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Authors: Carl Weber
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one ear and out the other. I just thought he was being the typical big brother, overprotec-tive and sickened by the thought of his little sister screwing and having a good time.
It wouldn’t be long before I wished I had listened to my brother. Maybe then I wouldn’t have suffered the heartbreak that I did once the so-called love of my life turned on me. Once I became a victim of rape.
No, I wasn’t raped by my boyfriend—not my body anyway. Some other jerk managed to do that. It happened at one of the college parties I went to in order to meet up with my boyfriend. He got so wasted that he threw up all over himself and passed out. When I went upstairs to find something to clean him up with, I was pulled into a room and raped—not by one but by five different men.
After the rape, everything changed between my boyfriend and me. It was like I had the plague, and he didn’t want to be seen with me. He didn’t want to be near me. I felt as if I had beenraped all over again, only this time instead of my body being raped, he raped my heart. The person I always thought would be there for me wasn’t.
Dealing with the rape was rough for me for years. There were times when I wanted to take a pill or two to see if it would relax me. But instead of turning to drugs, I turned to God. And I thanked God every day for Bishop Wilson—and my brother, of course, who was now more protective than ever. I could tell that my brother was still walking around with some degree of guilt. I tried convincing him to come to church, take it to the altar and give it to God like I did. To date, that hadn’t happened, but I was still working on him. I knew one day he was going to walk through the doors of First Jamaica Ministries and surprise me.
Until then, I had to focus on making sure the women who called into the rape hotline were taken care of. I had to make sure they become the woman who I am now—a survivor—and not the woman I used to be—a victim.
My mission included the woman who was on the other end of the phone.
“Is your husband in the home now?” I asked her.
“No, he stepped out. Probably to get flowers or some lame thank-you card. That’s what he always does.” The woman began to cry. “I can’t take this anymore. One day he’s going to kill me. I can’t let that happen. I have children to raise. So, it’s going to be either him or me.”
“Where are the children now?” I asked her.
“At my mother’s.”
“Good.” I pulled out the piece of paper from my desk that outlined an action plan for an escape from an abuser. I proceeded to tell the woman exactly what she needed to do. She kept interrupting me with question after question of what-ifs. I wasn’t surprised that by the time I ended the call, she’d decided to give her husband another chance.
“I really believe you should get out now while you can,” I reiterated to her, to no avail.
“I don’t have anywhere to go. I mean, I have a sister, but then I’d have to tell her my business. Nobody knows what I’ve been dealing with. Besides that, I don’t have any money. And my childrenlove their father. They’ll hate me for taking them away from him. I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. Not this way. Not now. Thank you so much for your help, though. Thank you.” And the phone went dead in my ear.
I hung up the phone feeling like a failure, but not even Jesus Himself could get everybody saved. I reminded myself, “You can’t save ’em all, Tia. You can’t save ’em all.”
Aaron
7
I stepped out of Penn Station and onto the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Eighth Avenue carrying two huge suitcases, a knapsack, and my portable keyboard. I’d given the rest of my stuff away before I left Virginia that morning. Everything I needed to take New York by storm was packed in the bags I had with me.
I looked up at the skyscrapers surrounding me and smiled. God, I loved this city, with its big lights and fast-moving people. You know what they
It wouldn’t be long before I wished I had listened to my brother. Maybe then I wouldn’t have suffered the heartbreak that I did once the so-called love of my life turned on me. Once I became a victim of rape.
No, I wasn’t raped by my boyfriend—not my body anyway. Some other jerk managed to do that. It happened at one of the college parties I went to in order to meet up with my boyfriend. He got so wasted that he threw up all over himself and passed out. When I went upstairs to find something to clean him up with, I was pulled into a room and raped—not by one but by five different men.
After the rape, everything changed between my boyfriend and me. It was like I had the plague, and he didn’t want to be seen with me. He didn’t want to be near me. I felt as if I had beenraped all over again, only this time instead of my body being raped, he raped my heart. The person I always thought would be there for me wasn’t.
Dealing with the rape was rough for me for years. There were times when I wanted to take a pill or two to see if it would relax me. But instead of turning to drugs, I turned to God. And I thanked God every day for Bishop Wilson—and my brother, of course, who was now more protective than ever. I could tell that my brother was still walking around with some degree of guilt. I tried convincing him to come to church, take it to the altar and give it to God like I did. To date, that hadn’t happened, but I was still working on him. I knew one day he was going to walk through the doors of First Jamaica Ministries and surprise me.
Until then, I had to focus on making sure the women who called into the rape hotline were taken care of. I had to make sure they become the woman who I am now—a survivor—and not the woman I used to be—a victim.
My mission included the woman who was on the other end of the phone.
“Is your husband in the home now?” I asked her.
“No, he stepped out. Probably to get flowers or some lame thank-you card. That’s what he always does.” The woman began to cry. “I can’t take this anymore. One day he’s going to kill me. I can’t let that happen. I have children to raise. So, it’s going to be either him or me.”
“Where are the children now?” I asked her.
“At my mother’s.”
“Good.” I pulled out the piece of paper from my desk that outlined an action plan for an escape from an abuser. I proceeded to tell the woman exactly what she needed to do. She kept interrupting me with question after question of what-ifs. I wasn’t surprised that by the time I ended the call, she’d decided to give her husband another chance.
“I really believe you should get out now while you can,” I reiterated to her, to no avail.
“I don’t have anywhere to go. I mean, I have a sister, but then I’d have to tell her my business. Nobody knows what I’ve been dealing with. Besides that, I don’t have any money. And my childrenlove their father. They’ll hate me for taking them away from him. I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. Not this way. Not now. Thank you so much for your help, though. Thank you.” And the phone went dead in my ear.
I hung up the phone feeling like a failure, but not even Jesus Himself could get everybody saved. I reminded myself, “You can’t save ’em all, Tia. You can’t save ’em all.”
Aaron
7
I stepped out of Penn Station and onto the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Eighth Avenue carrying two huge suitcases, a knapsack, and my portable keyboard. I’d given the rest of my stuff away before I left Virginia that morning. Everything I needed to take New York by storm was packed in the bags I had with me.
I looked up at the skyscrapers surrounding me and smiled. God, I loved this city, with its big lights and fast-moving people. You know what they
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