Chronicle of a Silence Endured. Guido da Verona
I could be your big brother, your protector.”
It had only been 4 months since our hero’s dad had walked out on his family, and all our hero could think about since the nightmare started was reuniting with his dad back in Colombia. He was young indeed, and the first 8 years of his life had been filled with magnificent stories about Colombia that his father had shared with him. Through his father's tales and the gift of his own, magnificent imagination our hero lived perpetually the country’s majestic, emerald mountains, wild, sprawling shorelines, and white, tickling sun. And in just the same breath, gone forever were dad’s thick, hairy, tanned forearms, his grandma’s farm and picadillo, the birthdays celebrated with flying kites, aunts, uncles and older cousins with their funny arguments, then big fights, and then red, cheeky smiles of reconciliation. Good-byes went to enormous turtles laying eggs on the sand at 4 in the morning, and having to wait two interminable hours after breakfast before being allowed to rush the green, salty ocean, kicking sand that sparkled in the sun like stars in the night beneath small, bare, running feet. No more maroon sunsets that stained our hero’s skin red, and huge orange fires with guitars by the glowing ocean and its countless little sharp dancing knives created by the light of the moon.
Left behind.
This wonderful and brittle intangibility all now turned into bone-numbing, below-freezing temperatures, wet snow, dirty sneakers hanging from wires over the streets, vomit and garbage and spilled frozen soup on the asphalt, rats screaming in the kitchen at night, being slapped by girls during recess for not knowing how to speak English, getting spat upon the face from a lineup of boys, and kicked down by other classmates while others looked on and cheered for more. It had all now transformed into tears sinking into the deepest parts of a pillow during the darkest hours of the sub-zero nights, absorbing a pain for a lost father that could not be contained any more than could be found inside such a tiny, anemic, and powder-white body. It had all now dissolved into a stomach-pinching, near-empty refrigerator, mom crying loud and alone behind the doors of the bathroom at 10 o’clock on a bright Saturday morning, and bags of canned food and half-broken toys left at the door by an anonymous member or members of the Church. Our hero, now standing in front of the class to do a math problem, was laughed at for the way he had written the number ‘7’ on the blackboard, and yelled at by the art teacher for drawing a church on construction paper when the project was to draw ‘buildings’. See her tear it to pieces before his eyes.
Our hero learned to see the world through the blur of the thick eyeglasses that is brought on by constant, crying eyes, while laying false claim to having severe allergies, just to keep from being mocked and beat and ridiculed and spat upon any further. It was all more than he could take.
“Me and my family would do better with me dead!”
“So?” Fox asked enthusiastically.
“Really? You mean that? I would love for you to be my big brother!”
“Oh that makes me sooo happy. Ok, but it’s time for bed now so can I ask for one last favor from you?”
“Sure, what?”
“Would you mind giving me a kiss good n....?”
“...No! I am not going to kiss you.”
“Hey! Lower your voice. What are you talking about? Brothers kiss each other good night all the time and you need to start getting used to that if we are going to be brothers. I will never embarrass you by asking that you do it in front of your mom or sisters. It will stay just between us. It will be our first secret as brothers.”
Our hero thought in stillness, silent. His body stiffened. Fox lied next to him obediently, patiently waiting for his deliverance. Then, going against his premature sense of judgment and his under-developed instincts of self-defense, our hero leaned over Fox…and, as quickly as he could, gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Born into Trauma
The trauma of abandonment, combined with emotional, physical and sexual abuse starting from preadolescence will tend to carry negative momentum into the future of any child’s life. This transcends gender, socioeconomic status, education, environment, you name it. Childhood victims of abuse live in a forced code of silence with the world, and it is in this state of conscious repression where the seed of their personal spiritual war is planted. The war is waged against oneself first because the crime was committed against oneself.
Sexual abuse therefore has an embodiment of self-betrayal, of personal power that was willingly given away. And so the mere thought of speaking out about it brings more conflict over the pain, anxiety and fear of being rejected by the victim’s family, friends and/or society as a whole, than can be humanly measured, and oftentimes much less understood. Silence intuitively becomes the adopted way for the family to deal with all disagreements or problems that seem readily impossible to resolve. The after-effect, the residue is emotional distance, spiritual frigidity, obsessive ritualization, and toxic resentment, to name but a few.
And war like this cannot be calculated with projected monetary figures, because the prevailing silence keeps it going on forever….well, for as long as silence prevails. Our hero is learning not to express his needs and wants – his thoughts and feelings. What if he says the wrong thing? Silence has irrepressibly tempted and surrounded him in a clear, warm ocean of inner isolation. Silence has betrayed him. Will he able to evade the unstoppable waves of depression as he grows into an adult? The self-loathing brought on by the shame and guilt fills our little victim with inner conflict. Left untreated, anxiety and disorder are inevitable - a looming reality for both his present and future. In this inward turning, in this pathetic grief, our hero learns not to trust mom or absent dad - or anyone or anything else for that matter. The turning makes the entire world suspect, dangerous, and threatening. It shatters innocence into a billion pieces.
Like cosmic dust.
The turmoil and confusion felt is as real as that of someone just coming out of a terrible car accident – now lying in the hospital bed with all kinds of tubes and pumps going in and out of him - except that with childhood abuse that scenario is invisible to the human eye. There is no way to actually see the scars and wounds of sexual abuse. The victim often appears normal and grows up cognitively functional before the eyes of society but, as is nearly always the case, neither our hero’s mom nor the world make the effort to look past the superficial mask that hides the pain and suffering. And so it goes unchecked for such souls, they are left to their own devices, waging year after year of war against themselves, while simultaneously defending themselves from their own spiritual onslaught.
For our hero, speaking out means bringing more pain to the family, while remaining silent has a sort of reverse reward: it keeps family shame at bay. It keeps what little family peace there is intact. It does not disrupt the established surface order of things. Things are enough of a mess already as they are. Mom and the sisters are suffering enough.
Silence! Self-imposed silence! Silence in the room with Fox. Silence in the world without Fox. Silence everywhere. Silence at all times. To be molded by it. To be forced to be one with it. And this silence equals peace in our hero’s world, and with only invisible tears to show for it. The only expression of pain he allows himself, tears, always takes place where no one can see or hear; in the far-reaching and empty corners of the shiny hallways of his grammar school after asking for permission to go to the bathroom; his face pressed up against the cold grey crevice; his hands covering the sides of his little face, mouth whimpering, his chest beating, his lungs stretching, his knees buckling.
“No! If there is something to be said, be sure to say it where no one will hear!”
Nothing is more terrifying than a silent child. Nothing can make a louder sound in the world. Not the atom bomb. Not anything. Jesus Himself must cover His ears and eyes to it. He especially wishes it away.
Wikipedia: Fox:
“…an opportunistic predator…”
Let's talk about the predator for just a little bit now. Sexual offenders are motivated by their lust for