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.

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.

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.

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.