something special. It’s the opposite: a letter saying, “You’re bad. You’re garbage.” It’s an invitation to see, item by item, exactly why there’s no hope for me.
I smooth it out on Delpopolo’s desk and wait. He hands me a thick black marker. I take it, my heart pounding. I’m sweating all over.
“Now go ahead and cross out all the things on your list that other people did to you.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Is being raped listed on your paper?”
“Yes.” I look down at my shoes involuntarily. I tell myself to pick my head up, that I have nothing to be ashamed of. But I am ashamed, and the shame burns its way through me. It’s such an automatic response and I hate myself for it. And I despise Mr. D for making me feel that way. Fat fuck! Bastard! Cocksucker! But I don’t say any of these things out loud.
“Well, you can start by crossing that one off.”
“But …”
“But what?”
“Never mind. You don’t understand.” Shame continues to burn through me. Remembering. Hating. I want to hate Mr. D, even though he has nothing to do with what I’m feeling.
“Maybe I don’t, but that’s no reason to clam up. Explain it to me, Shavonne. Those men who hurt you when you were a child, how was that your fault?”
“Because … It’s complicated.”
“Yes, I imagine it would be. Go on, though.”
“Look, I was bad. I didn’t listen to anybody. Like the time I stole money from one of my foster mothers and then ran away. When I got caught, they sent me to another foster home. That’s when the really bad stuff happened.” I took a deep breath, preparing for this last part. “If I hadn’t been so bad, I wouldn’t have been raped. See?”
Delpopolo doesn’t speak for a couple of minutes. Thenhe asks a whole string of yes-or-no questions about that particular foster home.
“Did you like it at the first foster home?”
“No.”
“Did anybody there beat you?”
“My foster mother burned me with cigarettes and made me sit naked in a cold tub of water when I was bad.”
“Did anybody act sexually toward you while you were there?”
“My foster mother’s boyfriend and one of his friends.”
The questions go on like this for several minutes. It goes so quickly that it doesn’t upset me so much. It’s strange; maybe because it goes fast and is so matter-of-fact. It’s easier to answer yes or no without having to explain. It’s not like, “Tell me about when you were raped. Tell me about when your mom abandoned you.”
Mr. D says, “Adults are responsible for protecting children. The adults in your life didn’t protect you. I’m not being judgmental, because maybe they tried their best. But in the end, they didn’t protect you. And you weren’t safe. And bad things happened to you. People did bad things to you. And the systems that were set up—cops, social services, foster care, residential centers—all failed to protect you as well.
“I don’t blame you for not trusting anyone. You shouldn’t. You’ve had to do whatever you could to keep yourself safe, and that’s okay. But you have to know that none of it makes you a bad person, and you’re never to blame for the mistakes or crimes adults commit. Now,cross off the things on your list that are the crimes or mistakes of adults.”
I start to cry because my mind is replaying so many of these “crimes” that I have blamed myself for. Some disgusting old man took my hand and put it down his pants, told me it was a good thing when I was just old enough to know that it wasn’t. I thought he picked me because he could see that I was bad. A nurse at the emergency room told me I had been raped
because
I had run away and wore makeup and tight jeans.
See what happens when you run the streets? You get what you deserve, always
. And all the times I got moved from one home to another because I let someone at school see the bruises and scars.
It’s because of you that you have to live with strangers who
I smooth it out on Delpopolo’s desk and wait. He hands me a thick black marker. I take it, my heart pounding. I’m sweating all over.
“Now go ahead and cross out all the things on your list that other people did to you.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Is being raped listed on your paper?”
“Yes.” I look down at my shoes involuntarily. I tell myself to pick my head up, that I have nothing to be ashamed of. But I am ashamed, and the shame burns its way through me. It’s such an automatic response and I hate myself for it. And I despise Mr. D for making me feel that way. Fat fuck! Bastard! Cocksucker! But I don’t say any of these things out loud.
“Well, you can start by crossing that one off.”
“But …”
“But what?”
“Never mind. You don’t understand.” Shame continues to burn through me. Remembering. Hating. I want to hate Mr. D, even though he has nothing to do with what I’m feeling.
“Maybe I don’t, but that’s no reason to clam up. Explain it to me, Shavonne. Those men who hurt you when you were a child, how was that your fault?”
“Because … It’s complicated.”
“Yes, I imagine it would be. Go on, though.”
“Look, I was bad. I didn’t listen to anybody. Like the time I stole money from one of my foster mothers and then ran away. When I got caught, they sent me to another foster home. That’s when the really bad stuff happened.” I took a deep breath, preparing for this last part. “If I hadn’t been so bad, I wouldn’t have been raped. See?”
Delpopolo doesn’t speak for a couple of minutes. Thenhe asks a whole string of yes-or-no questions about that particular foster home.
“Did you like it at the first foster home?”
“No.”
“Did anybody there beat you?”
“My foster mother burned me with cigarettes and made me sit naked in a cold tub of water when I was bad.”
“Did anybody act sexually toward you while you were there?”
“My foster mother’s boyfriend and one of his friends.”
The questions go on like this for several minutes. It goes so quickly that it doesn’t upset me so much. It’s strange; maybe because it goes fast and is so matter-of-fact. It’s easier to answer yes or no without having to explain. It’s not like, “Tell me about when you were raped. Tell me about when your mom abandoned you.”
Mr. D says, “Adults are responsible for protecting children. The adults in your life didn’t protect you. I’m not being judgmental, because maybe they tried their best. But in the end, they didn’t protect you. And you weren’t safe. And bad things happened to you. People did bad things to you. And the systems that were set up—cops, social services, foster care, residential centers—all failed to protect you as well.
“I don’t blame you for not trusting anyone. You shouldn’t. You’ve had to do whatever you could to keep yourself safe, and that’s okay. But you have to know that none of it makes you a bad person, and you’re never to blame for the mistakes or crimes adults commit. Now,cross off the things on your list that are the crimes or mistakes of adults.”
I start to cry because my mind is replaying so many of these “crimes” that I have blamed myself for. Some disgusting old man took my hand and put it down his pants, told me it was a good thing when I was just old enough to know that it wasn’t. I thought he picked me because he could see that I was bad. A nurse at the emergency room told me I had been raped
because
I had run away and wore makeup and tight jeans.
See what happens when you run the streets? You get what you deserve, always
. And all the times I got moved from one home to another because I let someone at school see the bruises and scars.
It’s because of you that you have to live with strangers who
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