We can’t seem to go a day without new allegations of sexual assault being leveled against celebrities or power brokers. Some of the victims were pre-teen and teenaged children at the time of the alleged offenses. And some of these victims are now celebrities in their own right some twenty to thirty years after the fact.
Everyone has an opinion. While some are quick to condemn the alleged perpetrator others waste little time questioning the motivation of their accusers.
I’m here to assure you there are no easy answers.
I knew from the time I was in Kindergarten that I was different. I didn’t have a name for it; I simply “knew.” Over time, I heard and learned the words that described people like me. Queer. Faggot. Poof. Gay. Sadly, growing up when I did, I also had to accept that being gay was “not normal.”
Of course I was wrong but you also have to imagine the torment I felt traversing the gauntlet of my teenage years believing, at a minimum, I wasn’t “like everyone else.” I didn’t want to face that society felt I didn’t meet even the minimal acceptable standard of “normal” at a time when my peers and I were all hoping for “exceptional.” It sucked.
It is said that testosterone levels multiply some 800 times as a boy hits puberty. It comes to many in the blink of an eye; it can prove chaotic. I doubt anyone understands all that comes at them; it is heady; it is confusing. And it can also prove frightening. At least it was for me.
I became even more frightened as I slowly realized some of the obstacles and challenges that not being “normal” were going to place in my way. I hadn’t asked for this; as far as I was concerned, I had always been “this way.” So, as it had certainly not been my choice, it definitely was my reality.
My solution at that time, unfortunately, was to run as far and fast as I could from that truth for better than ten years - at least so far as family and friends were concerned. It was an act of denial cloaked in a misguided attempt of self-preservation.
But running and hiding didn’t keep the truth from following me.
I was seventeen when I made the decision to pursue a career in medicine. That decision wasn’t exactly well conceived; I had enjoyed dissecting a cat in Mrs Whipple’s biology class and didn’t seem to have any problem memorizing the minutiae. I figured, “what the hell!”
Wanting a job over a summer, I managed to secure a position at a local hospital as a phlebotomist. I put on my first white coat that summer collecting blood; I loved the job so much that it cemented my determination to go into medicine.
I was walking down a stairwell one day followed by a 30 year old co-worker. This man had a fantastic personality and had effectively taken me under his wing. I thought he was fantastic; even though he was “old,” I’m pretty sure I had a crush on him - whatever that meant at the time.
As we came to the bottom of a stairwell that afternoon, he suddenly grabbed my shoulders from behind, spun me around, pushed me against a wall, and then kissed me full on the mouth.
I was 17. Even in the state of Texas, I had no technical right to consent to anything.
He was 30. There are no two ways around it. He was guilty of assaulting a minor.
But here is the rub, at least for me.
At 17, I did KNOW what he was doing. And, I sure as shit didn’t care. No, I hadn’t asked for it but once it happened I knew there was no turning back.
This was the moment I realized that “not normal” was the right place for me in this world even if I was years away from admitting to any of it.
Did he abuse me? I suppose, technically. Was I a victim of abuse? No. Give it any label you choose, but that experience in the stairwell opened my 17-year old eyes to the hope for a “normal” life I had never thought possible.
There are no easy answers.
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