By Maybe Burke
You will never see a day in prison.
When I was fourteen years old you were twenty-three. You would pick me up in your car late at night and drive me around. I had to sneak out of the back door of my basement so no one knew. We would drive around for however long you wanted before you made your move. Your hand would start on my knee, your other hand still steering the car. To this day anytime somebody touches my knee, I feel your hand. But you will never see a day in prison.
As we drove, your hand would creep up my thigh, into my shorts. I usually wore loose fit shorts. The conversation always fell silent by this point. We weren’t talking about anything. We didn’t talk about what was happening. You never asked me if I wanted you touching me. But you will never see a day in prison.
This happened for a long time. Too long. With too many people. I was well aware that I was not the only kid you were doing this to. You would send me naked pictures of kids I was friends with. Pictures I now refer to as child pornography. These would be pictures they sent to you, but often were stolen. You told me you would send yourself pictures from their phones when they weren’t looking, or take pictures of them in dressing rooms. You once sent me a picture of my friend sleeping in a hospital bed because you thought he looked “hot” without his shirt on. You would tell me about picking kids up from school or finding an empty parking lot late at night. You would drive around with them the same way you did with me. Getting them to trust you. Getting to touch them. You had a network of young people who were craving attention and you normalized the idea of using our bodies for your own pleasure. But you will never see a day in prison.
On my 18th birthday I told myself it was over, that I was too old for you. I was wrong. By my 20th birthday I figured I was an adult so I wouldn’t have to deal with a pedophile anymore. But I was addicted. Every time I got lonely, or sad, or experienced any heightened emotion, my body knew you would be there. I started resembling what could have been mistaken for consent. I would reach out to you, I would initiate conversations. But that’s what you conditioned me to do. Your calculated moves made sure you were the one I called when I was lonely. But you will never see a day in prison.
Eventually, I broke the cycle. I would leave you waiting outside when you came to pick me up so you’d get mad. I would cancel on you until you lost interest, so I couldn’t turn to you anymore. Years later, when you were probably about 30, I found out you went on a cruise with a kid who had just graduated from High School. A recent High School graduate might not legally be a minor, but how long was this going on? How long did you manipulate him before you got him to go on a cruise with you? How long was it before you started calling each other Bubby? I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I hadn’t realized that just because I outgrew you, that didn’t mean you outgrew this sickness you have. You are a pedophile. But you will never see a day in prison.
So I decided to speak up. Something I had always put off doing, as many victims of sexual assault do. I was constantly belittling my experience, telling myself it wasn’t that big of a deal, buying into the lies so much of the world tells us about our bodies and sex. But knowing it was happening to other people, knowing it was still happening, I couldn’t stay silent anymore. I reported what you had done to me. I told the police the things you did to me when I was a minor, and how many other kids you took advantage of. I had to go through everything, how we met, how I snuck out at night, how you touched me, where you put your mouth. I had to re-live everything I spent years trying to forget. But you will never see a day in prison.
The next day, the detective working on the case had me call you. Apparently, that’s the typical next step they take. Have me try to get you to confess. They recorded the conversation. I was instructed to say your name, get you to say my name, talk about how you touched me, and have you acknowledge that you knew I was underage. Bonus points if we talked about someone else, too. I was verbally manipulating the man who sexually manipulated me for years. I thought I was going to vomit. Vomiting used to be one of my biggest fears, but, of course, I had never considered the option of having a phone conversation with the man who used to rape me while sitting across from a detective I had just met. But you’ll never see a day in prison.
They arrested you a full two months later. You made bail that same night. You spent only a few hours behind bars. The police have two written confessions from you and a recording of the phone call where you told me, “I was aware that you were underage and I took advantage of you and others.” But you will never see a day in prison.
I had to testify in front of the Grand Jury. When I walked in, four men laughed. I’m still not sure if it was at the way I looked or just at the fact that I was abused as a child. One man didn’t stop laughing the whole time I was there.
They swear me in.
They laugh.
I am asked the standard questions. I recount my sexual trauma.
They laugh.
“He put his hand down the back of my pants.”
Laugh.
“He put his mouth on my penis.”
Laugh.
“He made me feel like I was special.”
Laugh.
But you will never see a day in prison.
When I decided to report you, I knew I was one of at least six people you had done this to. My count has since doubled; I’m sure there are more. More innocence you’ve stolen. More lonely kids you’ve made feel special for your own benefit. Only one other person felt comfortable coming forward with me. The rest are either still in denial, scared of the stigma of being a victim, or trying to get on with their lives and forget you ever happened to them. I respect their choices, and I know now why so many people don’t report or follow through on reporting sexual assault. The process is long, emotional, and incredibly personal. My sex life was under a microscope. I was asked questions I never would have even thought were relevant. My body and my choices became mere pieces of information and topics of discussion. But you will never see a day in prison.
They offered you a plea deal with no jail time. They offered you, a man who has raped more people than I can count on both hands, the chance to get off without going to prison. This, I’m sure, can be credited mainly to your whiteness. As a white man, your actions, even when proved to have a pattern, are seen as mistakes. People are so ready to defend the reputation of white men in this country, discounting the lives they have ruined or severely impacted even when they have three official confessions from you. You confessed to things I didn’t even mention, proving that this all happened, and they still offered for you to get the smallest possible punishment. Level One Sex Offender and ten years probation. But you will never see a day in prison.
You got thirty people to write letters on your behalf, promising that you are a good guy. We call them “good guy” letters. They prove nothing besides the fact that you’re a charming, nice person who could easily get kids to trust him. The people you chose to write these letters clearly need a lesson on what consent looks like. Sexual assault is not always forceful or violent. Coercion is a form of assault. The worst part is, nine of the letters were written by people I know. Three of them were people I once considered friends. When their letters were read to me, it was apparent that they did not think what you did was wrong. And when the court sentenced you without jail time, it was clear that they didn’t either, even though you ruined the innocence of at least one dozen children in my life. But you will never see a day in prison.
I don’t even know if I necessarily want you to go to prison. I grapple with how flawed our prison system is and how you won’t get what you really need there, however, letting you go with such a small slap on the wrist is simply unfair. It is telling all of the people you hurt that their pain doesn’t matter. It is telling you that your actions don’t have significant consequences. It is perpetuating the myth that sexual assault, even when proven to have a pattern, is not a big deal. Again, this decision is severely impacted by your being a white man, and I’m sure aided by our being queer. People are still so quick to belittle sexual assault, even more so when the victims are not cis women. With the over-sexualization of queer men and trans people in our culture, consent is assumed to be a given in most situations. People are still being influenced by the misconception that an erection is consent. No matter what external factors there were, I could have showed up to your house naked and begging you to touch me, but I was still underage. It was still wrong. It was still illegal. But you will never see a day in prison.
A year ago I had to call my father to explain to him how you used to rape me. I’ve had to explain it to my mother, my brothers, friends, every partner I’ve ever tried to have sex with, a detective for special victims, three Assistant District Attorneys, a woman they call my “Victim Advocate”, and a room of roughly 30 people known as the Grand Jury.
But you will never see a day in prison.
Queers Queering Queerness 