No Longer Silent: Surviving Childhood Sexual Assault
TW: child sexual assault, racial sexualization
When I was twelve years old, I went on my first overseas mission trip. I spoke at churches to raise the money, sent out letters, counted up donations.
I was so excited!
My Army-veteran father sat me down for some serious talks on how to stay safe while traveling, how to “watch my six”, how to pay attention to my surroundings, keep an eye out for faces of people who might not belong.
My mom educated me on staying aware of my body and acting wisely as a godly young lady. They intentionally and purposefully went the extra mile to lovingly teach me how to be safe.
Nobody dreamed the person I should have been warned against was actually the chaperone who agreed to watch out for me.
Nobody imagined this trusted lifetime family friend, my grandfather’s age, was capable of sexual assault.
Nobody knew to teach me how grooming works.
Nobody was around when this well-respected family physician initiated a series of sexual conversations under the guise of “helping you become aware of yourself as a maturing young woman.”
Nobody overheard him quietly telling me how he used to judge “naked beauty contests” of all his nubile nieces and their friends, telling them which one had the prettiest breasts, or the nicest butts, or the most beautiful figure.
Nobody was eavesdropping when he confided which body types he thought were most attractive in his practice as an OB-GYN (Koreans, he said, because they didn’t have much pubic hair and they looked so young).
Nobody was aware of how these secretive comments made me feel like I was given a rare privilege of glimpsing the private world of an experienced medical professional who would of course have NEVER talked about such things to someone unworthy of trust.
Nobody knew of these quiet disclosures, for context, when they DID overhear him making jovial comments to me about how I needed to be careful how much I ate, or I wouldn’t stay slim and lean. Or his remarks about my little gap of missing eyelashes that he said “made your face look chubby”.
Nobody knew that these statements were directly calculated to make me feel inferior and less-than all those other naked young female bodies he privately told me about.
And then, by the end of the trip, sitting next to him in the narrow row of just two seats, on an airplane somewhere over the Pacific Ocean...
Nobody was there when this same man who had spent the past three weeks grooming me, directly and boldly asked me how much pubic hair I was growing yet, since I would be 13 years old soon.
Nobody was close enough to overhear the crack in my voice as I tried not to quaver when I deflected with some childish non-answer.
Nobody else felt the twist of panic in my stomach as he asked if he could check and see “if you’re normal for your age” and then proceeded to run his hand up under my loose, modest, conservative Christian dress to feel (and then peek) inside my underwear.
Nobody heard the SWOOSH-swooshing in my ears as I heard his voice chuckle and say something about not needing to tell anyone about it, and how it was “basically the same thing as a medical exam, and you need to get used to those now that you’re almost a woman.”
Nobody told me that just because someone in power over you is a professional and tells you something, that you might not be required to believe it, because they might be lying to you.
Nobody told me that sometimes when you panic, you freeze instead of fighting back or running away. Besides, when you’re on an airplane and your adult protector is the one you’re supposed to run away from, where exactly are you supposed to go?
Nobody saw it happen, as the other passengers drifted in and out of slumber on the eternal trans-pacific flight.
I didn’t want to believe it had happened either.
So I put it out of my mind and focused on the delightful memories of my first-ever mission trip. The adorable local kids, the beautiful islands, the strange foods, the unforgettable experiences…
Nobody, including me, could figure out why I suddenly showed an intense and visceral distrust of older men after I returned. Most grandpa figures didn’t trigger it, but occasionally I would cross paths with an older man and instantly take a strong dislike to him. I had no idea this new radar might be connected to what had happened to me.
Nobody talked about molestation back then, and consequently...
Nobody thought to tell me that sexual assault wasn’t the only form of abuse.
Nobody realized they needed to teach me that I should watch out for other things too. Things like psychological terrorism and gaslighting and flying monkeys. Things like emotional and verbal abuse, spiritual abuse, financial abuse, and social manipulation.
Everybody kept quiet about those things.
Not because they didn’t care; but because most often, they simply didn’t have the words.
I didn’t know there was a name for what had happened to me, until about a year later when I saw a little brochure about sexual abuse at a doctor’s office. I felt sick in my gut as I realized the smudged leaflet was describing something very much like what had happened to me on that airplane.
Cautiously, I tried to hint to my mother, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, or make her ashamed of me.
The most accurate words tasted dirty in my mouth and I couldn’t even speak them.
This man had been our family’s close friend since before I was born. I found it almost impossible to reconcile the cognitive dissonance.
Surely he hadn’t MEANT to do that?
Surely he hadn’t KNOWN what he was doing?
I processed the trauma years later in therapy during college.
I checked with other young women I knew to be in his social circle and warned them to “be careful.”
Because that’s what girls do for each other when we don’t know we have real options such as filing official reports with law enforcement... When we have been subconsciously conditioned to take the responsibility upon ourselves to make sure we don’t get assaulted, instead of holding an exploitative predator accountable.
As an abuse advocate and recovery coach — I’m fully aware that even if I had reported it to law enforcement as an adult, nothing would be done.
It happened decades ago.
It didn't happen on US soil.
What did it matter that he was in his 50s and I was a prepubescent child? There was no physical proof then. There certainly wouldn’t have been residual proof years later.
For some, those reasons are enough to stay silent.
And yet, I could not help but wonder…
if I had known my options back then
if I had known the names for what happened
if I had known it was a crime
if I had known it wasn’t my fault
if I had known it wasn’t “just like a medical exam”
if I had known what grooming looks like
if I had known that even trusted, warm, funny, charming, respected, professional people can be dangerous…
Would my childish voice have been enough?
Could I have saved some other girl, or many... from being assaulted too?
How many of his "nubile nieces" experienced what I did, or something even worse? How many of his female patients? How many children among congregations where he fellowshipped?
Looking back, I realize he was no novice.
I was not his first conquest, likely far from his last.
I ask myself the same questions today.
He’s dead now. He lived into his eighties -- still highly respected, still a prominent church and medical leader.
Ready for justice? Join the tidal wave rising.
Back then, I didn’t have a voice, and...
Nobody knew I needed someone to speak for me.
“Shout with the voice of a trumpet blast.
Shout aloud! Don’t be timid.
Tell my people Israel[a] of their sins!
Is this what you call fasting?
Do you really think this will please the Lord?
“No, this is the kind of fasting I want:
Free those who are wrongly imprisoned;
lighten the burden of those who work for you.
Let the oppressed go free,
and remove the chains that bind people.
“Then your salvation will come like the dawn,
and your wounds will quickly heal.
Your godliness will lead you forward,
and the glory of the Lord will protect you from behind.
Then when you call, the Lord will answer.
Then you will be known as a rebuilder of walls
and a restorer of homes.”
Isaiah 58
Now, my voice joins the tidal wave rising.
Now, my voice speaks out on behalf of those who are the same way I was then — naive, trusting, preyed upon.
Now, my voice is dedicated to inspire others to raise theirs in protection of the defenseless and vulnerable.
Now… I am no longer silent.
Watch the original telling of this story:
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