The Register Citizen (Torrington, CT)
Reporting on this series brings back difficult memories for journalist.
As I stepped into the superior courthouse in Pasadena, Calif., on June 11, I felt a familiar anxiety.
I had travelled from Norwalk, Conn., to various courthouses in Southern California to gather civil and criminal court documents as part of Hearst Connecticut Media’s sixmonth investigation into child sex abuse at Boys & Girls Clubs of America affiliates. By chance, the project brought me back to the courthouse I never wanted to return to.
I was terrified and powerless the first time I went inside the daunting, winding maze of a building. I was 15 and experiencing what was likely my first panic attack. I was there to testify about the time I was sexually assaulted by an adult during a school activity.
Almost exactly 15 years later, I found myself in the same stale, windowless hallway I paced as I waited to be called by prosecutors. And all the trauma I had buried came pouring back into my memory.
The assault stripped away my ability to live without fear. The people around me made me feel like it was my fault. The entire experience permanently impacted my mental health, my outlook on life and my sense of self.
I recalled my school administration expressing a desire to sweep the incident under the rug to avoid policy changes. I was told not to talk about it.
Shortly after the assault, the school offered the girls a “selfdefense” class. They told us to be vigilant, saddling children with the responsibility of protecting themselves from predators.
People I confided in downplayed the impact of what I experienced. “Well, at least you weren’t raped,” one said. “At least it was quick. It could have been a lot worse.”
Adults I trusted asked me what I was wearing, or what I did or said that provoked the man that took so much from me so thoughtlessly.
Others — probably with good intentions — told me I had to testify if I didn’t want him to hurt anyone else, placing the responsibility of the actions of a man on the shoulders of a child he hurt.
The most insidious response came from the dozen or so people who witnessed the assault. They ignored it, shrugged it off and laughed.
As I reconnected with those painful memories in the courthouse I had come to fear, I found a new solace.
This time was different. I wasn’t powerless.
I was a 30yearold woman with a purpose: hunting for court records as part of an investigation that would shed light on the lasting impact of child sex abuse. I was there to report on the kind of institutional failings that rocked my life and the lives of many others. By shining a light, this work could bring change and awareness. And it might help the public better understand that the threat of abuse is a reality for many children.
As I sat on the same graffitied wooden bench where I rocked back and forth on as a child in a panic, I thought about what I would tell my 15yearold self if I saw her waiting in that hallway.
I would tell her that none of it was her fault. I would tell her what happened to her on the school outing will not be the last time she will be a victim of sexual violence. But I would assure her it will be OK — that she will learn to survive. And I would tell her that one day she will make a difference for other survivors.