Sexual violence on campus: Courage has no age

When my sister Diana burst out crying to tell me something was wrong on that casual, ordinary day that I repeatedly try to erase from my memory, I thought it was probably because she had missed her favorite show or because of some trivial childish whim—at the time, she was just 9 years old. But her cries became wails and her inability to speak overturned my initial instincts. I immediately panicked and continued to press for information, and after a while of exasperated sobbing and incessant “what”s from me, one word fell out of her mouth:

“Edgar.”

There was no need for more.

Edgar was our recently acquired stepfather, who had been living with us for about three months. I didn’t like him, and upon hearing his name, I began to feel a sentiment approximating hate. She didn’t need to explain anything as I felt the hate intensifying, knowing he had crossed some line.

“I don’t feel safe,” was the next thing Diana managed to utter.

I freaked out, asking her a million questions that I would finish off mid-sentence before a new one started to form in my mind. The uncertainty of what she would tell me weighed me down more than anything I had ever carried before. I knew that I would be completely crushed by the time she was through.

After what seemed like an eternity suspended in chaos, common sense finally rescued me and I calmed down and listened, perhaps the hardest thing I had to do. Diana needed that from me. She began to speak with less fear and less trembling in her voice.

“When I went to the bathroom to clean the juice spill off my shirt, Edgar came in and asked me to take it off so that he could clean it for me. So I took it off but I felt really uncomfortable. Instead of cleaning it, he bent down and, and, and ...”

Her voice became faint and she was stuttering. So I filled in the gaps with all sorts of different endings, all wishful thinking on my part.

“No, no, no, no,” she said with tears in her eyes. “And he touched me here and licked it.” She pointed to the nipple on her breast.

I started jumping, screaming, agonizing over my impotence in the situation. My hate wanted direction—I wanted to kill him. Had he been in the house at that very moment, I very well might have.

“I was so afraid. He asked me if it tickled. I didn’t answer and ran downstairs fast. It tickled but I felt so weird. I don’t feel good.”

I reassured my sister that she had done the right thing and that none of this was her fault. I told her that he was going to pay and directed just about every dirty word possible at him. My brother Raul said nothing as the whole revelation unfolded, merely looking at me with a look of helplessness, wondering what he could do yet aware that the past could not be changed. And yet changing the past was all he wanted to do. His look will never fade from my memory. For the first time, I saw true anger in him.

After suffering the impact of the horrific news, I called my mother and told her what had happened. She and my grandma came immediately home to address the situation. My mother handled Edgar. We never saw him again.

My sister’s courage and bravery amazed me. She is so strong for speaking up about something so unfamiliar at such a young age, and in doing so, she saved herself from a perhaps more perilous situation with Edgar in the future. Thanks to her honesty, we were able to initiate some investigations on Edgar. Although no official indictment could take place against him for lack of forensic evidence, the inquiry will remain on his record for the rest of his life. Should he repeat such pernicious behavior in the future, there will be no doubt that a precedent took place.

As the investigators made clear, his techniques were those of a repeat offender, but because no allegations were made by anyone else before, nothing concrete could be held against him other than our word against his. And the reason this is so is his other supposed victims’ silence. Silence empowers abuse. And today I can say that we have changed the past and that Raul’s eyes can rest. In speaking up and taking action, we have changed the past for someone else whose “present” might have been what my sister lived.

The author is a Consent is Sexy coordinator.