Dear Family,
Many of you don't even deserve this letter, but since I can't stop thinking about it here it is...
I gave you the opportunity to be the good people I had always believed you were. I told you my story. The truth. I told you that though on Sundays in New Orleans we attended church —the church our patriarch and other members of our family had established—sinister things still took place on those horrible sunny days. It was on those Sundays that my cousin, and yours, found the opportunity to molest me.
I told you these things because the memories of them could no longer be tucked away. In fact, every year as I aged, the memories seemed to become younger. Reminding me over and over again of what happened and how I had still said nothing about it. And every holiday when we were together and I was forced to see his face, allow him to hug me because if I didn’t I would be the one with the “problem,” I had to smile at you all in your ignorant belief that our family is perfect. Inside I was being eaten alive by all the words, and images and stories I could not tell. They would have destroyed me, but I told you. I remember especially how you, Godfather, told your nephew, the pedophile himself, "Even if you did do it, it's wrong the way they handled it."
Really? It wasn't wrong the way he molested me? The way he went on all these years hiding it? And then when the truth finally stared him in the eyes, he denied it over and over again. You don't think he handled that the wrong way?
I suppose that's neither here nor there.
The rest of you, family - cousins, aunts, uncles- I told you also. And the first thing you asked?
“Who else knows?"
You followed that with:
“Are you open to forgiveness?”
And finally you ended your contemptuous charade with a derisive smile and said:
"Just give it to God and leave it there. You don’t have to ever bring it up again."
Unfortunately for you, dear family, I’m going to bring it up every day of my life — if I so choose— and tell whomever I like. Because though I did not get the choice of what happened to me, I get to choose what I do about it. I don’t care how much it hurts your feelings, or how bad it makes you look to the world. I’m going to tell and keep telling.
There are too many women and girls that have been raped, molested and abused that have remained silent. A few of which you know and call cousin. If I have to be the first person in our family to stand and tell you that you are wrong and cannot hide behind your Bible, then I will. Every child in this family will know that abuse is wrong and it will not be tolerated. Every adult will be held accountable for his or her actions, even if I have to be the one you hate. I'm the one you no longer speak of, though previously you loved to hear from and chatter about my accomplishments, back when I made you proud. Before I became your black sheep.
But guess what?
I'll be your black sheep. The one you try to erase, but won't. And you'll always be wrong. One day you'll face the consequences for your actions, or rather inactions, but as for now? I'll just keep telling the truth so no one else gets away with hurting someone like our cousin did and no one else is abused like I was. I never believed I would have the courage to tell the truth, but I found it in the same God you don't believe sees your sins.
I know there's someone else out there feeling the way I once did (alone, confused, guilty and worthless) and I'm going to help her. Along the way, if you should ever get upset or even right now feel yourself boiling over with anger, just remember:
If you wanted me to write warmly about you, you should have behaved better.
Sincerely,
Your Black Sheep