The Public Secrets

When Child Sexual Abuse is in the Air we Breathe

For years, I felt guilty because I knew about child sexual abuse, but did nothing. Those feelings came up again recently when I was watching a documentary focused on a famous child abuse matter where the perpetrator was known, but went unpunished.

The first time I found out someone was being abused was when I was about eight or nine years old. The revelation came after going to my first funeral and seeing my first dead body.

The longtime companion of an older man in my family had died. I remember driving through Brooklyn to the funeral home. Then driving to the burial, headlights on during the day, in my first funeral procession.

After that, there was a gathering at someone’s home full of food and drink and women with impressive hats. A girl of ten or eleven was there, who’d been fostered by the now deceased woman. When the girl was out of sight, a group of women gathered in the kitchen to whisper quietly.

“What’s going to happen to the girl?” they all asked each other.

Silently, I wondered why this question was so hush-hush, and why everyone looked so concerned.

Then one of the women, who at the time worked in child welfare, leaned in and said, it was awful that the older man in my family had been sexually abusing her, but this child welfare worker thought the girl should stay.

The other women all nodded, saying how it wasn’t a good situation, but better than the alternative. No one said, and I certainly didn’t ask about the alternative. Though this girl lived just around the corner, I don’t think I ever saw her more than a handful of times after that. She disappeared without much fanfare.

I left that repast feeling awful. For years, I thought I should have done something, though I had zero idea what that something was.

Years later, I had a middle school friend who was actively suffering a similar fate. Her mother, who was white, had gone against her family, moved to New York City, and married a black man. They’d had a single child, my school friend. When my friend’s father walked out, her mother had come back home, tail between her legs, begging forgiveness, willing to do whatever it took to get back into the family fold.

That sacrifice was in the form of my friend, her daughter. My friend dreaded all the family gatherings. One of her uncles had decided that as a young black girl, she was his for the taking. I remember my friend always coming back and calling me to tell me how badly she’d been treated by her maternal family generally, and what her uncle had done to her, specifically.

Again, I was struck dumb. I sympathized with her. Felt bad for the position she was in, having to buy gifts for and do the bidding of a man who was abusing her. One more time, I felt like I didn’t do enough. I told one adult, who said I’d probably misunderstood. After that, I kept quiet.

Writing this is actually the first time I’ve made these experiences public.

What I’ve come to realize only recently is that I wasn’t an adult, and I wasn’t in a position to help these girls. On top of that, I’m quite ashamed of all the women around who knew what was happening but did nothing. Unfortunately, as I’ve gotten older, as I watched that documentary, I realize it’s not a particularly unique story. It's a sad one.

Aime Austin is the author of Judged, a Casey Cort legal thriller. The book is free for readers at all retailers and public libraries.