on the silence of abuse

Thinking about this week’s revelations in Hollywood, I’ve been forced to think a lot about things in my past.

I was raised by a mother, or rather she inhabited the same house, that was abused by her first husband, my father. But she stayed with him until, “He started coming after you.” I was a baby during the time she was referring.

She left him, and we returned home to Chicago and moved in with her mother and grandmother. Those five to six years were very happy for me. I felt loved and pampered, even though I don’t remember my mom much from this time.

She eventually met a new man, they married, and I soon had two brothers. And despite the fact that we went on month-long vacations and that I always had help with my algebra and geometry homework, he was another abuser. He verbally degraded and demeaned my mother, smacked and kicked my brothers, and sexually abused me.

The incest started when I was thirteen, after I was gang raped by boys in my eighth grade class. He came to my bedroom one night and said I should know what it felt like when the man loves you. The fact that he used my rape trauma as an excuse for his sickness made it a thousand times worse. This continued for four years.

Years later, when I finally got the nerve to confront him, to hear an “I’m sorry” I was told that he never considered it incest as he was only my adopted father.   He died several years later, still refusing to admit he had done anything wrong. As did my mother. Denial runs deep in that one. Or ran deep. She, too, is gone. I did not attend either funeral. 

My first full time job was at a bank. I started as a teller and when an opening in the Data Center became available, I applied and got it. (Banks were the first businesses to be computerised, and we had ten banks in our system. The night shift debited and credited each individual account. The day shift, which I was on, balanced daily to the Federal Reserve’s figures. I did keypunching and made microfiches.)

I worked with two other women. Our boss, a bank VP, was a lecherous, bloated, middle aged man. He made me feel very uncomfortable and he was always rubbing against me and staring at my breasts and bum. Total pig.

The other two women experienced the same, with one of them experiencing more, but they didn’t want to lodge a complaint when I asked them. I spoke up on my own. Not long after, I was let go. About one year later, these two women called me to testify against the VP when they filed their suit. Or at least wanted more ammunition. I told them no. They hadn’t helped me; I wouldn’t help them.

At the time I did what I felt I had to do. I was a young divorced mother, receiving no support. I had to keep quiet, not cause drama, work and study hard, take care of my son. I could not lose another job.

But now I wonder if I chose the path of least resistance because of my childhood abuse. Because my step-father switched on something submissive. Something like that.

He wasn’t a Hollywood producer, only a chemical engineer and a Lions member, a church-goer, and a regular father and people liked him and no one would ever believe me so why cause trouble?

I was so young and naive and these film people are much more worldly than I was. Maybe that doesn’t matter. It’s all the same. Men continue to use their positions and authority and fame to abuse women just because they can. Making inappropriate comments because it’s their right.

Is it any wonder almost every relationship I’ve had has ended? And that despite my repeated efforts and experiments sex just isn’t that pleasurable for me? Despite how I might have appeared to some. A pretty face, full lips, and a bawdy imagination do not guarantee non stop orgasms. Or any, truth be told.

Thinking about my teen years and about the latest news, I can only feel a deep sadness for a past I can never get back and a deep empathy for the women and men that have experienced this sort of abuse. And I am very sorry to Kathy and Cathy for not supporting them in their legal suit.

Keeping silent is never the answer, which I learned too late. We have to do a better job of teaching our girls and boys. We need to set better examples. And it must start now. Tomorrow may be too late.

© Don Korous 1963