Dirt Roads and Diner Pie - Shonna Milliken Humphrey

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generally connected to physical injuries, and with the modest symbolic goal of a full tuition refund for his parents and possibly uninsured healthcare costs, Trav’s circumstance is in no way a big moneymaker. After taxes and expenses, any settlement might buy a decent car or a year at a good college. And, again, the American Boychoir School’s insurance company, not the school itself, would address the details.

      That is how “what, when, and how much” morph into a complex algorithm of “Is it really worth it?”

      For that car or tuition payment, Trav would need to out other victims and lose all of his privacy while subjecting himself to a years-long period of intense scrutiny. Or, he could get nasty and request even more money, knowing that any increased amount would prolong the process. In exchange for any settlement, there would almost certainly be a requirement that he not disclose the terms or discuss his experience.

      Trav’s fear is that he might disappoint me by not wanting to pursue legal action. “I am worried you will think I am weak,” he once said.

      Then, in a reversal a day later, it was “Screw them.”

      The next day, back to “No.” Then, again, it was “I have nothing to hide.”

      That is what it is like. Some days, it feels worth a fight. Some days, just getting through the day is what matters.

      Right now, he has taken it off the table. Most victims do.

      2 HARDWICKE V. AMERICAN BOYCHOIR SCHOOL. Decided August 8, 2006. http://caselaw.findlaw.com/nj-supreme-court/1138661.html

       CHAPTER SIX

       New Jersey, Redux

      I wish I had good words to describe New Jersey’s physical details, but from the van I was unable to see beyond grimy green highway signs. As I searched for any positive association, even the abundance of hot and chewy Auntie Anne’s salt-covered pretzels at nearly every turnpike rest area could not diminish the spaces’ overwhelming toilet scent.

      In the weeks before this trip, we had learned about a new movie in production. The early press publicized that the feel-good family film was about a young boy overcoming challenges through his involvement in a fictitious boy choir academy.

      Trav tried not to think about it, and I tried not to bring it up on the trip.

      If this portion of the story reads angry, it is because I am angry. For a partner, it is impossible to squelch that emotion entirely. Anger is real, and it can be all-consuming.

      Initially, like many victims, Trav wanted an expression of regret. Acknowledgment, feeling heard by those responsible, and some version of “I am sorry this happened to you” are what many victims crave.

      An apology was something tangible I could request without legal representation, and for me as a partner it felt like action, so, rejecting the legal process in favor of something more personal, I scanned the American Boychoir School’s website. According to a 2002 New York Times article,33 alumni from as late as the 1990s estimated that one in five students were molested, and with that statistic in mind, I studied the school’s online photographs with a mathematician’s eye, wondering who else in the alumni lineup might have been hurt.

      Schemo, Diana Jean. “Years of Sex Abuse Described at Choir School in New Jersey.” THE NEW YORK TIMES, April 16, 2002.

      There were no resources listed on the school’s website, but in an upsetting discovery, Trav’s little-boy face appeared in a promotional alumni lineup photo, his red hair distinct in the group of white robes. On the same page was a request for donations, and I let that sink in.

      My husband’s boyhood face was positioned on the alumni page, hustling for cash to support the school, and I wanted to smash the screen.

      “Walk in love,” Trav often advises, “not in anger or fear.”

      For many boys, maybe even most boys, the American Boychoir School experience was a positive one, so I sent a note to the school’s acting representative. It was a simple and polite note that introduced myself and requested a conversation.

      When I received no response, I sent a follow-up, and then made a third attempt. At the time of our road trip, I was still smarting from the lack of contact.

      When we returned from the road trip, six months after the initial communication with the school, the acting representative agreed to talk. The man’s telephone voice, soft and friendly, disarmed me. His tone sounded kind, and the kindness disarmed me, too. He made small talk, and I got the sense that if I met him at a company picnic or colleague’s wedding reception, I might enjoy learning more about his life.

      When our conversation moved toward Trav, I had three goals.

      First, I asked him to remove Trav’s photo from the alumni solicitation website page. Trav’s photo, even in a group of other boys, placed alongside fund-raising requests felt almost criminal.

      He agreed to this without hesitation, and the photo was gone the next morning.

      “Excellent,” I said, hoping my voice sounded as rational as his.

      Second, I requested a tuition refund for Trav’s parents, in 1988–1990 dollars. Trav’s father, a middle school teacher, and his mother, a part-time hairstylist and homemaker, borrowed money to send their son to this school. Given Trav’s negative experience, a tuition refund would demonstrate a symbolic good-faith effort to make amends.

      Surprisingly, the acting representative agreed to consider the option, but he emphasized the organization’s current precarious financial state. He spent a great deal of time detailing the school’s shaky finances. When he finished, I noted the equally overwhelming financial realities of victims.

      I did not mention my review of the school’s most recently reported federal income tax return, which listed more than eight million dollars in assets and six-figure salaries44 for its administrators.

      Fiscal Year 2013 IRS Form 990.

      Still, our voices were calm. I said I understood, and I did. Nonprofit management can be daunting, and the prospect of managing a school beset with a reputation for childhood sexual abuse is, in many ways, an administrative nightmare.

      He promised to look into the process of obtaining a tuition refund without a lawsuit, and while he never did call back, that was not the most disappointing aspect of the conversation.

      The most disappointing aspect of the conversation was my third request, because this particular request cost no money at all. I asked the acting representative to make available, via a link on the school’s website, a short list of resources for alumni who were sexually abused while in the school’s care. I mentioned the organizations Male Survivor, 1in6, and Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).

      He explained that his institutional priority is keeping the current students safe. He talked a great deal about this responsibility for providing safety, and although I had not asked, he assured me of the existing standards, policies, and protocols.

      However, as recently as 2014, a former American Boychoir School dean was arrested for first-degree aggravated sexual assault against an eleven-year-old New Jersey boy.55 When I asked about this arrest, the acting representative explained that the former employee’s tenure

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