Saturday, September 15, 2007

Dear Ray,

I imagine you’ll be surprised to hear from me after all this time. The last time we saw each other was eighteen years ago, when my father was in the hospital dying of cancer, and you came to see him, to say goodbye. I know it meant a lot to him that you came. I wonder, though, what he’d have said, what he’d have thought of you if he’d known that you’d raped me.

Even now, twenty-eight years later, my memory of those events is vivid. I was babysitting your kids while you were away visiting your fiancée. You were known as quite a ladies' man—a different girl every night, they said—and everyone was surprised when you announced that you were going to marry again. During the week that you were away, I stayed at your house, looking after your daughter and son. From my first day there, I was concerned for your daughter, Andrea, because she seemed acutely distressed, as though she was constantly on the edge of hysteria and at any moment she might start screaming and not stop. I even called my dad and told him that I was worried about her, and asked him what to do. He suggested that I gently broach the subject with you. But don’t pry, he said. I remember that she had to take those sitz baths every night, sitting in a pan of warm water with baking soda in it, because she had some kind of rash around her genital area.

You came home early. You were due back on Saturday, but you came in on Friday night around 11 o’clock, surprising me. I was in bed, reading. I even remember what I was wearing: a dark green oversized shirt of my father’s that came to the tops of my thighs, with a pair of panties on underneath. I was embarrassed to be seen like that, disheveled, in my pajamas. You said it was too late to take me home, and you invited me into your bedroom to help you unpack, and so I sat on your bed chattering gaily at you while you took things out of your suitcase. I was fifteen years old. You were thirty-eight.

After you finished hanging up your clothes, you sat down on the bed and told me about breaking up with your fiancée. You said you were sad, and you asked me for a hug. I was glad to give it. I’d always liked you. You treated me like I was special—almost an adult—and the way you said my name with your beautiful accent made me feel like I was some rare, exotic creature.

When you embraced me, I hugged you back, and though it felt a little awkward, I hoped I was giving you the comfort you needed. And then you asked me to lie down with you, and although I didn’t really want to do it, I complied. It didn’t feel right, but I didn’t know how to say so. You lay there for a moment, holding me, and then you rolled on top of me. I asked you what you were doing, and you said I was so beautiful that you couldn’t resist me. I remember my growing alarm. I didn't feel outright fear, though, because I trusted you.

I remember your knee pressing my legs apart, and your hand between my thighs, pushing the crotch of my panties aside. When I realized what you intended, I started to struggle. “No, Ray. No. No. Don’t. Please stop.” I said it over and over. I tried to push you off me, but you had me pinned underneath you, and you didn’t stop. You took your penis out and began to penetrate me, and I realized then that the only way to make you stop was to start screaming, but in that moment I thought of Andrea asleep in the other room and I didn’t scream. I said no no no no no , but in order to spare your daughter the trauma of waking up to find her father raping her babysitter, I didn’t scream. That decision seems so ironic to me, now, it seems so naive, because now I realize that you must certainly have been raping her, too. Thankfully, you didn't take long. I remember going back to the spare room, feeling dazed and disquieted, and going to sleep.

Here is what I should have said to you years ago: You raped me. I was fifteen years old, babysitting for you, and you raped me. You were 38, my father’s best friend, and you raped me. You pinned me down on your bed and penetrated me while I pleaded with you to stop. It doesn’t matter that ten years later when you came to my father’s bedside as he was dying I went back with you to your hotel room and fucked you, because at that time I was trying to take back what you had taken from me. I wouldn’t go with you the first night, do you remember? It was going to be up to me that time. I had the power. I got to decide. It was stupid, but I’ve forgiven myself for it. It didn’t fix my memory of the rape. That is still with me.

I have not forgiven you. How old are you now—66? I hope this letter finds you weak. I hope it wounds you, that it sends you into a spasm of shame and despair from which you will not easily recover. I would like to take something from you the way you took from me, because since that day I have never forgotten what it's like to have my humanity, my physical integrity, my personal autonomy suspended while someone uses me for his sexual gratification. I have never been the same, and for that, Ray, you really should be ashamed.

And how is your daughter, Ray? How did Andrea turn out? She was 12 or 13 then, so she’d be 40 or 41 now. Was she able to live a normal life? Is she successful in her career? Happily married? A mother? Does she still speak to you? She loved you so. Is she still alive? Did she survive your abuse? I’ve never seen a young person in as much distress as she was in. It has always bothered me that I didn’t do something to help her, but I was only 15, and it was a long time before I realized what you’d done to me that night was rape. It was even longer before I realized that you were almost certainly raping Andrea, too. I’ve wanted to reach her, to ask her if it was true. I've made a few casual searches for her over the years. but I haven’t found her. I might look for her again sometime. I think it might be important for her to know that someone else realized what was happening to her. I hope she's okay, but the girl I knew that week didn't seem like she was going to be okay. I hope she didn't go the way many victims of incest do - addiction, sex work, suicide. If she did, Ray, know that it was you that did that to her. Know it in your bones. If your daughter acted out the wounds you inflicted on her by harming herself in any manner, it is on your head. You are responsible, you repulsive excuse for a human being.

I never did tell my father. I was protecting him, too. Funny, that. I’ve told everyone else, though: my mother and my brother and my stepmother and all my friends, my boyfriends, my husband. They all know that when I was 15, I was babysitting for my father’s best friend, and he raped me. How many other women and girls did you rape, Ray? I can only imagine. I’ve thought of looking for your other victims, maybe putting ads in the paper or on craigslist, to see if anyone comes forward.

I hope you’re struggling now. I hope your choking on your fear that this could be a bomb going off in your life, but I believe in the resilience of the human spirit. I believe in redemption. Maybe it’s not too late to do the right thing. Maybe you should talk to Andrea, if you haven’t already. Maybe you should come clean.

This belongs to you, Ray. I’ve carried it long enough. It’s time for you to take it back.

17 comments:

Anonymous said...

Thank you for sharing this. What an incredibly powerful letter. And you are an incredibly powerful woman. ((((HUGS)))))

Anonymous said...

Ray is a waste of good breathing air.

Anonymous said...

I totally understand. You are not alone. There are way, way too many Rays out there.

Anonymous said...

Much love to you, 28 Years Later.

28 years later said...

Thank-you (all) for your comments, here and elsewhere.

If you made a comment with your blogger account, I have reposted it anonymously. I don't want anyone to be able to follow you back to your blog and find me there somewhere. I'm sure you understand.

Anonymous said...

Wow. You're an inspiration to all survivors. Thank you for sharing that.

Anonymous said...

Your letter is so powerful, and I am thankful that you have shared it.

Anonymous said...

What an incredible piece. It is his now.

Anonymous said...

Powerful piece. Much love from a stranger.

Anonymous said...

I am very, very impressed with your willingness to confront this, all these years later, and to place ownership where it belongs. The most courageous people are the ones who suffered in private, in silence, and then survived anyway, not allowing the caustic, forbidden nature of their trauma to seduce them into self-destruction.

I'm so glad you posted this here. I hope people who've been similarly wounded come across it, and it can provide them with some inspiration and courage, to reject ownership of their wounding. Best wishes, 28YL.

Anonymous said...

This is amazing.

Would you consider putting in Ray's last name, too?

Though to protect Andrea, her name would be changed, if you did ...

28 years later said...

I would, and I'd post his website with his business address on it, too, but I'm worried about legal repercussions. I've heard plenty of stories about women being sued for libel when they accuse their rapist outside of the justice system.

I did mail him the letter in hard copy. I considered doing some other stuff, but I want to get beyond it, too.

I do still think about Andrea, though.

Anonymous said...

Does it get easier?

28 years later said...

It does. It used to feel more like something I did. Now it feels like something that was done to me. If it happened today I would know how to handle it, but I've forgiven myself for not handling it differently then. It has helped a great deal to acknowledge that I was indeed only fifteen years old. It really doesn't belong to me anymore, and that's a good thing.

Anonymous said...

Amazing. More power to you! Did you ever hear anything back from Ray?

28 years later said...

I didn't include a return address with the hard-copy of the letter. I suppose he could comment here, but I don't believe he's likely to do that. He's a coward.

One of the things I considered doing was asking people to print out and mail him a copy of the letter. I imagined a deluge of letters arriving from far and wide at his place of business, and every one of them the same.

Anonymous said...

Oh wow. I'm just so moved by your letter. It's taken me twenty something years to realise that same thing, that it is not my shame, it belongs to the man (my father) who raped me.
Thank you for putting this out there.