The recent flood of sexual assault revelations from numerous victims regarding known predators and once-cherished idols in politics and entertainment have been hard for me. I was disappointed and grieved when Scott Brunton came forward to accuse George Takei. And just today, Senator Al Franken’s past caught up with him.
I’ve loved George ever since I first saw Star Trek as a young child. I’ve stood steadfastly behind his efforts to secure equality for my LGBTQ loved ones and to present the story of the Japanese internment of WWII through the Allegiance musical. I cheered when he was finally able to marry the man he loved, husband Brad Takei.
I bought a ticket to the December 7 showing of Allegiance in the cinema before all this emerged. It would be my third viewing. I’m torn. I hate to cancel because I loved this musical. The entire cast did phenomenal work, and the music is wonderful. Should I again shed tears in the theater, however, there may be added subtext this time.
And Al? Saturday Night Live Al? Our champion in the decaying halls of a wolfish Congress bent on devouring our democracy? Sadly, he is all too human.
I can’t stay silent any longer.
Why is this so hard? Because I too am a survivor. My first perpetrator was a director at the Christian summer camp I attended while I was in high school. One day, while we all sat in the dining hall listening to announcements, he groped me.
I remember it like it happened yesterday. The shift of the picnic table bench as his weight settled behind me. My peripheral awareness of his presence—of no consequence, not yet. The light touch under my arm, and the sudden pressure of his fingers on the side of my breast. The sense of shock, of feeling frozen, unable to move or indicate to anybody what was happening to me.
His wife and young daughter had accompanied him to camp. I remember standing in front of them in a group not long after, wondering, Why? Why did he do this? Am I the only one? And, for one surging, tormented moment, What would happen if I spoke up now, in front of everyone, in front of his wife? I ultimately decided I would not. The realization of how things really were sunk deep into me—he had power and I did not. No one would believe me.
Over the years, I’ve tried to make sense of it. I’ve wondered if I misunderstood. I’ve come to the conclusion that I did not. It wasn’t a quiet touch on the shoulder from an affectionate mentor. Nor was it invited or encouraged. It forever shattered my tenuous illusion of safety regarding adults and authority figures. From that day forward, no report of sexual impropriety regarding any teacher, church leader, or public figure ever truly surprised me again. I knew the ugly truth.
His name was James Greene. We campers called him Jimmy. To my knowledge, nobody saw what he did that day in 1982. As far as I know, he’s still alive and probably doesn’t even remember it. Or maybe he does but he just doesn’t care. Or worse, mired in a twisted hypocritical version of Christian faith like so many people these days, he wouldn’t see anything wrong with it. After all, I had technically reached the age of consent.
But I didn’t consent. He had no reason to do what he did, and yet he did it anyway.
At college, I was raped by a fellow student named Doug Botham. He did not take my resistance seriously and traumatized me so severely that I blocked out the incident for an entire year. I’ve written about this one before, but until now, I didn’t name my attacker. It left me with lasting effects that I’ve worked hard to overcome but which still haunt me even today.
I didn’t consent. I said no, I don’t want to, and he did not stop.
I’ve no idea what became of Doug. Most likely, he too has forgotten. Many men like him don’t even realize they’re rapists. Our culture allows it. The same camp where Jimmy assaulted me later harbored another predator, who is now in prison for his crimes. They were apparently sued over it. They’re still operating, still emphasizing their religious ethic. And so the cycle continues.
I fought long and hard with myself over publishing this post. The bar is still much higher for sexual assault and rape victims than for their perpetrators. But I’ve held these feelings inside, covered these men’s names and my wounds, for too long. The time has come.
What do I want? An apology? If I were Scott Brunton, that’s what I would want. Not an I’m sorry you feel that way, not the braggadocio of Louis C.K.’s excuses, but a real, heartfelt I did it, it was wrong, and I regret it. And I am sorry.
[EDITED] And if even a few people examine their deeds and their consciences, if it stops even one from offending again, and if it stops the coverups, it’s worth the risk of honesty.
We’re facing a true cultural shift here, one long overdue. For years, we’ve scoffed at victims and played sexual assault for laughs. Prison rape, men chasing scantily clad women around the room, jokes about secretaries and the Hollywood casting couch.
The victims who sat watching and silently suffering, too afraid to come forward for fear of ridicule or persecution, were not laughing. Even if we pretended not to take it seriously, inside we experienced trauma all over again. It’s past time we exposed harassment and exploitation for what they truly are. We need to put an end to rape culture so the women and men who have been so deeply wounded and betrayed can finally heal.
The sick disappointment, the disillusionment, as these incidents come to light, is exhausting and triggering. It breaks my heart to think that men I looked up to could ever have done something like this. None of us are perfect. We all experience lapses in judgment, some of them grave. I know also that fame can draw people who seek to manipulate and exploit. But most assault victims have nothing to gain and everything to lose by coming forward. They rarely lie.
Everyone loved Jimmy. Everyone loved George. We all loved Al. I must give the accusers of these men the benefit of the doubt. I can’t do any less because I wouldn’t want anyone to do any less for me.
I dont work in Hollywood. I’m just a writer with several unpublished novels to my name. I don’t have many followers and not a lot of reach. I’m not an activist or an influencer. I deal in words, and I want to use them to speak the truth for those who can’t.
To all survivors reading this, I believe you. I’m not alone and neither are you. You are strong. We are strong. This will never happen to me again, because I won’t let it. And I will fight like hell see that those who harmed us are held accountable.
Even if it’s someone I trusted.
If you need to talk, call the National Sexual Assault Hotline 24/7 at 1-800-656-4673.
More resources at the National Sexual Violence Resource Center.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255. UK: Call Samaritans 116 123 (free call).
Learn more about rape and sexual assault at RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network).
You are so brave and strong to make your voice heard. If this helps one woman you will have succeeded beyond measure. Thank you for speaking.
This was very hard but I had to do it. The camp has taken steps to prevent another predator from working there, I read–they at least learned something from the other one they had.
PLOT TWIST—NO THEY BLOODY WELL DID NOT!
The name of the camp is Kanakuk / Kanakomo Kamps. Look them up.
Here from AAM. Thank you for speaking out. You are a good writer.