An open letter to a blind man

When I was twelve, you moved into my apartment complex. We kids liked you immediately. You had two kids of your own, and you really seemed to like kids. You took us to do fun stuff, like hang out at Newark Airport and watch the planes from the observation deck. You took us to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and the Statue of Liberty. You once took us sledding in the trailer of your 18-wheeler, telling some dozen kids to stay absolutely quiet until the truck stopped so that the cops wouldn’t pull you over and arrest you. It’s one of the coolest memories I have: A bunch of kids and their sleds in the back of your truck, shushing each other as you drove it through the snow to the nearby park so we could take advantage of the great sledding hill. You accepted us all, and we were a group of kids from all ages, four to fifteen.

Except.

Except now, every time I think of you, I think of her, and what you did to her. She was fifteen.

She was fifteen, and you were thirty-six. She was fifteen, and you were in a position of power and authority. She was fifteen, and you abused your power and authority. You had sex with her. She was fifteen. Your oldest child was two years younger than she. You were thirty-six. And you were married.

She didn’t tell me about it then, but I had my suspicions. Your wife didn’t like her. She liked all the rest of us, but she didn’t like her. She always seemed angry with her. But I, in my naivete, pushed aside my doubts. No way you’d do anything like that. No way she would do anything like that. No. It wasn’t happening.

Except it was. Many years later, she told me about it as she and I were talking, reminiscing, on her mother’s sofa. I brought up your name. She got angry. She doesn’t think of you kindly. She hates that you took advantage of her. She loathes you now. That one conversation made me change entirely the way I think of you. It made me remember the visit I had with you when I was in my late teens, and the strange vibe I got from you that night. I had brushed that off and forgotten it, too. Until that night on the sofa with her.

Then your daughter found me via my website. She made contact, sent you my email address without asking me, assuming that I would want to get back in touch with you. I take it that she doesn’t know. I am not surprised.

I ignored your emails. I told you I was busy. Then I ignored them again, hoping you would take the hint. You did not. Your daughter emailed me, reminding me that you are old and feeling your age, and wanted to get in touch with people you used to know. You played the sympathy card. You sent a picture of us kids at Newark Airport, hoping that would get a reaction out of me. And still, I ignored you. Finally, you sent an email that let me know you knew why I was ignoring you. You asked, “Why won’t you talk to me? Is it [her]? I loved her! I never hurt her.” Disgusted, I did not reply.

Two weeks ago, you sent me another letter demanding that I talk to you, and pass along your contact info to her. So I sent you a response, finally. I told you there is no chance in hell that I will ever give her your messages, and to leave me alone.

But you didn’t. “what’s ur problem???” you wanted to know. You continued to play the innocent, which is not a role you play very well.

Finally, you pushed me to tell you why. Because she was fifteen. Because you were married. Bastard. That, I thought, would be that.

But no. You sent me another one, which I have to republish in its entirety to get the enormity of it across to my readers:

UR A GROWN WOMAN NOW, AND U SEEM TO BE INTELIGENT… ASK HER SHE SEDUCED ME… AND I’M STILL MARRIED TO JUDY, AND I HAVE 4 CHIDREN AGE 11 TO TO 27… AND I’M NOW 72!!! 15 GOING ON 30 FOR Ur INFORMATION, BELIEVE ME I HAD TO RUN AWAY FROM HER… GROW UP WHEN A JEWISH WOMAN SEZ I WANT TO SEE YAH!!! IT’S ALL OVER… TELL HER I’VE NEVER FORGOT HER, AND NEVER WILL… GROW UP!!!

I have grown up. I am far from the thirteen-year-old child who refused to believe something because it was unpleasant. I am the grown woman who told you that what you did was called statutory rape. I am the grown woman who knows that you are a sick, twisted, perverted old man who is unable to admit that he was in the wrong when he used that child. Let me reiterate: She was fifteen. You were thirty-six. You had sex with a minor. You had sex with a child. It doesn’t matter how mature you pretend she was. She was fifteen. In fact, if you do the math, she was probably fourteen when it started.

She didn’t have a license. She couldn’t drive. There is only one way you could have had sex with her. You would have had to meet her somewhere when she told her parents she was with someone else, or you would have had her sneak out of the house at night to meet you, like you did that night that I slept over. She and her sister and I all sneaked out of the house and met you on the corner. You drove us to a diner, we had a blast, you drove us home. How many times did you do that with her? How many times did she sneak out of the house to meet you? Did you use the van? The station wagon? How long would it have gone on if she and her family hadn’t moved out of state? Who were you gunning for next? Her sister? Me?

Disgusting.

And yet, you managed to sink even lower. Because I responded to you for what I thought would be the last time. I told you it was statutory rape. I told you she hated you now. I told you I will never tell her that you’re trying to contact her. She hates you, I repeated, trying to get you to understand that I loathe you, too.

And you acted like I said nothing out of the ordinary.

the last few years i’ve read some of Ur work, for what it means i’m proud of U… i never regretted what happened, and never will… If U only knew the truth…anyway here’s some picturesof my family… [daughter] and [son] are fine… sorry to say my daughter never married or have any children… Oh!!!! did U get the picture??? Anyway here’sthe latest…

I do know the truth. The truth is, she was fifteen. You were thirty-six. You abused her. No matter which way you turn it, what you did was detestable. Your “pride” means absolutely nothing to me. Your lack of regret is repugnant to me. You’re a sad, twisted old man, with warped memories. It’s been at least ten years since I thought of you fondly. Now, every time your name comes up in conversation, I feel disgust. Those happy memories have been forever tainted, because all I can think of is her, and what you did to her, when your name comes up.

She was fifteen. You were thirty-six. You used her, and you abused her, and she hates you for it now. She will despise you until her dying day.

And so will I. But I won’t tell her how you’re lying to yourself about what happened between you two. I won’t let you hurt her again.

She was fifteen.

You are a bastard.