Dirt Roads and Diner Pie - Shonna Milliken Humphrey

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insurance companies often handle these situations, an institution typically extracts itself from any active participation.

      “Huh,” we thought, confused. “That doesn’t seem right.”

      What she described next was worse.

      The insurance company would likely deny any claims, forcing us to bring a lawsuit. If we sued, the next step would be “discovery,” during which Trav would be required to disclose not just his own experiences, but any rapes witnessed by him or confided to him by other little boys, including names and any available contact information. This disclosure would bolster his credibility, and Trav would be asked to list each specific act of sexual misconduct he recalled and experienced, assigning dates, times, and identifying details for verification.

      What’s more, Trav’s therapist, psychiatrist, and physician would likely be compelled to submit all session notes and patient files, and every private conversation would be used by a team of insurance litigators to discredit him.

      Any mention of sexual dysfunction, any suicidal consideration, any medications tried, and any moment of marital or personal doubt would be scrutinized for inconsistencies. My husband’s entire collection of private physical and psychological details would be open to a roomful of professionals paid to cast doubt on his already shaky, twenty-five-year-old boyhood recollections.

      “Just for an apology?” I asked.

      “This could get very ugly,” our lawyer friend explained, noting that civil cases often last for years.

      Perversely, Trav’s personal success would count against him. “How bad can his life really be,” a litigator might ask, “if Trav is able to work full time? If he owns a home? If he has never been arrested? If his credit score is good? If he is widely respected in his community? If he can maintain a marriage and friendships?”

      “The school is aware of its history,” I countered. “Can we just send statements that show the severity of his situation?” I moved my head toward the window’s park view for a moment, the lush green grass color intensified by the overcast sky, as I tried to negotiate a saner alternative, because the system our friend described made no sense.

      A statement from Trav’s doctors that summarized treatment details with dates seemed ample proof for a “preponderance” that, more likely than not, spending thirty sleepless months hearing, seeing, avoiding, and experiencing already-documented child sexual abuse is the source of his post-traumatic stress disorder.

      And, once that was established, why wouldn’t the school officials say, “I am sorry this happened while you were in our care. How can we help?”

      When I turned back toward Trav, his face had reddened, his breathing was shallow, and his eyes were glassy. There was no space for push-ups, and if he had had a hammer, he would have pounded it.

      I wanted Trav to find his voice, but that day in our lawyer friend’s conference room, I imagined my own deepest, most shameful secrets and darkest memories not just being exposed, but exposed to a team of strangers whose professional mission is to discredit details, line by line, and I began to respect the strength many victims find in silence.

      I put my hand on Trav’s and thanked our friend for the information. We both hugged her and made vague plans to meet for dinner. Then we drove home.

      As for so many victims, Trav’s options for justice and reparation are nearly nonexistent.

      On one side is an institution with a well-documented, decades-long history of childhood sexual abuse allegations, and on the other side my husband juggles more than a decade of documented post-traumatic stress in an effort to function. For a 51 percent likelihood that the two are related, this seemed like an easy correlation.

      It sounds fair, but it is common for men who suffer from childhood sexual abuse-related post-traumatic stress disorder to bury memories deep. While specific statistics vary, childhood sexual abuse cases, especially among boys, are vastly underreported and rarely see legal action. Statutes of limitation vary in intricacy and by state; financial settlements can be taxed as income, and generally speaking, 30 percent is paid to a personal-injury lawyer.

      Most importantly, while in litigation and often as a settlement condition, nobody involved can talk or write publicly about the topic.

      The invasive and prolonged discovery process is a tactic likely meant to avert false accusations. False accusations are a fear, but false accusations are also exceedingly rare and account for approximately 1–2 percent of all accusations. Victims tend to understate, rather than overstate, their experience, and many victims are reluctant to take their cases to court.

      Shame, fear, and lack of basic vocabulary contribute to underreporting in children. For adults—especially and exponentially among male victims—it is not facing the perpetrators; it is the lead-up to the process. For men, it’s often less about fearing the perpetrators (as it is with children) and more about dealing with the machinations of the justice system. A large majority of victims lock memories away in an effort to survive. Recollections often emerge slowly and in dim fragments over time. For anyone attempting to hold an individual or, worse, an entire institution responsible, those fragments do not feel convincing.

      It is a cycle that perpetuates itself: Shame and lack of vocabulary for children result in shame and buried memories for adults.

      “I might not have the timeline and details 100 percent,” Trav maintains. “But I know what I saw, and I know what I heard.” And, most heartbreakingly, “I know what happened to me.”

      As his wife, I needed to know that I had brought Trav every option for his consideration. I could not do push-ups or pound a hammer, but I could find the best experts for the best advice. I could bring my husband choices.

      I contacted a second lawyer—one who represented other alumni in other sexual-abuse cases against the American Boychoir School. This lawyer confirmed our friend’s explanation, and his ease with the process was equal parts disarming and reassuring. He asked what Trav’s medical records would indicate, and more importantly, when.

      What and when?

      They seem like simple questions, but again, the answers are much more complex. I draw a line of accountability from my husband to the institution tasked with keeping him safe, but legally, this line gets wiggly. If, for example, Trav spent a weekend at the home of a trustee, off campus and out of state, but the perpetrator was the trustee’s colleague and not the trustee himself, that abuse would likely not “count.”

      Being afraid to sleep while resisting sexual advances by staff and teachers or witnessing the repeated sexual abuse of other boys? This is difficult, too, because as with the damage caused by secondhand smoke, those sleepless months were harmful, but were they caused by actual sexual abuse or fear of sexual abuse? The former is a straight line, and the latter is not.

      Any sexual activity among students—even older students acting out their own abuses by faculty and staff members on younger boys—could be considered consensual and age-appropriate experimentation.

      The Boychoir traveled extensively throughout the United States and Europe, spending nights with random, unvetted host families, and laws governing childhood sexual abuse differed in each location. Compounding the confusion, Trav was barely eleven years old and often only remembers first names or no names at all.

      The “when” is even more laughable. His clinical depression, when first diagnosed? Or the first inklings of memory confided to me a year later? When he actually spoke the words, with conviction, “This happened to me” in the therapist’s office? Or years later, after the biggest rush of specific vivid details? Or most recently, on the night I made those apple pies and drove him to the venue, when he remembered the details of his friend’s rape?

      “What and when?” asked the second lawyer, well versed in claims against the American Boychoir School. These questions also included an implied “how much?”

      Personal

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