Young Sex Story
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Young Sex Story
Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
In September 2000 my daughter was nearly 13 and had just started secondary school. She had always got on well with other children and worked hard. But after a couple of months things began to change. She started wearing lots of make-up. The school was a stone's throw away, but friends began calling for her as early as 7.30am. Next my older daughter spotted her hanging about in the local park with some lads from school who introduced the girls they befriended to older boys and men. I was very alarmed. Then she started missing certain lessons, sometimes whole days.
When she started disappearing overnight, I trawled the streets looking for her. I had no control over her. Sometimes she would say she was going to have an early night, then she'd turn on the shower and climb out the bathroom window. Once when she disappeared, I went through the park looking for her and asked a teenage boy if he'd seen her. I was horrified when he said, "Yes, all the prostitutes hang out by the bowling green."
I confronted my daughter. "That's not true," she said. "Those boys are my boyfriends."
As far as she was concerned, she was doing what she wanted to do and I was hindering her. Money didn't seem to be changing hands, but the girls were getting drink and drugs and mobile phones. The men flattered them into believing they loved them as part of a process of grooming them to have sex with lots of different men, some in their 30s and 40s. People ask me why I use the word "grooming" rather than referring to them as paedophiles, but most of these men haven't been convicted.
I felt as if my daughter was sliding away from me and I'd never be able to get her back. Every minute of every day became a nightmare. I couldn't eat, sleep or function properly, and I could see no way back. Every time she disappeared, I thought I'd never see her alive again. If a girl is over 13, she has to be the complainant in a case of sexual assault. Because this was happening outside the house, there was nothing I could do. The worst thing, as a mother, was not being able to prevent my daughter from being abused.
At the end of 2001, a year after her first disappearance, I put her into care. She didn't want to go, but I could no longer cope. My lowest point was the first time I visited her. Seeing her and having to walk away was unbearable. Everything exploded while she was in care, and I had a breakdown.
My nephew killed himself unexpectedly during this time. My daughter and I attended the funeral, and were both extremely upset. Afterwards, I took my daughter firmly by the shoulders and said to her, "You'll never know how many times I thought I'd be going to your funeral."
Then I walked away. She seemed to turn some sort of corner that day, and so did I. She started to realise what she was doing to herself and I could see for the first time that she needed me. I think I had to feel as low as it was possible to feel before I found the strength to fight what was happening to her and other girls.
I started campaigning with Ann Cryer, the MP for Keighley, for a change in the law to make hearsay evidence admissible in grooming cases, a change we secured last year. I'm proud of what I achieved and my daughter is proud of me, too.
After two years in care, she came back to live with me, went back to college, got qualifications. At times she feels down about what happened to her, which she now recognises as abuse. Last year Channel 4 made a programme about the grooming issue in this area and, although some white men were involved, the BNP hijacked it as a race issue: Asians exploiting white girls. I was furious because this is not a race issue.
The men live locally and we see them from time to time. They call my daughter names, and me, too, if I'm with her. I say to them, "I'm not frightened of any of you." My daughter calls out, "I've moved on with my life and it's a shame you can't move on with yours." Our relationship is better than it has ever been. We talk to each other and if she goes out with friends, she leaves a note on the fridge telling me where she's gone and when she'll be back. It's fantastic to get those notes.
· Do you have a story to tell? Email: experience@theguardian.com
This article is more than 7 years old
This article is more than 7 years old
It’s long past time to shine a light on what too many children endure. Photograph: Jens Meyer/AP
Thu 29 Jan 2015 13.20 GMT Last modified on Tue 8 Aug 2017 20.04 BST
Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
I never felt like a victim, but long after I grew up, every sexual experience brought me back to that winter night I didn’t understand
T here’s a reason why, when a woman whispers her story of sexual abuse, when she writes about it , when she Tweets about it or carries a mattress around on her back, calls the police or a rape crisis line, I believe her.
The reason is because it happened to me. And you didn’t know, because I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone.
Uncle “Doug” was an old friend of my parents; he visited our family often and occasionally joined us for holidays. One evening, when I was six, he offered to babysit me and my older sister at his house.
Before bedtime, Uncle Doug told us both a bedtime story about a werewolf who howled at the moon in the bitter cold of winter on top of a snowy hill, just like the hill outside the window over the sink in Uncle Doug’s kitchen. He could do these pitch-perfect character voices, and in that way, he was charismatic and appealing to children. The werewolf would howl, he said, his thirst for the blood of children relentless, until one night he came charging through a window of a house trying to catch the little girl inside. The broken glass pierced his throat, and then he was dead, his head hanging over the sill, blood dripping down the wall to the floor.
And then my sister went to bed, and I sat in his small, dimly lit kitchen, on his lap, as he nuzzled my hair and then my ear and neck, and squeezed me hard and soft at the same time. I remember staring fixedly at the window in his kitchen, into the dark snowy night, through a pane of cold glass, the moon casting shadows, a dark tree, listening for the howl of the werewolf, trying not to pay attention to what was actually happening.
What was actually happening is that he was kissing me, whispering in my ear things I didn’t understand, and rubbing the tops of my 6-year-old thighs, right where my underwear started, while I sat on his lap.
Afterwards, he took to calling me his “wifey” and signed notes to me: “Love, your hubby”. There was never another physical encounter like the one at his house, but when he visited ours, he would request “private” viewings of me practicing my ballet and leer at me longingly in my leotard and tights; he looked for any opportunity to touch me – my hand, my shoulder, the small of my back. After a couple of years, when I started to understand how inappropriate his behavior was, I refused to have anything to do with him.
I never told my parents anything. My only act of acknowledgement that he did something bad was when I crossed out with a ballpoint pen the “Love, your hubby” at the bottom of a poem he had written in my autograph book when I was eight or nine. The poem: “Tulips in the garden, tulips in the park/But the best place for tulips, is tulips in the dark”.
Uncle Doug did not hurt me physically, but he laid the groundwork for who and what I would become with men throughout my adolescence and into my early adulthood – a wreckage of fondled girlhood looking out a dark window whenever a man was on top of me. His adult hand edging up my six-year-old thigh made it seem natural to me when much older men showed interest or pursued me as a teenager. Or perfectly normal for me to try to seduce a 35-year-old when I was 15.
I never felt like a victim – and I might even still argue that I wasn’t victimized enough to claim that label, and instead call myself a product of a premature sexual experience. But for years, every time a man touched me – especially if he was older, even if I pursued him and told myself and him that it was ok – I’d catch myself looking through a non-existent dark window waiting for it to be over. Relationships came and went but never lasted, and I thought both that didn’t have anything to tell, and no one to tell it to.
Eventually, I told someone: after about eight months of dating my now-husband, who was curious and emotionally invested in “us” in a way I’d never experienced, I proudly called myself promiscuous. He looked at me with compassion and confusion and said, “Really?”. I confessed: “Not promiscuous in the way you would think.” And then I told him the truth.
And then I told someone else. And someone else after that. I chose to narrate my own story, rather than let the one Doug told persist any longer in my own mind.
Doug, like most abusers, relied on me not telling. They all rely on us not telling – to save their reputations, avoid consequences, and keep on abusing. Those of us who do tell, who let go of the shame we know we’re supposed to feel, are in such a minority that it enables the rest of you to disbelieve both those that tell and the existence of those who can’t yet. It’s hard for you to imagine being in a group of five women and knowing that one was sexually assaulted. It’s hard for me to believe that we can just go unheard – our experiences unknown – without consequence.
But all of that is why it’s so important for women, for abuse survivors, to tell our stories: because the more of us who do, the more we chip away at the ability to ignore or to choose not to believe. I believe – and I believe that you can choose to as well.
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We all harbor secrets. Some are big and bad; some are small and trivial. Researchers have parsed which truths to tell and which not to.
He was a tall, gangly man with an electric style of walking: sudden, large, bouncing steps, an occasional shuffle and a tendency to lurch from side to side. He used the wooden stick he carried to steady himself occasionally, but, more often, to point out sights of interest, a bird in a tree or a large pebble on the ground. He wore a cap inscribed with the logo of an out-of-town baseball team and a short jacket that said something good about the services of a moving company that delivered anywhere in the continental United States. The young woman with him was walking much more properly, even primly. She was young, indeed; in fact, she was six years old. She was dressed very nicely in a cardigan sweater and a ballooning skirt. A very small hat ornamented by two flowers was pinned to her hair. She carried a small purse. Without looking she reached up and took her grandfather’s hand.
It was the sort of warm Autumn afternoon one would expect living on a quiet Midwestern farm at a time when the harvest has been brought in, and when soft breezes move across the grass and stir the apple trees. But, as it happened, Alice and her grandfather were standing on a street corner on the East side of Manhattan, waiting for the light to change.
The light did change to green, and they both stepped off the curb. Grandpa waved his walking stick in the air as if to announce to the traffic waiting to turn the corner, “ Attention ! Warning! Small child crossing!” Once they were safely on the other side, they walked hand in hand along the stone wall that bordered Central Park.
“Now, remember, Alice,” Grandpa said as they turned into the entrance to the park, “don’t run away. I can’t run after you as fast as I could when you were a little girl. Besides, you have to watch out for the killer squirrels. There was a little boy who ran away from his parents once, and they found him the next day tied to a tree. All the killer squirrels were taking bites out of his fingers and toes.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” Alice said, sighing.
Also wandering through the park that Sunday afternoon were many of their neighbors: old couples, also holding hands, young couples lying on blankets on the grass, kids throwing a Frisbee or a baseball back and forth, and other, still smaller, children running after them and after each other. The well-dressed woman with the pair of Afghans on a leash was there, and the blind man playing the guitar. The street magician was there, and they stopped for a while while he turned balloons into giraffes and elephants and other exotic animals. Alice applauded when he took a penny out of her ear and gave it to her. Then there were the dueling steel drum bands. The music was so loud, Alice put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut too. Then Alice and her grandfather stopped for a while to watch the lady with the pet snake.
“Is that snake safe?” Alice asked her grandfather in a low voice, curling up against him.
“That snake is a heroic snake, not an evil snake. That old lady who is sitting there, half-asleep, was once a beautiful young lady. One day she was traveling down the Amazon River in a canoe carved out of a single tree trunk, while natives of the jungle sat in front of her and in back of her paddling as fast as they could to get away from an alligator who was chasing them. This alligator was as big as a small automobile, maybe a big automobile. Maybe it was as big as a bus. You couldn’t tell because it was half-underwater. But it was really big. And it had a mouth as wide as an open grand piano. And the teeth-the teeth were really something- each tooth was like a saw. And they made a grinding noise when the alligator chewed that was awful to hear. It sounded a little like Grandpa’s car does when it won’t start. Remember? And these teeth were dripping blood. So, naturally, the beautiful lady was really scared. Anyway, they paddled and paddled, when, suddenly, a huge tiger with big yellow eyes and a snarly expression jumped out of the jungle and started running alongside the canoe. And then a gigantic hippopotamus rose up out of the river and started chasing after the alligator, who was swimming as fast as he could to catch the beautiful lady before the tiger could jump on top of the canoe and eat everyone. Then suddenly, when they least expected it, that snake, the one over there, who was younger then and didn’t look so beat up, swung out of a tree and knocked the tiger into the water, where the alligator started chewing on him. The hippopotamus got tangled up with the tiger and the alligator; and all three of them went over the waterfall.
As a reward for saving her life, the beautiful lady took the snake home and promised to look after him forever, giving him ice cream and other tasty things. After a while, the beautiful lady got old and not so beautiful. And the snake got old too and sleepy . So, that’s why that snake looks so tired all the time. But, all I know is, if a big, vicious tiger suddenly jumped at me from the museum over there, I’d want that snake by my side!”
Alice thought about that story for a momen
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