Martha Speaks, Mary Speaks

I love the PBS show Martha Speaks. Martha is a very lovable talking dog who teaches vocabulary lessons. One of the reasons I love PBS kids is the safety inherent in these child-centered communities. Such safe places.

In today’s episode Martha becomes discouraged when her constant chatter is not appreciated. She neglects her speech and has to resume talking quickly to foil a crime.

I feel for Martha. Often people don’t appreciate words. Some things are difficult to face, much less talk about. This episode always makes me grateful for those who expose crime and injustice. Like my adopted daughter, for instance. She helped her little sister get help. She spoke out.

Thanks kid.

This is you.

I know people would prefer I not write or talk about what happened to my family. I know because they tell me to shut up. I know because they tell other people I am a liar or crazy or at fault. The lines of thinking are terrible and wretched. But the abuse itself….

Is haunting.

I write about what it feels like to have adopted a predator because predators are common. Yesterday I saw an arresting picture of a “shark circle”–hundreds of fish in schools carefully leaving a distance of a few yards between themselves and the shark.

You gotta know a shark to avoid a shark. What if the sharks could assume the shape of an ordinary fish? What would happen to the schools?

I write to stay off of drugs. If I articulate the enduring pain and hauntedness of what happened to my babies I am debreeding a deep and terrible wound. I don’t know if it will ever truly heal.

My adopted son made himself out to be safe. But he wasn’t. My children were victimized. That does not go away.

But I think somehow that if I cry out, mourn, and wail for the things we have lost in trust, hope, and community perhaps my children will not have to.

Or at least they will not grieve alone.

Dearest Child

Dear Girl,

I found out about you from another mother who, like myself, became a child advocate after discovering her child was abused.

We are an ornery bunch–the moms who speak out. Our social media pages are littered with appeals for greater care. Greater care for our kids. Greater care for you.

I don’t know your name. I pray you are safe. I will continue to pray for you. You need to know some things:

You are a crime victim.
You need safety and a chance to heal.
Sex is not who you are, nor is it a way of valuing you.
You are a precious young woman and your innocence was stolen from you.
Terrible, but worse that it was taken by your own mother.

You deserve better.

You deserve a real mom.

A real mom would fight like a wild dog to keep you safe.

A real mom would make a fool of herself to protect you.

A real mom would tell the truth and do whatever she could to…

Give you love
Life
Safety
Hope.

You deserve a real mom.

I am here if you need me little one.

The Picture

The poster shows familiar faces–Oprah, Ashley Judd, Tori Amos. There are people in it I did not know were sexual abuse survivors. I was a struck by the stories I did not know as the dozens of people who were survivors who weren’t on the poster.

Each made a choice to tell their story. Each has helped me to tell ours.

Victims become survivors when someone shows them they are not alone. What happened to them has happened to others.

We need to speak out.

To heal
To save others
To break the power of silence

Equality! And the wrong sides of history

Let’s say, just hypothetically, that you arranged a legal transaction with a person who turned out to be immoral, abusive, felonious. Now suppose after years of attempting to do your best to hang on to the relationship you are forced into the difficult decision of protecting yourself–from abuse.

Now consider two potential wrinkles to this scenario:

You are a child and your “legal partner” is an adult.

Or….

You are a parent and your “legal partner” is a dangerous minor.

In the first scenario children are at the mercy of a legal system that does not want to intervene on their behalf. Why? Money, Oh, and maybe discomfort. But there is a third option–older people get significantly reduced sentences or no punishment at all for serious or deadly crimes against children because children do not have equal protection under the law.

They do not have equivalent civil rights.

And parents of mentally ill or abusive teens? Just try finding legal protection from abuse. It would make sense to simply call the police when a crime occurs, but parents are on their own if their abuser is their own child.

The law should be the arena of protection for a civilized society, but the murders of Thomas More and Dietrich Bonhoeffer were legal. We are not only as good as the laws we enact; we are only as just as the ones we choose to enforce.

Immoral laws, immoral judges, and myopic citizens make for a country where a baby can be shot in the face on the street and a distracted nation thinks it is a brave new world for futzing over the sexual practices of adults.

Oh, yeah…Brave New World.. Thank you, Mr. Huxley, for giving us all a prophetic heads up on how all this will end.

Hypothetical Family

In the fall of 2009 our family as we knew it imploded in a fierce burst of awful. This was after years of maintenance strange and two years of ascending chaos as our adopted daughter burst forth into mental decline. Epic mental decline. Followed by the revelation that her biological brother was a pedophile. Then things got worse…

Actually, not worse. Safer and blindingly honest. Grandparents punished the victims and rewarded the perps. Uncles were cowards. Aunts were um, not helpful.

The nuclear families that my husband and I had been born into were destructive forces. I think that the stigma of being in a relationship with the victims of sexual abuse was too much for them to handle. They blamed the victims. It was like an acid bath. They said terrible things.

I drew a wall around us. There were months of fasting and debilitating heath problems. There was our children’s grief. There was the cost to our marriage. It was enough.

We skipped a wedding. We cut off our phone. We changed. Our family became orphaned not just from these near familial relations but also from a church we had served for years.

Our older children remember. Our young ones do not. They do not know their aunts or uncles, their grandmothers or grandfather. My son knows that my father died the year he was born. He knows that we live on a small island of ourselves. He sees these relationships played out on the children’s shows he watches. Dora has a cousin named Diego. Word Girl has a cool grandfather. Every so often one of us will refer to the missing uncle or grandmother he does not know. His eyes will light up as though we are discussing Christmas–I have a grandfather?!. He will ask incredulously.

Yes, I say.

Then his face grows serious. Oh, but he is not safe for us, right?

Right, I say, he is not safe.

The loneliness and loss in his face is the reminder: the ghost of hypothetical family.

Maldives Rape 2

Upset?

First step–google “contact Maldives”

Email a few of these tourism sites and tell them you will NOT visit their lovely but despotic spot of sand until they protect young children from rape.

Next contact your representatives. Tell them you want the US to raise concern about this vicious and destructive law.

The Maldives survive on tourist dollars. Help send them a message–state sponsored terrorism of raped children is not compatible with happy tourists.

And…research western interests/resorts in the Maldives. Complain. It will take a lot of voices to help these girls. So agitate.

And please– spread the word.

Maldives Rape

I remember missionaries who taught in the Maldives recounting a story about their students cheering the destruction of 9/11.

Now this: Maldives whips rape victims. They take girls who have been sexually abused and whip them 100 times.

It is hard to be a rape victim anywhere. But in the Maldives the perps are handed a carte blanche to abuse.

Poor little ones. If their stepdads don’t get them, the law will.

The First Day

The first day was awful. Awful because it meant I failed my kids. Awful because we weren’t safe. Awful because I believed a lie about someone I loved. And the truth about him was awful.

The first day you find out your child has been sexually abused is also a very important day for good things–

The first day I knew my adopted son abused my child was the last day of her abuse. She has been safer because she told.

The first day is important because when you tell you save others from abuse. All kids deserve safety.

The first day you just aim to survive. And love your kid, because she needs to know how precious she is.

I asked my kids today what they would tell a kid on the first day. They said:

it is not your fault
It is good you told
This happens to a lot of kids
You are brave
And this won’t ruin your whole life, it won’t be your whole life.

The last one means a lot to me. It means we are surviving. We are living through this together.

And if we can, so can you

Sex and the Super Bowl

So the Super Bowl is a magnet for sexual slavery and child abuse. What can you do about it?

1. Pray. God honors our prayers.

2. Contact the NFL. Tell them you are going to skip the commercials.

3. Contact the sponsors Let them know that you plan to watch the game but boycott their increasingly violent, sexualized ads.

4. Tell your friends. I did not even realize this was an issue until a friend posted it on a social media site.

5. Contact the teams directly. Tell them you are concerned about forced sexual slavery in New Orleans surrounding the Superbowl.

6. Contact the NOPD Ask what they plan to do to fight sex trafficking during this event.

With the exception of prayer (free and universal), most of this personal activism can be made through online email forms or social media.

Just imagine what it would look like if we all raised our concerns on Facebook or Twitter to say let’s stop the abuse of children and the vulnerable this year at the Super Bowl.

There is an awful lot of money at stake. But one child saved is worth every penny.

And please….spread the word.