Empowerment
So, S did it--last Monday, she went through an interview that lasted over an hour about her abuse. She was as prepared as she could possibly be, I think. We had talked about everything that could go wrong, from her abusers getting angry and trying to find us to going all the way to trial and losing at the end. She still wanted to do it. She wrote down everything she could remember about each abuser, and she practiced reading what she'd written, and I pretended to be an officer who needed more details.
Last Monday afternoon, we got the call. The officer made small talk about the weather. Then he put the recorder on, asked me if I was the only legal parent of my daughter, asked if he had my permission to interview her. And then, she said, "I have it all written down," and began to read. Two sentences in, he interrupted her. It wasn't enough to say she was raped, or tortured, or neglected--she had to be specific about body parts and where they went and how often, about why she couldn't open the refrigerator to get food when she was hungry, and what would happen if she did. It was heartbreaking and also awe-inspiring to hear her calmly answer each question directly and honestly. Truthfully, she did much better than I expected.
At the end, he asked if there was anything else she wanted to say. She calmly leafed through her four pages of notes and read off anything she hadn't already covered, then responded to more questions.
In the end, when it was all over, the officer politely said he couldn't ensure our safety or tell us for sure what would happen next, but that he'd be in touch. He had to get "their side of the story," he explained, and also "needed to go back through the records," before the state could decide if they had a case on their hands.
I want to be cautious here; I mean, the system has never before worked for my daughter. She is so hopeful that they'll get put away for good, but I know that whether that happens depends on a long string of events between now and whatever the end of this turns out to be. I have talked with her about this, but she continues to have hope.
The next day, she was terrified, sure they were coming after her. I called our violence prevention and advocacy office, our local police station, the agency where her bio mother, unbelievably, is still permitted to send letters (though S has never wanted to read them). I got advice and assurances that our local resources would do everything to keep us safe. We can't file a restraining order without the order including our current county of residence or our last name, so that is out of the question--it would be more dangerous to file one than to leave things as they are.
So many people said or implied we shouldn't do it--even one of the social workers involved in the adoption said she hoped someday S could "put the past behind her and move on." I honestly felt the same way until after the interview was over, and S announced she wanted to celebrate with an ice cream cake. Until I watched her tonight at a campus event tell a total of 12 people what she'd done--indiscriminately choosing them (anybody who barely knew her was included). She is moving from shame to pride, from self-hatred to empowerment. I am proud of her.
Last Monday afternoon, we got the call. The officer made small talk about the weather. Then he put the recorder on, asked me if I was the only legal parent of my daughter, asked if he had my permission to interview her. And then, she said, "I have it all written down," and began to read. Two sentences in, he interrupted her. It wasn't enough to say she was raped, or tortured, or neglected--she had to be specific about body parts and where they went and how often, about why she couldn't open the refrigerator to get food when she was hungry, and what would happen if she did. It was heartbreaking and also awe-inspiring to hear her calmly answer each question directly and honestly. Truthfully, she did much better than I expected.
At the end, he asked if there was anything else she wanted to say. She calmly leafed through her four pages of notes and read off anything she hadn't already covered, then responded to more questions.
In the end, when it was all over, the officer politely said he couldn't ensure our safety or tell us for sure what would happen next, but that he'd be in touch. He had to get "their side of the story," he explained, and also "needed to go back through the records," before the state could decide if they had a case on their hands.
I want to be cautious here; I mean, the system has never before worked for my daughter. She is so hopeful that they'll get put away for good, but I know that whether that happens depends on a long string of events between now and whatever the end of this turns out to be. I have talked with her about this, but she continues to have hope.
The next day, she was terrified, sure they were coming after her. I called our violence prevention and advocacy office, our local police station, the agency where her bio mother, unbelievably, is still permitted to send letters (though S has never wanted to read them). I got advice and assurances that our local resources would do everything to keep us safe. We can't file a restraining order without the order including our current county of residence or our last name, so that is out of the question--it would be more dangerous to file one than to leave things as they are.
So many people said or implied we shouldn't do it--even one of the social workers involved in the adoption said she hoped someday S could "put the past behind her and move on." I honestly felt the same way until after the interview was over, and S announced she wanted to celebrate with an ice cream cake. Until I watched her tonight at a campus event tell a total of 12 people what she'd done--indiscriminately choosing them (anybody who barely knew her was included). She is moving from shame to pride, from self-hatred to empowerment. I am proud of her.
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Justin