ass.
André’s ego would
make an Egyptian pyramid look small.
He smiles at me
good-naturedly, not at all disturbed that I’m laughing at him. Once I wind
down, he returns to the subject.
“Now think my friend,” he says. “What chance would a child have to counter such mastery?
To fight against an adult’s pre-conceived, planned and carefully enacted
purpose? You were an innocent. He intentionally trained you to behave this way.
You were a child who played a game with his father. You did this to please him,
even if there was discomfort at times, yes?
I wince because
André isn’t stupid. He’s guessed everything. He knows the games pedophiles
play.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“You did not have
the ability to say no.”
“Not until I was
almost twelve.”
“Just so. Yet,
this was simply a game you were playing. Such is as natural as eating or
breathing to a child. You sought your father for fun, for pleasure, and for
adult attention and approval—nothing more. While he …” André’s jaw
tightens. “… he committed the blackest of sins, playing a part as evil as those
running Auschwitz. Your father’s actions were the greatest betrayal of all.”
A gentle, cool
breeze blows against me as a long moment passes. The comforting peace and near
silence is filled with only wind, soft, rustling leaves and bird sounds. What
André has told me is oddly freeing.
As a form of
exoneration, his words aren’t half-bad.
“You are a good
person,” André says, with barely stifled anger as his hands curl into fists.
“If you must be ashamed, find something to be justifiably ashamed of!”
His fists slam into his thighs with brutal force.
He jumps to his
feet, apparently unable to stay seated while filled with such fury. “But do not
feel shame for this !”
His anger is so
completely unexpected and out there, I laugh out loud.
After a startled
moment, his whole body shakes as he laughs along with me. For me, a lifetime of
pent up negative emotions suddenly turn into something ridiculous. What in the
world is so damn funny? Nothing, but I find I can’t stop.
André sits back
down. Together, we both hold our guts and choke with laughter until tears run
down our faces. My stomach is sore but the growing tension that was in my chest
no longer constricts me. It isn’t funny—but it really, really is. Why
are we cracking up?
For a moment, I
wonder if André became angry on purpose. Somehow I can’t help but imagine that
he did. His fury certainly lightened the mood. Laughing together is deeply
satisfying, in a strangely lighthearted and frivolous way.
A special kind of
person does this job. Someone who is uniquely crazy.
That long burst
of gleeful humor has done me some good. I feel much better. I needed the
release.
When we both get
our overpowering laughter under control, André goes right back to work. With
careful prompting, he gets me to speak about my secret life with my father.
Events from my past, even ones I’d intentionally forgotten, come to the
surface.
I find myself
telling him exact details, which he pries out of my usually guarded tongue—not
with a crowbar, but with clever and calmly inquiring expertise.
When I sit
silently, too embarrassed to speak, André’s soothing voice asks, “Is there
something you feel I would not understand?”
If that doesn’t
get me talking, he prompts me by giving me reassurances like: “This memory you
struggle with, do you fear it will make me think less of you? Je vous
assure, I hold you in the highest regard. Nothing can change my opinion.”
André’s serene
yet attentive approach, combined with the way he never reacts negatively to anything
I say, wears me down. While I have long periods of saying nothing and trying to
avoid the truth, I find it’s easier simply to tell him what he wants to know.
I take in a deep
breath and say, “Even without an ability to ejaculate, I had my first climax
when I was nine years old.” I’m staggered, because
André’s ego would
make an Egyptian pyramid look small.
He smiles at me
good-naturedly, not at all disturbed that I’m laughing at him. Once I wind
down, he returns to the subject.
“Now think my friend,” he says. “What chance would a child have to counter such mastery?
To fight against an adult’s pre-conceived, planned and carefully enacted
purpose? You were an innocent. He intentionally trained you to behave this way.
You were a child who played a game with his father. You did this to please him,
even if there was discomfort at times, yes?
I wince because
André isn’t stupid. He’s guessed everything. He knows the games pedophiles
play.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“You did not have
the ability to say no.”
“Not until I was
almost twelve.”
“Just so. Yet,
this was simply a game you were playing. Such is as natural as eating or
breathing to a child. You sought your father for fun, for pleasure, and for
adult attention and approval—nothing more. While he …” André’s jaw
tightens. “… he committed the blackest of sins, playing a part as evil as those
running Auschwitz. Your father’s actions were the greatest betrayal of all.”
A gentle, cool
breeze blows against me as a long moment passes. The comforting peace and near
silence is filled with only wind, soft, rustling leaves and bird sounds. What
André has told me is oddly freeing.
As a form of
exoneration, his words aren’t half-bad.
“You are a good
person,” André says, with barely stifled anger as his hands curl into fists.
“If you must be ashamed, find something to be justifiably ashamed of!”
His fists slam into his thighs with brutal force.
He jumps to his
feet, apparently unable to stay seated while filled with such fury. “But do not
feel shame for this !”
His anger is so
completely unexpected and out there, I laugh out loud.
After a startled
moment, his whole body shakes as he laughs along with me. For me, a lifetime of
pent up negative emotions suddenly turn into something ridiculous. What in the
world is so damn funny? Nothing, but I find I can’t stop.
André sits back
down. Together, we both hold our guts and choke with laughter until tears run
down our faces. My stomach is sore but the growing tension that was in my chest
no longer constricts me. It isn’t funny—but it really, really is. Why
are we cracking up?
For a moment, I
wonder if André became angry on purpose. Somehow I can’t help but imagine that
he did. His fury certainly lightened the mood. Laughing together is deeply
satisfying, in a strangely lighthearted and frivolous way.
A special kind of
person does this job. Someone who is uniquely crazy.
That long burst
of gleeful humor has done me some good. I feel much better. I needed the
release.
When we both get
our overpowering laughter under control, André goes right back to work. With
careful prompting, he gets me to speak about my secret life with my father.
Events from my past, even ones I’d intentionally forgotten, come to the
surface.
I find myself
telling him exact details, which he pries out of my usually guarded tongue—not
with a crowbar, but with clever and calmly inquiring expertise.
When I sit
silently, too embarrassed to speak, André’s soothing voice asks, “Is there
something you feel I would not understand?”
If that doesn’t
get me talking, he prompts me by giving me reassurances like: “This memory you
struggle with, do you fear it will make me think less of you? Je vous
assure, I hold you in the highest regard. Nothing can change my opinion.”
André’s serene
yet attentive approach, combined with the way he never reacts negatively to anything
I say, wears me down. While I have long periods of saying nothing and trying to
avoid the truth, I find it’s easier simply to tell him what he wants to know.
I take in a deep
breath and say, “Even without an ability to ejaculate, I had my first climax
when I was nine years old.” I’m staggered, because
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