Blame on You!-victims of Sexual Abuse

How blaming the victim hurts them

It may take a while for the trauma to wear away, and it might even eat away at your psyche for some time to come. But there is a healing after such a violent wound.

I was born in big city in the Northeast. We then moved to a vicinity of that big city, which had a diverse cultural population. I also grew up in the late ’60s, early ’70s. There was already racial strife, but more was to come because of the bussing issue in our city, and in other larger towns nearby. I befriended many whites, Italians, Mexicans, Haitians; you name it, our city had a melting pot.

During the ’60s and ’70s, militant blacks were engaged in a discourse between White America, which wasn’t always conducive. I carried around in my back jean pockets an Afro pik, a symbol of my racial pride that had a black fist tightly gestured on the pick handle. I walked around my high school as if I were Angela Davis myself (a black militant activist). Actually, it wasn’t that far from the truth because I had uncles in California that became very close her, especially when she was underground. But we all had a sense of pride about her.

I digress. The point I would like to make early on here is that I came to distrust White America, then came to realize that we are all the same. That was to be short-lived though. I had also inherited a gene from my family that caused me to become allergic to alcohol. I was part Native American and I truly believe that Native Americans have an enzyme in their bodies where they are not able to absorb and assimilate alcohol like other races.

I digress again. The point I want to make now is that after realizing we are all not that different, while in a much inebriated state of mind, I ventured outside of my “neighborhood”, if only embrace the other side. I was embraced all right…This particular neighborhood bar was filled with laughter and gaiety, what you would expect in a bar on the corner of a city block. You know, smoked-filled and a stale stench. Not the best part of the neighborhood, but I began to trust again.

I was asked by one of the regulars seated there if I wanted to go to a party. A party? Why wouldn’t I want to go to a party? I was well-lit and when at that capacity, I never wanted to go home. So, a party it was. I got into my new friend’s vehicle, and we began approaching the house where the party was to be held. I said, “The house is so dark. I thought there was a party?”

My new friend answered, “Shhhh…It’s a surprise party.” Ooooh…okay, I said. We tiptoed up to the darkened entrance, and he led me into the kitchen area. Soon, after downing a couple more drinks, we moved into the living room area. I asked my new friend once again about the party. He replied, “I already told you. It’s a surprise party!” I noticed a curtained area and a slight movement behind it.

A “gentleman” came out from behind the curtain and yelled, “Surprise! You are the party!”

My trust in mankind has withered.