt us. I break the silence. “I always thought you hated me, that I was a burden, and I hated you for that. I hated that you ever had me. I wondered why you kept me, because I always felt that you didn’t want me.”
My mother looks shocked, but her face becomes confident as she looks into my eyes. “I love you. I have always loved you. I kept you because I wanted you. I tried to get you to let me in, but you were so guarded.” Her hand reaches across the table and rests on my hand. I remember. I remember seeing pictures of my mother and me when I was an infant and a small child. She was holding me and playing with me. She looked proud, so doting, so…happy.
We continue to talk, and I cry, for that little girl who is finally telling her secret. For the girl who has spent so many years alone in her private hell. I cry because I finally have the mother I never felt I had. All my hatred for my mother begins to fade.
I cry for my mother. She has been a pincushion too. Only I learn that he was more violent with her. He raped her until she was eighteen, when she left the house. I learn that in an effort to escape him, she moved away from her parents’ home immediately after high school graduation. She was on her own only a few months when the man she was dating raped her. My father. He is my father—not my dad—my biological father. I have never known him. My mother never knew him either. She found out that everything he presented to her was a façade—his name, address—everything. Finding herself with child and with no means to feed another mouth, she moved back to the only place she could, her parents’ house. We lived there until I was three.
My mother cries with me. We cry because the pain is no longer alone. It has found a way out. We finally understand each other.
“Have you told your grandmother?”
“No. I’ve only told you. I can’t tell her. It’ll kill her. He was her husband. What woman wants to hear that about her husband? Especially when he has been dead for fourteen years.”
“I think she would want to know. I also think that it will make her understand what you’ve been through and why you’ve done the things you have. She loves you very much.”
It’s true that my grandmother loves me. Of her nine grandchildren, I am her favorite. She has been my maternal figure all the years that I have felt no maternal bond with my own mother. She is always there for me. She always let me know that no matter what I do, she loves me. “Would you feel better if I told her? If you want me to, I will.” As painful as the conversation is, it’s also cleansing. My scabs are slowly being picked away allowing the puss to ooze out. Although removing the scabs is painful, the pressure is diminishing with the release of the poison. The pain is dissipating. I am receiving what I have longed for all those years—a mother—my mother—who is nurturing me and caring for me, her scared and hurt baby girl.
Part Nine
Come here little girl. I won’t let him hurt you anymore. I’ll protect you. I love you.
The following day, my mother comes to my house again. Unlike the last time she visited, I am happy to see her. She came to check on me and to just be with me. She also tells me that she called my grandmother.
“What did she say? How did she handle it?”
“She cried. She’s angry at him. She said she’ll never take flowers to his grave again. She also thinks you don’t want to ever talk to her again.”
“Why?”
“Because she was married to him. She blames herself. She thinks she should have known. You really should call her when you get the chance.”
I love you, Mommy.
My mother and I spend the rest of the afternoon together talking and watching television. While I nap, she stays near me. I feel better having her there. I feel safe. Protected. I felt more at peace than I have ever felt in my life.
Part Ten
The Boogey man isn’t real. Besides, if you see him, just tell your mom. He’ll say he’s gonna hurt you if you tell, but really, if you tell, it takes all his power away.
After my mother leaves, I call my grandmother. I am emotionally drained and physically exhausted, more than I ever felt before, but it is a good feeling. I feel that I just engaged in an extensive battle, but that I had walked away victorious. I realize that demons live where snails live—in the dark, in the cold, and in the dirty. They are secretive, and they feed off flowers in bloom. And like snails, you rarely see one’s demons; you only see the trails of devastation they cause.
“Hi, Nana.”
I can tell she’s trying not to cry. “Hi, sweetie.”
“I know my mom talked to you and told you everything. How are you?”
Don’t worry about me. How are you? I hear her fear, her sympathy, and her anger.
“I’m great.”
“How can you be great? She sounds irritated, as if she doesn’t believe what I am saying.
“I’m great because of this. This is good news.”
“How the hell can it be good news? That son of a bitch hurt you. He hurt an innocent child.”
“Exactly. That is the good part. All these years, all my life, I felt crazy. Insane. I thought my madness would kill me, and I wanted to die. Now, I realize that I wasn’t crazy, but rather I was reacting to something someone did to me when I was too small to fight, to afraid to tell. I thought I had a terminal diagnosis. Now I know I don’t. It’s the difference between a malignant tumor and a benign tumor. My tumor is benign. It’s going to take a lot of work to remove it, and there will probably be some scarring, but I can still lead a normal, healthy life.”
“I guess I never looked at it that way, but okay. I’m still pissed at him, and I swear I will never take flowers to his grave again. That bastard!” She cannot conceal the disgust she is feeling. She has no concern for proper language when she is upset. Not only did he betray her, but he hurt me. She asked me, “What are you doing tomorrow?
“Nothing really. Why?”
“I’m going to make pork chops for dinner. Why don’t you come over tomorrow and we’ll have dinner.” I can tell that as much as I need to know she believes me and still loves me, she needs to know I don’t blame her and that I still love her.
Eating isn’t particularly interesting to me at this point, but I know it’s important for her to see me. “Nana, you know I can’t resist your pork chops. What time do you want me to come over?”
“How about five or six?”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
“Do you need anything?” She asks affectionately. “Are you going to be okay? Do you need me to bring you something, or do you want me to come over?” She asks.
“Thank you, Nana, but I just want to go to bed. All of this has exhausted me. I’m drained, and I want to go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
“Good night, Nana.”
Later, as I lay awake, drifting off to sleep, I think about everything that is going on. I am throwing away all the pins as I removed them from my cushion. I am also letting the stuffing out so that it no longer holds pins. Yet, I realize you never really get rid of pins. Sometimes they aren’t visible to the naked eye, and you don’t know they are there until you or someone you know is pricked, but they always find a pincushion somewhere to poke themselves into.
Part Eleven
Demons, be gone! You are ordered to leave. You will not haunt this child any longer!
The next day, I go to my grandmother’s house for dinner. As always her pork chops are delectable. After dinner, we watch television. Neither of us mentions her husband. We don’t need to. If I need to talk about it, she will listen, but I also know that with this new knowledge, she is experiencing her own emotional turmoil toward him. We find peace simply being with each other.
As it grows later in the night, I tell my grandmother that I am going to go home. I am tired. We say good-bye, and I walk to my car. I stop, hardly conscious I have done so. I survey the dark and deserted street. I smell an all too familiar odor. Someone is smoking a cigar.
I stand motionless for an instant, before I draw the cool, moist night air into my lungs.
I thought of you today. I walked outside my door, and as I stood in my front yard, I felt the warmth of the sun kissing my skin. Immediately I thought it would be a perfect day to peacefully lounge in beautiful surroundings and escape to a place otherworldly. That’s when I thought of you.
You and I have a dynamic connection that has grown and cultivated slowly and grows ever steady like the mighty oak.
With you, I feel a spiritual connection: the need and desire to help others, to try to achieve a sense of purity in life and who I am, but also an acknowledgment of a darker side—a side that is nefarious and pushes the limits of our priggish society. Few people can simultaneously draw those conflicting sides out of me, and yet make me feel the delicious temptation of the unification of such opposites. You see the most surreptitious side of me—that side society deems uncivilized. I thank you. Although this contradiction has always existed in me, being dictated by societal norms, I have suppressed it. However, you have allowed me to feel free and enlightened. You have taken from me everything I have hidden behind, leaving me completely naked, and as a result, I have been forced to look at myself. How can one know purity without knowing perversion? True ecstasy is the recognition of the two forces and the joining of the two into a rhythmic and harmonious existence.
This exquisite connection that we share has been my muse. I have found the embers of my passions, my sensuality, and my creativity rekindled. What we share is pristine. Not because it is entirely good, but because it acknowledges the dark as well as the light, and that identification alone indicates honesty, and honesty is always pure. Every day I am near you our my thoughts shift to you, I am revisited by the muses, and nothing could be more beautiful.
This understanding of each other is itself spiritual. Though we each maintain a certain mystery about each of us, we have a sacred connection that is empathetic, yet still seeking exploration.
I am both blessed and enchanted by this relationship we share.
In the case of Commonwealth v. Berkowitz, 537 Pa. 143, 641 A.2d 1161 (1994), a female college student entered Robert Berkowitz's dorm room attempting to locate the defendant’s roommate. The defendant encouraged the victim to stay in the room and began to fondle her and attempted to have the victim orally copulate him. He then removed her clothes and vaginally penetrated her. During the time, the victim continuously said, “no,” to the defendant, but she made no attempt to flee and made no attempts to physically protect herself.
Berkowitz was charged with Rape, a Felony 1 offense, and the conviction was reversed. Rape is defined as:
§ 3121. Rape
(a) Offense defined.--A person commits a felony of the first degree when he or she
engages in sexual intercourse with a complainant:
1. By forcible compulsion.
2. By threat of forcible compulsion that would prevent resistance by a person of
reasonable resolution.
* * * (Pennsylvania Statutes, Title 18)
Included in the Pennsylvania sex offenses are the offenses of Aggravated Indecent Assault, a Felony 2. and Sexual Assault, also a Felony 2. Aggravated Indecent Assault is defined as:
§ 3125. Aggravated indecent assault
Except as provided in sections 3121 (relating to rape)… a person who engages in
penetration, however slight, of the genitals or anus of a complainant with a part of the
person's body for any purpose other than good faith medical, hygienic or law enforcement
procedures commits aggravated indecent assault, a felony of the second degree, if:
1. the person does so without the complainant's consent;… .
* * * (Pennsylvania Statues, Title 18)
Sexual Assault is defined as:
§ 3124.1. Sexual assault
Except as provided in section 3121 (relating to rape) or 3123 (relating to involuntary
deviate sexual intercourse), a person commits a felony of the second degree when that
person engages in sexual intercourse or deviate sexual intercourse with a complainant
without the complainant's consent. (Pennsylvania Statutes, Title 18)
Because “forcible compulsion” was not present in this case, Berkowitz should have been charged with Aggravated Indecent Assault and Sexual Assault. This would have provided the prosecution with the chance for a felony conviction, but rather than a Felony 1 conviction, it would have been a Felony 2 conviction.
The Berkowitz case falls into the area of sex crimes, which, as shown above, can be either a misdemeanor or felony, depending on the facts of the case and the charges against the defendant. Typically jurisdiction of sex crimes falls on the state, and definition and penalties are outlined at the state level. Pennsylvania law has a “forcible compulsion” requirement in order to meet the criteria for rape as opposed to other sex crimes that may still involve penetration of the victim.
Berkowitz could not be re-tried in an attempt to convict him of Aggravated Indecent Assault or Indecent Assault, to do so would be allow Berkowitz to use Res Judicata and Collateral Estopple as a defense.
On an emotional level, it is easy to say, “No means no.” However, we must look at the Berkowitz case objectively. Based on the facts, Berkowitz should not have been charged with Rape, but rather Aggravated Indecent Assault, or at a minimum, Berkowitz could have been charged with Indecent Assault. Had the victim even as much as scratched Berkowitz, there may have been a slightly higher chance of a rape conviction. Emotionality of a crime obviously will lie with the victim, his/her family and often the community as well; however, if we are to maintain a fair a just society, we must look at a crime objectively. We cannot force a square peg into a round hole, and if we chip at the hole to make it fit, we are chipping away at the very things that makes this country what it is and affords us the freedoms that we have.
References
Commonwealth v. Fischer. No. 133, Philadelphia, 1998. Retrieved July 28, 2002, from the World Wide Web: http://dpg-law.com/opinions/pa-super/9812/6273-fischer.html.
Pennsylvania Consolidated Statutes, Crimes and Offenses, Title 18. Retrieved July 28, 2002, from the World Wide Web: http://www.students.haverford.edu/masar/documents/PARapeLaws.pdf
Juvenile sex offenses have increased in the last decade. In earlier history, children were treated as “mini adults.” It wasn’t until the 1900s that juvenile courts even came into existence, and as late as the 1950s it was recognized that childhood was a “long and powerless phase in the cycle of life” (Empey, Stafford, and Hay, 1999).
Berlinger (1998) states, “The social policy response to adolescents who commit sexual offenses has undergone dramatic change since the early 1980s. Prior to this time, acts of child molestation or rape by teenagers were often dismissed or trivialized. These youth were seldom prosecuted, and treatment programs were rare” (p. 1). Juveniles who committed sex crimes were not required to accept any accountability for their actions (Ryan, et. al, 1996). Unfortunately, it has only been during the last couple of decades that research has been devoted to Juvenile sex offenders (JSOs); therefore, research regarding recidivism rates and many other aspects of juvenile sex offenses do not have the long-term studies behind them that many of the studies of adult sex offenders have.
JSOs do not necessarily develop into adult sex offenders or serial offenders, but most adults who sexually abuse children begin offending in adolescence (Glazer, 1996; Ryan, et. al, 1996; Zolondel, et. al, 2001).
Little research previously existed on JSOs, because the concept of juvenile sex offenders as a classification of offender separate and different from adult sex offenders is new. Only been in the last decade or so has research been devoted to the area. Some of the research is contradictory, and because research is relatively new, little long-term research on recidivism rates, effectiveness of treatment, and rehabilitation exists; therefore, additional research should be devoted to this area of study.
Who Are Juvenile Sex Offenders?
The research surrounding JSOs is relatively small in comparison to research in other areas. Brown and Kolko (1998) state, “there is no universally accepted terminology to describe these children” (p. 8). Brown and Kolko (1998) further state,“…JSAs [Juvenile sexual abusers] are a complex group, experiencing a variety of psychiatric and behavior difficulties. . . .We also have limited empirical understanding of the role of the entire system (i.e., lawyers, judges, probation officers, service providers, teachers, families) in the treatment of JSAs” (p. 1-2).
It is estimated that juveniles are responsible for “15 to 20 percent of all rapes and 30 to 60 percent of child sexual assault cases committed in the United States” (Hunter, 2000, 1). There are many variables when discussing Juvenile Sex Offenders (JSOs). Child maltreatment, social development, sexual knowledge, academic and cognitive development and mental health all factor into the behaviors of a JSO (Righthand and Welch, 2001). Researchers found that of JSOs studied, only “one-third of the juveniles perceived sex as a way to demonstrate love or caring for another person” whereas 25 percent felt sex was a means to “feel power and control,” 9 percent believed sex was an avenue to dispel anger, and 8 percent felt that sex was to “hurt, degrade, or punish” a person (Righthand and Welch, 2001, p. xii).
Juvenile Sex Offenders are typed and classified into the following categories: “naïve experimenters, undersocialized child exploiters, sexual aggressives, sexual compulsives, disturbed impulsives, group influenced, and pseudosocialized” (Righthand and Welch, 2001, p. xiii). Adult serial sex offenders are also typed and classified, as will be discussed later.
Righthand and Welch (2001) state that females have committed more juvenile sex offenses than males, and that there were little differences in the aggressiveness of the offenses between female and male offenders.
Psychology and Characteristics of Sex Offenders
Some researchers have found many similarities between juvenile and adult sex offenders (Berlinger, 1998). Berlinger (1998) states, “They many engage in serious sexual crimes, have multiple victims, exhibit deviant sexual preferences, have comparable cognitive distortions, and lack victim empathy” (p. 1).
It seems that JSOs use coercion more than violence in the commission of their crimes. They appear to only use as much aggression or violence as is necessary to carry out the crime (Zolondel, et. al, 2001), and like adult sex offenders, 33 percent of JSOs blame their victims, and 48 percent stated that when molesting a much younger child (five or more years younger), the younger child either initiated the activity or it was mutual.
Zolondel, et. al, (2001) state that JSOs engage more in fetishisms, obscene phone calls, child molestation and phone sex, whereas adult sex offenders have a higher rate of involvement in zoophilia, exhibitionism, voyeurism, sadism, and use of pornography. Transsexualism and transvestitism were equal for both JSOs and adult sex offenders.
Recidivism Rates Of Sex Offenders
In one study conducted, 37 percent of JSOs committed sexual offenses as adults (Righthand and Welch, 2001). Other research has found that subsequent to a JSOs offenses becoming “public,” recidivism rates are low (Righthand and Welch, 2001), and Zolondel, et. al (2001) state that in the event a JSO commits further offenses following treatment, they will more likely commit non-sexual offenses. Comparing numerous studies of JSOs, it was found that relatively few JSOs were arrested for sex offenses as adults (Righthand and Welch, 2001).
Brown and Kolko (1998) state that first-time, adjudicated JSOs admitted that they had committed anywhere from two to five sexual offenses before being caught, and goes on further, “…an adolescent abuser who continues a paraphiliac pattern into adulthood may perform 380 sexually abusive acts during his lifetime” (p. 2).
Righthand and Welch (2001) mention that some factors can increase recidivism rates for JSOs. “…[A]dolescent sex offenders were probably more likely to reoffend if one or more of the following factors were present: initial offending was pleasurable, consequences for the offense were minimal, the deviant sexual behavior was reinforced through masturbation or fantasy, and/or the offender had social skills deficits” (Righthand and Welch, 2001, p. 32).
Brown and Kolko (1998) state, “…the younger the offender is, the greater the likelihood is of criminal reoffense. In addition, male JSAs who had committed at least one recent sexual offense against boys were somewhat more likely to reoffend than were those who had victimized only girls” (p. 7).
Hunter (2000) states, “fewer than 10 percent of either group of juvenile sexual offenders were under the influence of alcohol or other drugs at the time of the offense” (p. 2) when sexual homicides were committed. Hunter (2000) further indicates that of juvenile sexual killers studied, 28.6 percent of offenders “intentionally tortured their victims,” 42.9 took items from the victim’s house, 14.3 percent involved penis/anal rape, penis/vaginal rape occurred in 42.9 percent of the cases, in 28.6 percent of the offenses, penetration with a foreign object occurred, and a staggering 42.9 of the cases involved post-mortem rape (p. 2). These activities appear very similar to many of the activities of serial adult offenders, with profilers noting many of these same activities when creating a profile.
Treatment and Rehabilitation methods
Researchers have found that parents are losing control of their children, and as they do, the public becomes more in favor of trying violent juvenile offenders as adults. Hunter and Lexier (1998) state, “public disenchantment with the seemingly intractable problem of juvenile violence has led to a “’more punitive, just-desserts juvenile justice model’”(p. 2).
Juvenile sex offenses are increasing. In 1986 there were less than 350 treatment programs for juvenile sex offenders. By 1992, the number had more than doubled to 750 (Hunter and Lexier, 1998). Over the last decade, laws and regulations surrounding the juvenile justice system have dramatically changed. Many states now try juveniles as adults. Hunter and Lexier (1998) state that “[t]he number of delinquency cases waived to the adult criminal courts increased by 71% between 1985 and 1994” (p. 1). Almost half of the states have no minimum age requirements for trying juvenile offenses in adult courts, and some states will permit juveniles to serve sentences in adult facilities. In addition, many states now require juvenile sex offenders to register just the same as adult sex offenders (Hunter and Lexier, 1998).
The Ethan Allen School has a group therapy approach to the rehabilitation of juvenile sex offenders. The offenders work closely with counselors and have writing-intensive assignments. Other segments of the program include “survivors’ group, fathers’ group, “’errors in thinking’” group, men’s work, and video group (Millard and Hagan, (1996).
The Ethan Allen School was developed in 1984, and between 1984 and 1996, participants in the program have been monitored and tracked. The program boasts approximately 20 “graduates” each year. Of graduates of the program, recidivism rates for new sexual offenses are under 10 percent (Millard and Hagan, 1996).
Brown and Kolko, (1998) cite the study of a single subject, an 11-year old male sexual abuser with a “history” of sexual offenses. Treatment was “[b]ased on a functional analysis of problematic social behaviors, [and] social-cognitive skills… (p. 2).” The treatment program had target behaviors in which the offender received treatment, including “use of each skill, modeling, role-playing, feedback, coaching, and didactic discussion” (p. 2). The subject displayed improvements in the areas targeted, as witnessed by staff and peers. It is further cited that the subject’s foster mother, “reported he had not participated in any deviant sexual behaviors.” Brown and Kolko, (1998) further cite the “success” of this single case as raising the question of whether treatment needs to be “sexual abuser specific.”
Here is a question. If adult serial sexual offenders admit to engaging in deviant thoughts and behaviors during adolescence, and this 11-year old child had a “history” of sexual offenses, has he really been effectively treated? The literature states that at a one-year follow-up, his foster mother stated that he had not engaged in deviant behavior. If this child is in the early development of becoming a serial or predatory sexual offender, wouldn’t he have a desire to continue his activities for gratification, and would he willingly confess to his foster mother that he was continuing to offend? This is not to say that the child will develop into an adult serial or predatory sex offender, but due to the lack of research into juvenile sex offenders, and the lack of long-term studies surrounding JSOs, can we dismiss the idea of “sexual abuser specific” treatment, especially when so little long-term research has been done into the adult activities of JSOs.
Conclusion
Much of the research about juvenile sex offenders is relatively new, and often times redundant. It is to be applauded that attention is being given to this growing class of offenders; however, because research into this area is fairly new, long-term studies are not provided. Other areas that should be studied are the types of juvenile sex offenders, any possible parallels between juvenile and adult sex offenders, the various treatment methods and the success or failure of those methods, and long-term recidivism rates for subsequent sex offenses.
Much of the current literature states that juvenile sex offenders are not as likely to commit future sex offenses once they have been brought into “view;” however, due to the lack of long-term studies, can we adequately make that statement? This is especially concerning when the literature states that many juvenile sex offenders, like adult sex offenders, have multiple victims prior to being caught. The more times a person does something, whether it is drugs, traveling a path, cooking a meal, or working on a car, the more proficient they become at it, and the more ingrained it becomes. There is not enough research into long-term recidivism rates of juvenile sex offenders.
The Massachusetts Treatment Center for Sexually Dangerous Persons (MTC) (adult offenders) conducted a 25-year study on recidivism rates of 251 sex offenders. Recidivism rates for these offenders peaked at the 5-10-year mark, but even at 15-25 years following release, recidivism rates for the MTC offenders were higher than the recidivism rates for these same offenders during the first five years following release (National Institute of Justice, 1997). Perhaps if we had an equivalent study with juvenile sex offenders, the data would be different.
Sex offenders, like other criminals are not usually going to confess to additional sex offenses, and it is secrecy that breeds sex crimes like child molestation. A sex offender is even less likely to admit deviant sexual thoughts or behaviors if he/she has previously been convicted for a sex offense.
The current research into the study of juvenile sex offenders is a positive thing; however, because children are not adults and usually don’t have the same mental or reasoning capacities as adults, it would be unfair to treat them as adults, especially those children that are far from the legal age. Nevertheless, they need to be monitored and tracked to 1) adequately develop methods of treatment and rehabilitation, 2) monitor recidivism rates, even as late as 25+ years following release, and 3) to see if there are any parallels between child and adult sex offenses, especially offenses like rape or sexual killings. After all, it is the serial crimes that are the most difficult for investigators to solve, and it would seem that if we really researched the childhood and adolescent years of serial offenders, there would probably be early indicators leading to the serial behaviors.
References
Berlinger, L. (1998). Juvenile Sex Offenders: Should They Be Treated Differently? Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 13:5, 645-646.
Brown, E. and Kolko, D. (1998). Treatment Efficacy and Program Evaluation With Juvenile Sexual Abusers: A Critique With Directions For Service Delivery and Research. Child Maltreatment, 3:4, 362(12).
Empey, L., Stafford, M. and Hay, C. (1999). American Delinquency: Its Meaning and Construction. (4th Ed.). New York: Wadsworth.
Hunter, J. (2000). Juvenile Sexual Homicide. FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin, 69:3, 1(7).
Hunter, J. Jr., and Lexier, L. (1998). Ethical and Legal Issues in the Assessment and Treatment of Juvenile Sex Offenders. Child Maltreatment. 3:4 339(10)
Millard, D. and Hagan, M. (1996). Ethan Allen School Rehabilitates Juvenile Sex Offenders. Corrections Today. 58:5 92(4)1
National Institute of Justice. (1997). Child Sexual Molestation: Research Issues. Retrieved May 28, 2002, from the World Wide Web: http://www.ncjrs.org/txtfiles/163390.txt.
Righthand, S. and Welch, C. (2001). Juveniles Who Have Sexually Offended: A Review of the Literature: OJJDP Report. Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention.
Ryan, G., et. al. (1996). Trends in a National Trend of Sexually Abusive Youths. Journal of the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, 35:1, 17(9).
Zolondel, S., et. al. (2001). The Self-Reported Behaviors of Juvenile Sexual Offenders. Journal of Interpersonal Violence. 16:1 73-85.