Rebecca Moran
Professor Henderson
Academic Writing
20 March 2011
My First Encounter with the Violent Crime of Abuse
It was a beautiful spring day on April 22, 2001. I paced up and down my wood staircase making it creak as many times as it could, hoping my mom would get annoyed and finally come down and be ready to leave. Every weekend during the springtime, my mom would have a soccer game and I would beg her to bring me with her. It wasn’t because I actually enjoyed watching her game, but it was the playground that I couldn’t get enough of as a 9 year old child. The huge tire swing that you could twist around and let it go and enjoy the best ride of your life, the challenging red monkey bars that every kid wants to conquer, the sand between my little toes that felt so good, and do not forget that big green twisty slide, which was always more fun climbing up than it was going down. The playground was my sanctuary when I was a kid. There was nothing more I would rather do than let my imagination run wild in that place. I could spend hours and hours in a single place, but my imagination took me across the globe, to places like China. I actually thought that I could reach China through that playground sand if I dug deep enough. Who knew at that time, that my favorite place on Earth would be the place that I would witness the most shocking experience of my life?
I finally got my mom out of the house and we were just about to get into the car, until she stopped walking around our green aerostar van and asked, “Becca where is your jacket? You need a jacket, it’s supposed to rain”. I let out one big huff, thinking about arguing with her and telling her, “I will be fine mom”, but I realized I probably would lose that battle like always, so I sprinted and grabbed my pink and purple Pocahontas rain jacket and held it on my lap for the car ride.
When we got to the soccer fields, I spotted the playground in all of its glory. My mom wouldn’t let go of my hand until we fully crossed the street, and when she did, I ran to the swings with my friend Devin. We just loved the feeling of the wind blowing through our loose hair and feeling as though we were on top of the world. My favorite aspect of the swings was the butterflies in my stomach during the descent from the highest point. Boy, it was a rush.
We were swinging for a while, and then we jumped off the swings and took a little breather. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye I saw an object begin to fall. I turned and looked, and to my shock it was a big chubby boy pushing down a small framed little girl, who seemed to be much younger than him. After he grabbed her and threw her down, he kicked her in the ribs and kicked sand in her face. I had never seen anything like this ever before in my life. It began to rain and it seemed as though time was slowing down and the rain was falling with an unchanging beat. I thought to myself, “Could this really be happening? Is this real life? What is going on”? All the sounds around me started to be muffled then it turned into complete silence and I was in a state of total disbelief. What was I, a little girl who was smaller than the big chubby boy, suppose to do?
I began to think about the parable in the bible I heard in Sunday Bible School named “The Good Samaritan”. It is about a man who gets beat up and robbed and left to the side of the street to die. Many pass him by even without a glance, but one man, a Samaritan, takes pity on him and bandages his wounds and brings him to an inn to take care of him (The New American Bible 1047). I knew I had to be her Samaritan. I marched over and before he could hit her again, I stood in front of him and yelled, “Stop!” He snarled at me and said, “Who are you? I am her brother, its fine.” I could not believe he was trying to justify his actions because the little girl was his sister. I didn’t even know what to say to his reply. I ignored him and grasped the little girls hand and told her she could stay and play with Devin and I until her mom came back.
This experience was the first time I had witnessed abuse. I did not know that abuse existed and that she was one of many in the US who has suffered from abuse. There are over 3 million child abuse cases each year in the US and those cases can include multiple children. Of those 3 million cases, it is estimated that there are about 5.8 million children abused each year (National Child Abuse Statistics par 1). With such shocking numbers, how did I not know that child abuse existed? Why was this exposure to abuse such a shock to me, which I still consider a great burden on my mind today?
I am from a very large Christian family. We go to mass every Sunday and many of our family friends are people we met through our church. Due to my parent’s upbringing and all the people we surround ourselves, I was never exposed to any type of abuse. It was never a topic my parents discussed with me. I honestly never knew it existed until that day at the park. I didn’t know what was happening and was not sure of the way I was suppose to react in that type of situation.
I waited with the little girl until my mom’s soccer game was over. I knew my mom would make it all better. I grasped the little girl’s hand and we walked in unison, tears were streaming down my eyes. It was such a relief to know that my mom was here to help. I explained to my mom how she was pushed, kicked, and sand shoved in her face. My mom told us it would all be okay and that we would find her mother. My mom’s words were soothing to me because she was able to take some of the burden off my shoulders I was carrying that day. I could not wait for her mother to find out what her son did to her daughter. I was anticipating a punishment for this boy’s action, so I would know that this boy would never lay hands upon her ever again. That was the comfort I was anticipating and it was a comfort I would never receive. Her mother finally came over, and she asked my mom what was going on. My mom told her everything that I told my mom, not leaving out any of the horrible details. To my great shock, the mother did not care the slightest bit, and it seemed as is if his actions towards her were of the norm. The mother looked at me and saw the loads of tears just pouring out of my eyes. She asked my mom, “Why is she crying”? My mom answered, “Because she cares”.
The mother, daughter, and brother started walking away. The mother grabbed the daughter’s arms rather aggressively and the little girl was glancing back at me with desperate eyes. I still remember those green eyes looking so pitiful and just searching for hope. My mother held me and whispered in my ear, “You did all you could do. All you can do is pray and God will take care of her”.
My father is a detective of Nassau County in the special victims unit, which is involved in the investigation of child physical and sexual abuse. With his multiple years of experience on the job, I wondered to myself as I was writing this paper why my dad never talked about these issues in the world with me. As a child I would always ask him, “Daddy what do you do exactly at your job?’ Every time he would answer, “I catch bad guys”. He would make an uneasy facial expression that gave me the feeling that he did not desire to discuss his work with me, which of course made me all the more curious. When I was a young girl in the 1990s, before cell phones came into fashion, I would call my dad’s work in order to talk to him. He would answer the phone saying, “Special Victim’s Unit, Detective Moran speaking”. Who were these “special victims” my dad was dealing with? And why couldn’t I know more about it?
I gave my dad a call on the phone today and asked, “Dad, why did you never tell me anything about your job and what you deal with as a detective? And why did you and mom keep me sheltered from the reality of the world?” He responded, “Becca, I deal with some very inhumane cases that are not fit for children to know about. All you needed to know was that I catch bad people. Your mother and I would not discuss these abuse cases with you because there was no need to. We would never allow you to be surrounded by such things.” My dad attempted to justify him and my mom not talking to me about abuse because it was not fit for children and that I would never be exposed to it because my parents wouldn’t allow it. In reality, I did witness abuse and it truly frightened me.
I know that children should not know all the gruesome violent details that are associated with abuse, but I do argue that parents should inform and discuss with their children about abuse that exists in the world. Looking back on the situation, I wish I knew what was happening when I saw the little girl being beaten. Maybe I could have been spared a little bit of the initial shock that swept through my body during that April day. Parents should tell their children about abuse and also teach them how to react if they ever a witness to abuse. By doing this, children will not just freeze up, like I did. They will be better apt to react and help the situation, so that no farther harm is done.
Works Cited
"National Child Abuse Statistics | Childhelp." Prevention and Treatment of Child Abuse |Childhelp. Web. 17 Apr. 2011.
The New American Bible. New York: P.J. Kenedy, 1970. Print.
Becca, this is a moving and engaging narrative argument. You bring your childhood world to life through rich sensory details, building upon the day that changed your outlook to craft a promising argument about abuse. Your caring attitude goes a long way in establishing pathos as well as a credible and sympathetic ethos. I especially like the way you deepen the argument by introducing your dad's job into the discussion.
ReplyDeleteIn this draft, "abuse" is rather broadly defined. You use this term to describe a boy's physical abuse of his sister as well as the abuse against "special victims" that your father worked with. Can you narrow this focus at all, or at least make a useful distinction between these two categories? Your child abuse statistics are helpful, but I'm not sure they're relevant to your central narrative, which has the unique focus of sibling abuse. Because your topic is so broad -- "abuse" -- and because your research is broad, too, your argument doesn't have as much traction as it could were it more specific.
Who exactly is your audience? Who might be resistant to this argument? And what exactly do you want your audience to take away from it? If you decide to focus on the choices parents make when talking to their kids about child abuse (which I find interesting), evidence that directly speaks to this concern would be effective.
I hope that helps! Good luck and let me know if you have any questions.