Within a week or two, I had been assigned to work with another Child Protection Team (CPS) who specialized, not in sex abuse, but everything else. It had been determined that I should have well-rounded training. They handled physical abuse, neglect, emotional maltreatment, and domestic violence. The sex abuse team handled anything that had any indication of lewdness, pornography (Harmful Materials) or was blatantly sexual. We even took cases where young children were involved in possibly normal childhood sexual exploration, just so we could educate families if needed.
I went out with numerous workers to learn their method and watch how they interacted with clients. One particular caseworker (CW) was a divorced mother of four. She lived at the poverty level, couldn’t afford daycare, actually received food stamps even though she was fully employed. CW’s did not earn a great income after all. Sometimes it was difficult to distinguish the difference between a client and CW. This particular CW wore grubby jeans, t-shirts, and tennis shoes. She had a get-it-done quick attitude. She didn’t discuss much with clients, just wanted to determine; did abuse happen, who did it, and what finding should be determined; in and out in a few hours, hopefully. She seemed to care little for actual social work.
We went out to investigate a case of emotional maltreatment and physical abuse. A 10 year old wasn’t attending school regularly and sometimes she told her teachers that stepfather was mean to her, yelled at her using profanity; calling her stupid. They were also worried about physical abuse because she had frequent bruises. The girl was not at school when we arrived. Her teacher said she hadn’t been there for several days but the mother had not called to excuse her daughter.
We went to the home. There were 3 big dogs staked out at various locations in the yard. They barked furiously and could reach us if we entered the yard. We could not get to the front door. We called the phone number provided by the school. It went to voicemail. The CW left a message indicating a need to speak with the mother immediately, and gave a return number.
I wondered what we would do? We had to see the child but were prevented by the locked gate and dogs. Finally, we saw a neighbor in the yard down the street. We asked some questions. The neighbor said she knew a couple with 2 girls lived there but didn’t see them out much. She informed that the woman was a granddaughter to the previous owner who had died a few years before. She said the house had been condemned at one point because it was so filthy, but the family had cleaned it up. She said the mother and father both worked and told us what cars they each drove. We left and returned to the school.
According to school records, there was a friend or relative listed as emergency contact, and they showed mother’s work number. The CW called the contact. She said that mother worked as a cafeteria worker and would be home soon. She said the 10 year old daughter was probably in the house. She also said we would need to show up before the father got home or we wouldn’t be able to gain entrance.
We went to the house and waited. The mother finally arrived. She was tall, very thin, had broken teeth, limp hair. She met us on the driveway to hear our concerns. Her eyes were tired, she looked defeated, worried. We asked if we could speak with her daughter. The girl was bi-racial. She made eye contact, then looked to her mother. The woman nodded toward her and looked away. It was difficult to determine what her eyes told the girl. The CW took the girl to the edge to the driveway, mother retreated to the house. The CW asked the girl why she had stayed home from school. She said she had been sick that morning. The CW asked why someone would call in a referral and say that abuse was occurring. The girl said she didn’t know. “Is someone bothering you?” CW asked suddenly. The girl shook her head and quickly said ‘No!” “Then why did you tell people at school that someone was yelling at you and hitting you?” She pressed almost angrily. The girl claimed she hadn’t said anything like that. She said no one was doing anything wrong. Tears welled up in her eyes but she blinked them back. The CW seemed confrontational. She point blank asked if her stepdad was doing things to her. The scared girl, answered, “No, and he is not my stepdad, he’s my real dad.” “Ok, then”, said the CW with a stern look, “this is your chance to get help if you want it. I think he is hurting you and yelling at you just like you told a teacher at the school.” “No, no, she replied, I didn’t.” “Well, said the CW, here’s my card if you change your mind, you can call me.” The girl ran back into the house, while the dogs barked at us.
Her mother came to the gate. The CW informed her that we got no disclosure and that was the end of it. She said, “You might want to make sure that your husband is not abusing the kids because you can be charged for not stopping him.” The woman nodded, tucked her chin down, wrung her hands, and asked if we needed to talk to her husband. “No, CW answered, I don’t need to speak with him because we got no disclosure. The case will be closed unsupported.” The mother sighed, with what appeared to be relief, and thanked us for coming. The CW walked away brusquely.
When we got to the car, she said, “Stupid woman, you can tell that he beats her, that he beats the kids, but she won’t leave him, they never do!” She was angry. “What a waste of our time,” she cursed. “You can’t help someone who won’t help herself. I’m not going to waste time feeling sorry for her.”
I was…shocked….worried…..confused. I could think of a dozen different ways to engage rather than condemn. I thought about the training I had been receiving, to the books I had recently read about social work. This didn’t feel like what I expected.
We went back to the office. The shred bin was at the doorway to CW’s office. She shoved the papers through the slot and indicated she was done with it. We went to her office and she showed me how to close the case. There were numerous documents required. She raced through them, and indicated that they meant nothing. “Don’t waste any time on these unless you get a disclosure,” she stated firmly. She wrote three logs, one about the information she gained at the school, one about her interview with the girl, and one about talking to the mother. They were brief. The case was closed in minutes. “We’ll see this family again”, she said wearily, “it is only a matter of time.”
Two other CW’s entered her office. One was Native American, single, with a couple of kids of her own; the other, a woman with 5 kids, married to a military officer. They had both been with the agency a long time. The three of them began having a discussion as if I was not there. They looked at me every once in awhile, with a questioning look, but I had been told to keep my mouth shut so I did. One stated that the supervisor, Betsy, was driving her crazy. “I can’t believe they made her supervisor”, said the other with a bit of malice in her voice, she doesn’t know anything. She is so stupid, honestly.” They went on to list her crimes. The new supervisor had never worked CPS. She was highly religious and this seemed to offend them. She was older. She had instituted stupid rules. She wanted to know where they were every minute. She was ridiculous.
I continued to KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT and eventually excused myself to do something else. I warned myself to never tangle with these women, and to never trust them. I didn’t know whether to tell my supervisor what had been said, or keep my mouth shut about this too. I wished they had kept their mouths shut! I liked my idealist belief that all caseworkers were good, honest, hardworking, engaging, moral people who were out to help others. Now, I had to accept new information into my worldview and I didn’t like it much. Knowing myself fairly well at this point, I also knew that I would not always keep my mouth shut. Someday, I would tell them what I believed about their practice of social work! But then, I decided to take my supervisor’s words seriously. I was the novice and knew nothing. A few weeks later, CW was promoted to a trainer position!
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Day 1--Learning to Keep My Mouth Shut
So, I had been introduced to 5 co-workers, one male, four female, and given a huge binder, which contained policy. For several hours I was instructed to read and understand this strange legal guide to the practice of child welfare. Since I had no prior knowledge of child welfare, it may as well have been written in a foreign language.
I was scheduled for 6 months of training, one day a week, to indoctrinate me with the perspective of the agency. My boss and co-workers were supposed to give me hands on experience for a couple of weeks before I would be thrown out there to sink or swim. Each co-worker gave me morsels of advice.
1. Meet priority, 1 hour, 24 hours, or 72 hours, depending on whether there is blood, a perpetrator in the home, then, everything else.
2. Drive back to the house over and over again, because home visits must be unannounced and are required.
3. Call law enforcement first. It is their case if it is potentially criminal, and you can get in trouble without their permission to approach, but good luck getting the Sgt. to answer the phone before priority runs out.
4. Call your detective and keep him/her on his/her toes, because they will let cases sit or slide.
5. Know your community resources so you can tell people where to go for help.
6. Learn how to interview without leading questions.
7. Cover your butt by staffing cases with your supervisor. If you go down, and haven’t followed policy, no one will protect you.
8. Get your paperwork done ASAP, or it will get away from you and digging out is a nightmare.
9. There are hours of paperwork for each case, but at least it is now computerized.
Around noon, Lori, got a red tag. This was a 24 hour priority case because a step brother and sister were having sex in the home. And, a friend, a third female was involved. Mack sent me along to watch and learn.
Lori was 40ish, a mother with two kids of her own. She had been doing this work about 10 years. I learned over time she was probably one of the better workers on the team. She called law enforcement (LE). A detective agreed to meet at the school. She drove her own car and explained how to write down and turn in mileage claims as we drove. I read the case report as we neared the school.
It stated that a mother had come into the Jr. High that day and requested a locker change. The school personnel said, “If we change everybody’s locker just because they want it changed, we would have hundreds of requests, no way.” Mother replied, “But my daughter’s locker partner had sex with her and she doesn’t want to be friends with her anymore.”
What? I reread the allegations. These were 7th grade students! They could easily be the 6th graders I had taught the previous spring! Apparently the mother continued to tell the school secretary that her daughter had a threesome with her girlfriend and the stepbrother of the girlfriend. I thought it couldn’t possibly be true, seriously, 12 years old having a threesome… no way. Further, if my daughter had sex with someone at age 12 or 13, I wouldn’t simply ask for a locker change, I would be calling the police myself, or at least confronting the other parents.
We arrived at the school, met Det. Trimble, a female. After some paperwork, showing ID and badges, the alleged victim was brought to a conference room. Det. Trimble and Lori explained to the victim, Mary, that she wasn’t in trouble, and they proceeded to ask questions that would elicit honest explanations about what had happened. They did not come right out and ask why she had sex with her friends, but it was clear the girl knew why they were there to speak with her.
Mary seemed reluctant. She tipped her head downward, her face showed embarrassment. Frequently she looked up and to the side as if thinking about her answer. She twisted her hands in her lap, shredded a tissue.
Mary said her friends Stacy and Bryan forced her to have sex. She said they tied her up, held a knife to her throat, and then both assaulted her. She said this happened sometime during the summer. When asked why she told now, rather than weeks ago, she admitted that Stacy said some bad things about her to other friends and she was embarrassed. She told so her mom would get her locker changed. Det. Trimble questioned about the knife and how she was tied up. Mary indicated they got the knife from the kitchen and tied her to the bedposts with towels from the kitchen. Later, she said they entered the home through a basement door and said they found the knife on top of the dresser. She reported they engaged in oral sex, each on the other 2, the boy had penetrated both girls vaginally and anally, and they had stuck pencils into each other. She said they used a condom so they wouldn’t get pregnant. Mary insisted she had been forced. Her story was detailed and showed a great deal of sexual knowledge. I was more than shocked, and I was doubtful of her story.
The minute she left, and before the next child was brought down, I said, “I don’t think she was forced. How can you engage in oral sex if you are tied up, and further, she talked about getting the knife from the kitchen but then later said they found it on the dresser.” Lori eagerly said, "Wow, I didn’t notice that." Det. Trimble had a puzzled look on her face but said nothing.
The other two children were interviewed. They told a similar story about engaging in every sexual situation they could imagine, and added that it was Mary’s idea and that Mary had stolen a condom from the 7-11 store on the corner. Bryan said the condom wouldn’t fit because he wasn’t big enough yet, and so they tied it on with a rubber band. He said they only had one so he used it on both girls, up their butts, and in their crotch. He told about the pencils and said they threw them away after because they were disgusting. He also informed that Mary had introduced them to pornography on her home computer. He was surprised when the detective asked about whether they tied Mary up. He said. “No, but we watched some porn where a girl was tied up.” Stacy gave a corroborating statement. Everything matched except she added that Mary had started telling everyone that Stacy and Bryan were having sex, so Stacy had set the record straight. She explained that is why Mary got mad, because then everyone started talking about her too. Both Stacy and Bryan were quite matter of fact, although after they were told their parents were being called down, they panicked, got very serious, and weepy.
The various parents were as shocked as I was. Again, I kept thinking of my former students. Up until this moment, I was naïve and innocent, but no longer! Lori spoke with the parents of Stacy and Bryan and they agreed to a safety plan that would keep the two kids separated. They agreed both would go to sex abuse treatment with a local agency that operated within the values of their religion. Det. Trimble said they might be charged as juveniles and appear in court, even though everything appeared consensual. Now, they were mad. Lori gave a detailed description of the juvenile process and helped the parents understand that supervision and treatment would help the kids understand boundaries and hopefully refrain from repeat offenses. They worried whether they should hire an attorney. They wondered why we were involved at all. This was after all, normal kid stuff.
I thought, “good grief, normal kid stuff”. I surely did not know of any kids who had done so much in one afternoon, at least voluntarily! I must have been sheltered!
Mary’s mother was equally defensive and argued that her daughter couldn’t possibly have accessed porn on the home computer. But sure enough, when the detectives searched the home and computer, there it was, saved and hidden right under mom’s nose. Further, there was no headboard that Mary could have been tied to in the basement bedroom.
The locker was changed. All 3 kids were charged because in this state, no one can give consent under the age of 14, even if the other kid is also under 14.
I felt proud of myself. My comments about the knife had helped Detective Trimble see the truth. Then Mack called me into his office the next morning. “What were you thinking?” he accused. “Did you think you were so smart that you could tell the detective how to solve the case?” I was humbled but stuck my chin up in self-defense as he shook his head in shame at me. I turned red but remained silent.
Then Mack gave me my first REAL lesson. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t ever burn bridges with your community partners or co-workers and always build up the egos of detectives if you want them to run when you need them. He also explained that no matter what I thought I knew, they looked at me as stupid and green and I would need to wait at least a year before ever offering an opinion again. Then he winked and said with a smile, “but Lori told me you were right on and that you were actively thinking and watching everything. Good work.”
Ok, OK, I will try to keep my mouth shut, but for me that is a VERY difficult assignment. At least he didn’t tell me to stop thinking.
I was scheduled for 6 months of training, one day a week, to indoctrinate me with the perspective of the agency. My boss and co-workers were supposed to give me hands on experience for a couple of weeks before I would be thrown out there to sink or swim. Each co-worker gave me morsels of advice.
1. Meet priority, 1 hour, 24 hours, or 72 hours, depending on whether there is blood, a perpetrator in the home, then, everything else.
2. Drive back to the house over and over again, because home visits must be unannounced and are required.
3. Call law enforcement first. It is their case if it is potentially criminal, and you can get in trouble without their permission to approach, but good luck getting the Sgt. to answer the phone before priority runs out.
4. Call your detective and keep him/her on his/her toes, because they will let cases sit or slide.
5. Know your community resources so you can tell people where to go for help.
6. Learn how to interview without leading questions.
7. Cover your butt by staffing cases with your supervisor. If you go down, and haven’t followed policy, no one will protect you.
8. Get your paperwork done ASAP, or it will get away from you and digging out is a nightmare.
9. There are hours of paperwork for each case, but at least it is now computerized.
Around noon, Lori, got a red tag. This was a 24 hour priority case because a step brother and sister were having sex in the home. And, a friend, a third female was involved. Mack sent me along to watch and learn.
Lori was 40ish, a mother with two kids of her own. She had been doing this work about 10 years. I learned over time she was probably one of the better workers on the team. She called law enforcement (LE). A detective agreed to meet at the school. She drove her own car and explained how to write down and turn in mileage claims as we drove. I read the case report as we neared the school.
It stated that a mother had come into the Jr. High that day and requested a locker change. The school personnel said, “If we change everybody’s locker just because they want it changed, we would have hundreds of requests, no way.” Mother replied, “But my daughter’s locker partner had sex with her and she doesn’t want to be friends with her anymore.”
What? I reread the allegations. These were 7th grade students! They could easily be the 6th graders I had taught the previous spring! Apparently the mother continued to tell the school secretary that her daughter had a threesome with her girlfriend and the stepbrother of the girlfriend. I thought it couldn’t possibly be true, seriously, 12 years old having a threesome… no way. Further, if my daughter had sex with someone at age 12 or 13, I wouldn’t simply ask for a locker change, I would be calling the police myself, or at least confronting the other parents.
We arrived at the school, met Det. Trimble, a female. After some paperwork, showing ID and badges, the alleged victim was brought to a conference room. Det. Trimble and Lori explained to the victim, Mary, that she wasn’t in trouble, and they proceeded to ask questions that would elicit honest explanations about what had happened. They did not come right out and ask why she had sex with her friends, but it was clear the girl knew why they were there to speak with her.
Mary seemed reluctant. She tipped her head downward, her face showed embarrassment. Frequently she looked up and to the side as if thinking about her answer. She twisted her hands in her lap, shredded a tissue.
Mary said her friends Stacy and Bryan forced her to have sex. She said they tied her up, held a knife to her throat, and then both assaulted her. She said this happened sometime during the summer. When asked why she told now, rather than weeks ago, she admitted that Stacy said some bad things about her to other friends and she was embarrassed. She told so her mom would get her locker changed. Det. Trimble questioned about the knife and how she was tied up. Mary indicated they got the knife from the kitchen and tied her to the bedposts with towels from the kitchen. Later, she said they entered the home through a basement door and said they found the knife on top of the dresser. She reported they engaged in oral sex, each on the other 2, the boy had penetrated both girls vaginally and anally, and they had stuck pencils into each other. She said they used a condom so they wouldn’t get pregnant. Mary insisted she had been forced. Her story was detailed and showed a great deal of sexual knowledge. I was more than shocked, and I was doubtful of her story.
The minute she left, and before the next child was brought down, I said, “I don’t think she was forced. How can you engage in oral sex if you are tied up, and further, she talked about getting the knife from the kitchen but then later said they found it on the dresser.” Lori eagerly said, "Wow, I didn’t notice that." Det. Trimble had a puzzled look on her face but said nothing.
The other two children were interviewed. They told a similar story about engaging in every sexual situation they could imagine, and added that it was Mary’s idea and that Mary had stolen a condom from the 7-11 store on the corner. Bryan said the condom wouldn’t fit because he wasn’t big enough yet, and so they tied it on with a rubber band. He said they only had one so he used it on both girls, up their butts, and in their crotch. He told about the pencils and said they threw them away after because they were disgusting. He also informed that Mary had introduced them to pornography on her home computer. He was surprised when the detective asked about whether they tied Mary up. He said. “No, but we watched some porn where a girl was tied up.” Stacy gave a corroborating statement. Everything matched except she added that Mary had started telling everyone that Stacy and Bryan were having sex, so Stacy had set the record straight. She explained that is why Mary got mad, because then everyone started talking about her too. Both Stacy and Bryan were quite matter of fact, although after they were told their parents were being called down, they panicked, got very serious, and weepy.
The various parents were as shocked as I was. Again, I kept thinking of my former students. Up until this moment, I was naïve and innocent, but no longer! Lori spoke with the parents of Stacy and Bryan and they agreed to a safety plan that would keep the two kids separated. They agreed both would go to sex abuse treatment with a local agency that operated within the values of their religion. Det. Trimble said they might be charged as juveniles and appear in court, even though everything appeared consensual. Now, they were mad. Lori gave a detailed description of the juvenile process and helped the parents understand that supervision and treatment would help the kids understand boundaries and hopefully refrain from repeat offenses. They worried whether they should hire an attorney. They wondered why we were involved at all. This was after all, normal kid stuff.
I thought, “good grief, normal kid stuff”. I surely did not know of any kids who had done so much in one afternoon, at least voluntarily! I must have been sheltered!
Mary’s mother was equally defensive and argued that her daughter couldn’t possibly have accessed porn on the home computer. But sure enough, when the detectives searched the home and computer, there it was, saved and hidden right under mom’s nose. Further, there was no headboard that Mary could have been tied to in the basement bedroom.
The locker was changed. All 3 kids were charged because in this state, no one can give consent under the age of 14, even if the other kid is also under 14.
I felt proud of myself. My comments about the knife had helped Detective Trimble see the truth. Then Mack called me into his office the next morning. “What were you thinking?” he accused. “Did you think you were so smart that you could tell the detective how to solve the case?” I was humbled but stuck my chin up in self-defense as he shook his head in shame at me. I turned red but remained silent.
Then Mack gave me my first REAL lesson. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t ever burn bridges with your community partners or co-workers and always build up the egos of detectives if you want them to run when you need them. He also explained that no matter what I thought I knew, they looked at me as stupid and green and I would need to wait at least a year before ever offering an opinion again. Then he winked and said with a smile, “but Lori told me you were right on and that you were actively thinking and watching everything. Good work.”
Ok, OK, I will try to keep my mouth shut, but for me that is a VERY difficult assignment. At least he didn’t tell me to stop thinking.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Calling
“You don’t have to tell me.” Mack said, without a hint of judgment. I can tell just by looking at you.
“You need to find your poker face, or develop one, because your facial expression and body language gives you away.” He encouraged, “Tell me what you feel comfortable with.”
I answered after a moment of introspection. I was puzzled by what might have given me away, but realized that I had never worked at hiding emotions, and in fact I believed I was a “thinking” person rather than a “feeling” one. I like research and analysis. People who cry excessively put me off. I never cry, or at least, rarely. I had participated in enough counseling to be fairly in touch with my inner emotional world yet I still valued thoughts much more than feelings. In fact, some people told me I needed to learn to STOP thinking at times.
“It isn’t so much that I was a victim,” I stated, my head tilting as I thought,
“It is what I’ve seen.” I can relate stories about my family, friends and neighbors. I’ve seen sex abuse from almost every angle, real to imagined to allegations that are downright vindictive and bogus. I have felt the pain of victims and offenders alike.”
Mack wondered aloud, “Where do you think your loyalties lie?”
“Actually, I believe my loyalty lies in getting to the truth.” I answered, “Is that too idealistic?”
Mack nodded, but then shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders with a wry grin, “Yeah, he said, it probably is idealistic. The truth can be told so many different ways, and sometimes you never know if you are really hearing the whole of it.”
“Most of my workers swing a little farther toward the perspective of the victim,” he continued in explanation. “I just don’t want to think you will take the side of the perpetrator over the victim since you’ve been dealing with offenders for the last three years.”
“I think I need to reassure you then,” I was quick to defend, “I will never justify sex abuse. I just want to make sure the investigation is accurate and thorough. I think it is just as big a crime to falsely accuse someone, as it is to allow real abuse to continue. Besides, I’ve also co-facilitated an adult survivor group for the same amount of time!”
“Good Answer,” Mack agreed, “But here’s the thing, when you are out there, it gets emotionally draining, and you will find yourself leaning one way of the other. The best thing to do is keep your mind as free as possible from assumptions. Never, ever let yourself think you have it figured out when you read it on paper, before you do the actual investigation! Treat each case as if you have never seen it before, but use every skill you’ve ever learned.”
“That sounds like good advice,” I was quick to add, mentally assuring myself that I would always work with that thought uppermost in my mind. I didn’t want to be naive or biased, or stupid. I wanted to be able to look someone in the eyes and know the truth, but suspected it wasn’t all that easy. I had a lot to learn but believed I had the skills to do it, and the heart to do the right thing, at least that is what I told myself, then.
“One more thing, Mack paused and whispered again, what is your hook? Everyone does this work for a personal reason. What is yours?”
I was a little confused by what he meant, but I looked in my heart and knew right away what my personal hook was. It welled up without bidding, taking me back almost 30 years.
“When I was 13, I walked in on my best friend as her grandfather was raping her.” My voice was flat, unemotional. “I can still see the video replay in my mind after all this time. She was crying.”
I paused for a moment and looked into Mack’s eyes to gage whether to go on or not. He had leaned forward; his eyes told me this was somehow important.
“When I entered the room, he got off her and pulled up his pants. I will never forget the smell in the room. Her legs were open. I could see her naked crotch. They were on the bottom bunk and he hit his head on the top and said some bad words I hadn’t heard before. I startled him but he didn’t really seem upset. He casually walked into the bathroom down the hall. I heard the water running in the sink. He came back with a slender piece of soap. He told my friend, Tina, to stop crying, that she would be fine. He said she was a woman now, and then he put the soap up her….you know….her vagina. I didn’t know that word back then. She started moaning and pulling away. He told her to stop it and said the soap would make sure she didn’t get pregnant. I watched him turn and leave the room. We were alone in the house. The family had gone into town for accordion lessons. He did it while I was unloading old lettuce and vegetables he had brought for the pigs. He told me to throw everything from the trailer into the pigpen. Really, I had no idea he was doing that to Tina until I walked in to tell him I had finished.”
Tears stung my eyes unexpectedly. I took a deep breath, paused, and gained control. I did not let any tears fall. I sucked them back.
“That night I held her as we slept in the same bed. She sobbed and begged me not to tell and I never did, well at least until I was about 35. That’s when I told my mom. She was shocked to know I was involved and told me the rest of the story. You see, after that weekend my family moved to another state and I never saw Tina again. I have always wondered what happened to her. My mother said that Tina’s grandfather got another granddaughter pregnant about 2 years later. He was prosecuted and went to jail for a couple of years.“
Mack allowed silence to stretch out into minutes as I sat there, emotionally undone.
“I feel guilty that I didn’t say anything. I did nothing to stop that man. She wasn’t the only one either. He touched all of us. What he did to me was minor compared to what he did to Tina. She knew he would do this to her eventually. I wasn’t as aware, maybe because I only went to her house occasionally. She had to deal with him daily. Now I realize why she begged me not to let anyone know that she had started her period. I never understood it then. She told me he would do it to her when she got her period and she tried to hide it for a long time. I wish I could have done something. He had to have touched dozens of kids. He had about 15 granddaughters. My mother told me he had sex with all the girls. He had 5 sons and most of them hated him when they found out what he had done. Tina’s family was so devastated they moved to another state. I wonder about her. I feel sick sometimes when I think about him. I can still see his smirky smile in my head. He was a big religious man, a deacon or something. I remember that he touched me on a Sunday while I was wearing my red birthday dress, after church got out. The picture will never be erased."
(Note to reader: I know this man’s religious affiliation and status of high rank, but won’t divulge it here in an effort to protect all religions. Sex abuse occurs in every religion and among people of every socio-economic level, race, and culture. I would never want to imply that one group is more affected than another!)
Mack waited in silence until I looked up. I felt tired, limp.
“Congratulations,” he said, holding out his hand to shake mine. He held my hand a few seconds longer and stated with some force, “I’m going to give you the power to put bastards like that in jail.” I was unconsciously holding my breath and I felt the air swoosh from my chest in an exhilarating sigh of relief.
I felt chills run up my body and for a moment I felt as if I was standing outside myself, watching. I distantly heard my voice say that I would do my best. He told me to show up for work the next day at 8 a.m., but I could only hear Tina’s voice in my head. She said, “Now, you can do something to help me. Make it STOP.”
That was the only time in my life I can truly say I received a call. The memory is still vivid. I have never doubted it. Tina’s voice has continually guided my work for more than 10 years. Today she tells me I haven’t finished her work so I keep going. I hope she knows that I think of her often.
“You need to find your poker face, or develop one, because your facial expression and body language gives you away.” He encouraged, “Tell me what you feel comfortable with.”
I answered after a moment of introspection. I was puzzled by what might have given me away, but realized that I had never worked at hiding emotions, and in fact I believed I was a “thinking” person rather than a “feeling” one. I like research and analysis. People who cry excessively put me off. I never cry, or at least, rarely. I had participated in enough counseling to be fairly in touch with my inner emotional world yet I still valued thoughts much more than feelings. In fact, some people told me I needed to learn to STOP thinking at times.
“It isn’t so much that I was a victim,” I stated, my head tilting as I thought,
“It is what I’ve seen.” I can relate stories about my family, friends and neighbors. I’ve seen sex abuse from almost every angle, real to imagined to allegations that are downright vindictive and bogus. I have felt the pain of victims and offenders alike.”
Mack wondered aloud, “Where do you think your loyalties lie?”
“Actually, I believe my loyalty lies in getting to the truth.” I answered, “Is that too idealistic?”
Mack nodded, but then shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders with a wry grin, “Yeah, he said, it probably is idealistic. The truth can be told so many different ways, and sometimes you never know if you are really hearing the whole of it.”
“Most of my workers swing a little farther toward the perspective of the victim,” he continued in explanation. “I just don’t want to think you will take the side of the perpetrator over the victim since you’ve been dealing with offenders for the last three years.”
“I think I need to reassure you then,” I was quick to defend, “I will never justify sex abuse. I just want to make sure the investigation is accurate and thorough. I think it is just as big a crime to falsely accuse someone, as it is to allow real abuse to continue. Besides, I’ve also co-facilitated an adult survivor group for the same amount of time!”
“Good Answer,” Mack agreed, “But here’s the thing, when you are out there, it gets emotionally draining, and you will find yourself leaning one way of the other. The best thing to do is keep your mind as free as possible from assumptions. Never, ever let yourself think you have it figured out when you read it on paper, before you do the actual investigation! Treat each case as if you have never seen it before, but use every skill you’ve ever learned.”
“That sounds like good advice,” I was quick to add, mentally assuring myself that I would always work with that thought uppermost in my mind. I didn’t want to be naive or biased, or stupid. I wanted to be able to look someone in the eyes and know the truth, but suspected it wasn’t all that easy. I had a lot to learn but believed I had the skills to do it, and the heart to do the right thing, at least that is what I told myself, then.
“One more thing, Mack paused and whispered again, what is your hook? Everyone does this work for a personal reason. What is yours?”
I was a little confused by what he meant, but I looked in my heart and knew right away what my personal hook was. It welled up without bidding, taking me back almost 30 years.
“When I was 13, I walked in on my best friend as her grandfather was raping her.” My voice was flat, unemotional. “I can still see the video replay in my mind after all this time. She was crying.”
I paused for a moment and looked into Mack’s eyes to gage whether to go on or not. He had leaned forward; his eyes told me this was somehow important.
“When I entered the room, he got off her and pulled up his pants. I will never forget the smell in the room. Her legs were open. I could see her naked crotch. They were on the bottom bunk and he hit his head on the top and said some bad words I hadn’t heard before. I startled him but he didn’t really seem upset. He casually walked into the bathroom down the hall. I heard the water running in the sink. He came back with a slender piece of soap. He told my friend, Tina, to stop crying, that she would be fine. He said she was a woman now, and then he put the soap up her….you know….her vagina. I didn’t know that word back then. She started moaning and pulling away. He told her to stop it and said the soap would make sure she didn’t get pregnant. I watched him turn and leave the room. We were alone in the house. The family had gone into town for accordion lessons. He did it while I was unloading old lettuce and vegetables he had brought for the pigs. He told me to throw everything from the trailer into the pigpen. Really, I had no idea he was doing that to Tina until I walked in to tell him I had finished.”
Tears stung my eyes unexpectedly. I took a deep breath, paused, and gained control. I did not let any tears fall. I sucked them back.
“That night I held her as we slept in the same bed. She sobbed and begged me not to tell and I never did, well at least until I was about 35. That’s when I told my mom. She was shocked to know I was involved and told me the rest of the story. You see, after that weekend my family moved to another state and I never saw Tina again. I have always wondered what happened to her. My mother said that Tina’s grandfather got another granddaughter pregnant about 2 years later. He was prosecuted and went to jail for a couple of years.“
Mack allowed silence to stretch out into minutes as I sat there, emotionally undone.
“I feel guilty that I didn’t say anything. I did nothing to stop that man. She wasn’t the only one either. He touched all of us. What he did to me was minor compared to what he did to Tina. She knew he would do this to her eventually. I wasn’t as aware, maybe because I only went to her house occasionally. She had to deal with him daily. Now I realize why she begged me not to let anyone know that she had started her period. I never understood it then. She told me he would do it to her when she got her period and she tried to hide it for a long time. I wish I could have done something. He had to have touched dozens of kids. He had about 15 granddaughters. My mother told me he had sex with all the girls. He had 5 sons and most of them hated him when they found out what he had done. Tina’s family was so devastated they moved to another state. I wonder about her. I feel sick sometimes when I think about him. I can still see his smirky smile in my head. He was a big religious man, a deacon or something. I remember that he touched me on a Sunday while I was wearing my red birthday dress, after church got out. The picture will never be erased."
(Note to reader: I know this man’s religious affiliation and status of high rank, but won’t divulge it here in an effort to protect all religions. Sex abuse occurs in every religion and among people of every socio-economic level, race, and culture. I would never want to imply that one group is more affected than another!)
Mack waited in silence until I looked up. I felt tired, limp.
“Congratulations,” he said, holding out his hand to shake mine. He held my hand a few seconds longer and stated with some force, “I’m going to give you the power to put bastards like that in jail.” I was unconsciously holding my breath and I felt the air swoosh from my chest in an exhilarating sigh of relief.
I felt chills run up my body and for a moment I felt as if I was standing outside myself, watching. I distantly heard my voice say that I would do my best. He told me to show up for work the next day at 8 a.m., but I could only hear Tina’s voice in my head. She said, “Now, you can do something to help me. Make it STOP.”
That was the only time in my life I can truly say I received a call. The memory is still vivid. I have never doubted it. Tina’s voice has continually guided my work for more than 10 years. Today she tells me I haven’t finished her work so I keep going. I hope she knows that I think of her often.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Are you trying to scare me?
I dressed in jeans and boots even though I am more comfortable in a long skirt. Mack closed his door and asked me why I wanted to work in this field. He told me it would wear me out and make me cry. He said I would need to have a thick skin, good people skills, excellent memory, and be able to shut up and listen. He said it would be the hardest job I had ever had; long irregular hours, too much paperwork, and serious risk. He said people would yell at me, spit on me, and I would be exposed to horrific crimes against children that would not leave my dreams for years to come. He told me stories about how tires had been slashed, caseworkers were stalked and judges had thrown caseworkers into jail for contempt, because a report was not what they wanted to hear.
“Are you trying to scare me off or hire me?” I asked with a smirk. He laughed and said, “You’ll do, but don’t EVER come back in here and tell me I didn’t warn you!”
Mack was pleased that I had experience working with offenders. He said I would be an asset to his unit because none of the other five caseworkers had this knowledge. He asked what I had learned in working with them.
I paused to think. I told him I would not minimize their crimes, but explained I started out scared, and ended up feeling compassion. Some of them were stupid, young, socially backward, and had grown up without decent parenting. They were often victims too. Mack nodded, his shaggy shoulder length white hair sticking out from under his ball cap. He listened intently but his face held no expression. I found myself wondering what he was thinking.
He quietly commented, “Your new coworkers won’t appreciate your compassion for offenders. They hate them! That’s why you will be good for us; help us remember there are two sides to every story.”
We talked about my history. What prepared me for this leap into the fire? I told him I am been teaching school for 25 years and loved it. He responded that I probably had a pretty good handle on how to talk to kids then. He asked about my biases. I told him I had not enjoyed working with adult female victims because they seemed to whine for a long time before moving forward. I told him I had come in contact with women who claimed to have repressed memory and two who believed they had been victims of ritualistic satanic abuse and I had trouble buying off on it. We talked about cases I had reported during my years as a teacher. I told him two little boys who had disclosed severe sexual abuse at the hands of their father haunted my dreams. They disappeared the night after social workers went to the home and questioned the mother. They were the ages of my daughters and I often wondered where they were and if they had gotten help.
“Were you a victim?” Mack whispered unexpectedly.
My chin jerked up and I stared into dark knowing eyes. I wondered what he would say if I told the truth. Would He still give me the job? I hesitated., not sure how to answer.
“Are you trying to scare me off or hire me?” I asked with a smirk. He laughed and said, “You’ll do, but don’t EVER come back in here and tell me I didn’t warn you!”
Mack was pleased that I had experience working with offenders. He said I would be an asset to his unit because none of the other five caseworkers had this knowledge. He asked what I had learned in working with them.
I paused to think. I told him I would not minimize their crimes, but explained I started out scared, and ended up feeling compassion. Some of them were stupid, young, socially backward, and had grown up without decent parenting. They were often victims too. Mack nodded, his shaggy shoulder length white hair sticking out from under his ball cap. He listened intently but his face held no expression. I found myself wondering what he was thinking.
He quietly commented, “Your new coworkers won’t appreciate your compassion for offenders. They hate them! That’s why you will be good for us; help us remember there are two sides to every story.”
We talked about my history. What prepared me for this leap into the fire? I told him I am been teaching school for 25 years and loved it. He responded that I probably had a pretty good handle on how to talk to kids then. He asked about my biases. I told him I had not enjoyed working with adult female victims because they seemed to whine for a long time before moving forward. I told him I had come in contact with women who claimed to have repressed memory and two who believed they had been victims of ritualistic satanic abuse and I had trouble buying off on it. We talked about cases I had reported during my years as a teacher. I told him two little boys who had disclosed severe sexual abuse at the hands of their father haunted my dreams. They disappeared the night after social workers went to the home and questioned the mother. They were the ages of my daughters and I often wondered where they were and if they had gotten help.
“Were you a victim?” Mack whispered unexpectedly.
My chin jerked up and I stared into dark knowing eyes. I wondered what he would say if I told the truth. Would He still give me the job? I hesitated., not sure how to answer.
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Interview
I had been interviewed several times in different cities within my metropolitan area, to no success. Not even a call back. I began to think I didn’t know anything about social work even though I held degrees in education, psychology and sociology. I decided to sit down in the university bookstore and read the social work 101 text, in an effort to sound more knowledgeable. I remember answering questions and wondering what they were looking for. Obviously, I had no idea.
Finally, the right moment came. I was interviewed by a group of people, all women, one man. He had a rather shaggy appearance, was tall, older, with eyes that pierced through me. When I stated I had been a co-facilitator of both offender and victim groups for the last 3 years, he seemed interested. He asked questions that demanded the use of graphic language. Did he want to know that I could say the words penis and vagina? I answered honestly, quickly, and with passion, and didn’t blush. I was asked to return for another interview.
After I left the building, the man called me. He said up front, he knew I was the person he needed for his unit and he asked if another woman had asked me for a return interview. I admitted she had. He said, “You don’t want to be on her team, trust me, you won’t be happy unless you work for me. Cancel the interview with her and come see me tomorrow. And, by the way, dress down. Just wear your jammies and a ball cap.” I thought, really??? What? I was out of my comfort zone for sure. Didn’t know what dress down meant! (I had worn a suit with hose and heels.)
His name was Mack. I was intrigued and agreed to meet him.
Finally, the right moment came. I was interviewed by a group of people, all women, one man. He had a rather shaggy appearance, was tall, older, with eyes that pierced through me. When I stated I had been a co-facilitator of both offender and victim groups for the last 3 years, he seemed interested. He asked questions that demanded the use of graphic language. Did he want to know that I could say the words penis and vagina? I answered honestly, quickly, and with passion, and didn’t blush. I was asked to return for another interview.
After I left the building, the man called me. He said up front, he knew I was the person he needed for his unit and he asked if another woman had asked me for a return interview. I admitted she had. He said, “You don’t want to be on her team, trust me, you won’t be happy unless you work for me. Cancel the interview with her and come see me tomorrow. And, by the way, dress down. Just wear your jammies and a ball cap.” I thought, really??? What? I was out of my comfort zone for sure. Didn’t know what dress down meant! (I had worn a suit with hose and heels.)
His name was Mack. I was intrigued and agreed to meet him.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
So how did I get myself into this mess, anyway?
If you open your heart to subtle messages and allow yourself to be led rather than forcing your feet to follow a pre-described path, you may be surprised at where you arrive. That’s what happened to me. I found my life’s purpose, while I was blindfolded with noble plans that would have taken me in an entirely different direction.
I was happily teaching music and dance to elementary students when I decided to pursue a degree in psychology, with an additional goal of seeking a master’s degree in dance therapy. I actively researched how the arts help people learn or heal. I taught other teachers how to integrate curriculum, using the arts, and I preached arts like gospel. And I was good at it; talented, energetic, secure.
Then a favorite professor asked me to co-facilitate an adult sex offender group. I remember looking at him and wondering if he was crazy. I had an immediate negative reaction. Actually I felt fear. But, I was also curious and Dr. Fascinating Smart told me that I would be “really good at it”. I was so enthralled by his flattery that I finally gave my consent. This one decision changed the direction of my life’s work.
After overcoming intense fear and humiliating bias, I learned to listen without as much judgment and condemnation. I began to feel compassion, understanding, and connection. I realized that sex offenders are frequently victims of severe childhood abuse. They are often socially immature and intellectually lower functioning. And I learned they could be helped, (contrary to the messages we most often hear in the media). Further, I began to see and feel the success of helping others.
I still wanted to go off to another state to pursue my degree in dance therapy and I explained to Dr. Fascinating Smart that I needed to leave his employ to continue my chosen noble profession. He looked at me like I was crazy. He said very eloquently, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, nobody will pay you to do dance therapy.” I argued. He encouraged me to go look for paying jobs in the field before I wasted a lot of time and money. After an Internet search, I conceded that he knew what he was talking about. Dr. Smart then told me I was the best co-facilitator he had ever hired, and that if I really wanted to do something good for the world, I should go work for DFS as a sex abuse investigator, while getting a master’s in social work. He explained, with a bit of sarcasm, that I would then be able practice any kind of therapy I wanted, including dance therapy and he suggested I would be a little more helpful to the world.
I followed his advice. I think he just didn’t want to have to replace me in the group. The amazing thing is….he knew what was right for me and I’m thankful that he basically told me I was an idiot.
I was happily teaching music and dance to elementary students when I decided to pursue a degree in psychology, with an additional goal of seeking a master’s degree in dance therapy. I actively researched how the arts help people learn or heal. I taught other teachers how to integrate curriculum, using the arts, and I preached arts like gospel. And I was good at it; talented, energetic, secure.
Then a favorite professor asked me to co-facilitate an adult sex offender group. I remember looking at him and wondering if he was crazy. I had an immediate negative reaction. Actually I felt fear. But, I was also curious and Dr. Fascinating Smart told me that I would be “really good at it”. I was so enthralled by his flattery that I finally gave my consent. This one decision changed the direction of my life’s work.
After overcoming intense fear and humiliating bias, I learned to listen without as much judgment and condemnation. I began to feel compassion, understanding, and connection. I realized that sex offenders are frequently victims of severe childhood abuse. They are often socially immature and intellectually lower functioning. And I learned they could be helped, (contrary to the messages we most often hear in the media). Further, I began to see and feel the success of helping others.
I still wanted to go off to another state to pursue my degree in dance therapy and I explained to Dr. Fascinating Smart that I needed to leave his employ to continue my chosen noble profession. He looked at me like I was crazy. He said very eloquently, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, nobody will pay you to do dance therapy.” I argued. He encouraged me to go look for paying jobs in the field before I wasted a lot of time and money. After an Internet search, I conceded that he knew what he was talking about. Dr. Smart then told me I was the best co-facilitator he had ever hired, and that if I really wanted to do something good for the world, I should go work for DFS as a sex abuse investigator, while getting a master’s in social work. He explained, with a bit of sarcasm, that I would then be able practice any kind of therapy I wanted, including dance therapy and he suggested I would be a little more helpful to the world.
I followed his advice. I think he just didn’t want to have to replace me in the group. The amazing thing is….he knew what was right for me and I’m thankful that he basically told me I was an idiot.
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