Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


When I was 19 years old I was sexually abused by a man much older than I. The only person that knew about it, right after it happened, was my boyfriend at the time. He was living in another town so my news got to him over the phone. Not sure, to this day, what his reaction was. On the phone, it sounded like no reaction at all.

For a long time, I left it at that, just a piece of news, that I got to share with a friend, in passing. The only person I really wanted to talk to about this was my mom, since the man who did this to me was one of her long-time friends, actually a friend of the family. I used to call him “uncle”. I will generically refer to him as “fake uncle”.

When I was growing up, looking and sounding plain, childish and just mildly curious about life in general, I was just another child to him. Fresh out of high-school and in a big city, at 19, I was (in my mind) still a child, but with more defined features, more feminine I suppose.

oana 6. (2)

Personal photo archive. February 1989

My “uncle” was my mentor, my guide in a strange place, the only thing close to family. He insisted my parents allow me to come to university in the capital city, because “there are more opportunities” at a career and a better life. Little did I know what those opportunities proved to be.

In my first semester of college, I was secluded and shy, did not go out much. I shared my dorm room with a sweet Vietnamese Law student, towards whom I felt a certain “obligation” to protect. She was very far away from home, in a big city with little friends. I took upon myself to make sure she is not taken advantage of. Through her, I met my other perpetrator, a public person, whose name I will and can not mention. I will generically call him “Wolf”.

“Wolf” was more subtle that my “uncle”. A man of the world, educated, smart, moving in high-up circles, very much like my “fake uncle” actually. A club of some sort these two seemed to be a part of. Well dressed, well-mannered (or so I thought), extremely intelligent. I felt the comfort of talking about any subject imaginable, from history, architecture, poetry to traveling and…intellectual property. Now, my “fake uncle” was very <sciency>, while “Wolf” was more attracted to belletristic and reciting poems to unknown 19-years old girls, not as “aggressive” in his manners as my “uncle” but just as inappropriate.

Both fit some type of predator, both closer in age (almost 60’s at the time), well dressed like I said, rich, always traveling, never at home with their families. They followed a pattern in the way they were addressing me, an old school style of engaging in conversation, giving the impression they knew way more than they let out and eager to show me the entire world if I let them. Little did they know how unenthused I was about that “world”.

Coming from a middle-class family, raised by a fierce grandma who taught me ALL there is to know about life, I was not surprised by these poor attempts of courtship. I knew exactly who I was and what I will continue to be. I must say I was puzzled about all the attention I was getting and simply because I always felt less interesting than other people of my age. I felt like a poor student for a long time, barely making ends meet on my first year, a bit modest in everything (appearance, intellect, or that’s how I felt) among my classmates. BUT I was content with what I was. I WAS ENOUGH to get by.

Not for one minute did I believe I brought “it” upon myself. My “fake uncle” overstepped repeatedly until the day I put my foot down and confronted him about his predatory behavior. He had no reaction, he was unfaced, grinning at me. He dragged me close to him and stuck his tongue deep into my mouth. That was his apology. I only wished he had a daughter somewhere that will one day go through what I was going at that very moment.

“Wolf” had been chasing me for a couple of months, in person and over the phone. “Reciting” his “love” for me in stupid poems and long text messages that made my stomach turn. Luckily for him, he understood his position and withdrew his “attentions” leaving me wondering what was really wrong with the world.

These two men appeared in my life at the same time, wanting and going for the same things, getting nowhere. I did not ask for anything, I did not initiate anything, I was pretty much oblivious for a while. The fact that I could rest my head at night not feeling ashamed of myself was my biggest motivator.

This is not another story to add to the “Me Too” movement, it’s simply a reminder of how life turned out to be for me after all was done and over with; an ode to the person I am today and the lessons I learned in the process. It is incongruous, in a way, how little people actually knew about this story. No telling the family or friends, no reporting anything and anybody. I was not keeping silent because of the embarrassment or the consequences, I kept silent because I did not want to be another statistic. I knew nothing will change. They will never change. I never changed. I kept my head as high as before.

The reason I write about it today is that my mom called just a little bit ago, telling me my “fake uncle” passed away this morning after a long-suffering. I know they were close and good friends for over 40 years. Not a muscle was moving on her face when she delivered the news. My mom knew everything and she knew it all and more for a long time. The funny thing is that I sometimes casually say that there is karma there, a life destined for each and every one of us, but not sure how fully I believe in that prospect.

I was not happy at the news, or sad. I felt nothing and everything at once. It’s a passing that I wish would have happened with more meaning. I lit a candle and poured a drink in the middle of the day and for a just a split second I imagined how an apology would like on his face; if not for me at least for my mother, for she had to live and hold my burden just as much and for as long as I did.