Tag: Oakdale FCI

“Giving A Voice To The Victims: The Strength Of A Survivor”

On By Tony CassonIn Victims - Their Stories2 Comments

“We conquer – not in any brilliant fashion – we conquer by continuing.”                        George Matheson

“For I can do everything through Christ who gives me strength.”    Philippians  4:13  NLT

      My dear friend Richard Roy asked me quite some time ago what I hoped to accomplish in writing the “Chronicles”. I can’t remember my exact answer at the time, but I do know what that hope is today. It goes far beyond anything I imagined in the beginning, but I suspect that somewhere at the center of my being has always dwelled the answer that I am only now able to articulate:

      I want to help people understand that the world is in terrible pain and it is the responsibility of each and every one of us – as children of God – to work to stop that pain. As children of God, it is our responsibility to love one another; to help one another; to encourage one another; and to protect one another.

      When another child of God is hungry, we must feed them.

      When another child of God is homeless, we must give them shelter.

      When another child of God is lost, we must help them find their way.

      And when another child of God is in pain, we must comfort them, even if it means sharing in that person’s pain.

      As our survivor of child sexual abuse continues her story and shares the very personal pain of her abuse with us, I would like everyone following her incredible journey to give something to her in kind: a word of encouragement; a word of understanding; a word of support; a word of compassion.

      Show her that you hear her pain and are as numbed by her story as you are impressed with her strength, her courage, and her determination to be a survivor.

      Here, then, her story continues:

 My Identity: The Transition from Victim to Survivor

      Everyone has an identity. It is who we are and how other people know us by. Unfortunately, tragic events such as sexual abuse can change our identity; can change who we see ourselves to be, and who we strive to be. Majority of the time it changes us for the worse and as I say “us”, I mean ‘we the survivors’. Setting aside the battle of forgiving the perpetrator and praying for their repentance, being a survivor there’s a whole other battle we have to face that deals with no one else other than ourselves.

      After what was done to us and against us we lose our identity. That part of me (specifically) was taken from me at the young age of six. It’s been a battle ever since to find who I am because one single man had the power and manipulation to strip me of my own free will to grow up and decide who I want to be. To the age of twelve, each time something happened my identity was lost . . . further and further into the hands of darkness… Satan. The evil acts done against me acted as a cause and effect type scenario. The cause being the wrongful act done against me and the effect being me seeing my identity with every word associated with everything bad, negative, and wrong.

      My identity quickly shifted from an innocent little girl who liked to play sports to a girl and eventually a woman who would walk around dressed as much as a boy as possible . . . ashamed of who I was, disgusted with what I saw in the mirror. Feeling ugly, guilty, low self-esteem, low self-worth, carried no value, was indecisive, submissive in everything, strived for perfection, and if it was not perfect, anything I did was simply not good enough.

      My identity lied within the hands of the devil because I lived in fear. My identity was lost in the hands of an older man and forced me to live two separate lives. No one knew what was happening until I was 18; for thirteen years I was forced to rely on the identity of two separate lives. Do you know how confusing that is for a young teenage girl? Someone who is trying to appear confident, pretty, fit in at school, excel in sports? All the while pretending that her identity isn’t lost, but consumed by a great wave that caught her in the undertow?

      Stripped of confidence. Something every girl needs in order to carry her head high and shoulders back. The prime time for people to find their identity, something learned in multiple psychology classes, is during their adolescent years. During that time my confidence as a woman was dead. It no longer existed. Again, it lied within the man who took my innocence, and stripped me of my childhood. And every time I saw him any ounce of confidence that I even felt running through my veins, vanished. My identity was that of stolen innocence and stripped of confidence.

      Damaged goods. The biggest identity crisis I have to face as well as any other known survivors and victims. The ailing thoughts of questioning, what did I do to deserve this? How bad of a person am I to make someone want to take everything from me? A time of identity where I should be founded on knowing who I am, rapidly turned into a time of identity of consistently questioning myself and my worth to me and others around me.

      Sense of empowerment. When my perpetrator did everything he did, the amount of times he did, every time I lost power in who I was. My character was developed early on by the power slowly leaving my body, only to be filled with weakness. Strength no longer visible, turned into passiveness. My identity yet again skewed simply due to the wrongful actions of one simple man. What we do as a child, effects how we develop as an adult. A single soul distorted, an identity lost, all because of a soulless sinful act by a perpetrator.  

      I’m not expressing the effect of identity to force people to realize the harsh reality of this traumatic event, but instead to let other know out there that they are not alone. These feelings of sense of loss in belonging, worth, and knowing who you are is not identified in the hands of the sinner who did the wrong, but instead an identity that lies within Christ.

       “When you were dead in your sins, you were not set free from the sinful things of the world. But God forgave your sins, and gave you new life through Christ” Colossians 2:13-14. Our new life – our lost identity – is restored in Christ when sin is brought from the darkness. Our identity is nailed to that cross.

       “And you have been given fullness in Christ, who is the head over every power and authority” Colossians 2:10. If my identity is in Christ then the sense of power is restored because what I lost to sin is regained through the ultimate power, Jesus Christ.

       “You are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus, for all of you who are baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ” Galatians 3: 26-27.  Of all those things stripped of me as a child, with my newfound identity in Christ I am reclothed with his richness, no longer stripped away of anything.

       “You have been set free from sin and have become slaves to righteousness” Romans 6:18. The only bonds of identity left to have are those within Christ. The abuse made me a slave to negative thoughts and feelings. Abuse that chained me to living life as damaged goods, a life finally set free with newfound confidence and value in Christ. A life now filled with the bondage of His righteousness and love.

      I once saw myself as someone who was undeserving of love and unable to love in return. However, the more I placed identity in Christ, the more capable I am of allowing people to love me and being able to love others; especially the man who placed this battle in my heart in the first place.

      It was a hard transition, and I still fight every day with it, but the more my trust is in Him the more my identity is made new and made in Christ. Fuck the devil. I am no longer lost in his sinful nature but have found a renewed and beautiful identity… in Christ Jesus. I was a victim of Satan, but now am a survivor in Christ.

       As a survivor, with strength, courage, and confidence I remind you, you are not alone, and it is never too late.

            End “Identity”

     Tony follow-on Post:   I can only tell this formidable young woman that I am honored that she has chosen this space to share with others her very private experiences. She was fortunate in one area, though, in that there was no photographic record of her abuse. Thank God for that. However, while I run the risk of bringing further condemnation down on myself and others who are guilty of ‘just looking at pictures’, let me make my own thoughts on this subject perfectly clear:

      While child sexual abuse exists without child pornography being involved, there is NO child pornography without a child being sexually abused. Each and every photograph of a child being forced, coerced, or persuaded to pose nude, in sexually suggestive positions, or in actual sexual situations is a visual illustration of that child’s personal nightmare. It is a permanent record of that child’s loss of innocence and identity – in most cases by someone he or she is supposed to be able to trust.

      I read somewhere that the federal sentences for possession of child pornography were set by congress to be very tough so that they would be publicized and serve as a deterrent. I daresay that strategy has failed miserably and has caused more damage than it has done good.

      Perhaps a more effective deterrent would be to publish the stories of the nightmares lived on a daily basis by victims of child sexual abuse. I would suggest that reading stories such as the one we have all just read might cause all but the most heartless individuals to give pause, step back, and reconsider any questionable behavior they may be indulging in or considering.

      This world IS in terrible pain and its children are the ones hurting the most. We can’t make all of the pain go away, but we can certainly try.

       Please join me in applauding this young woman and the strength of other survivors just like her.

      For whatever tiny bit of good it may do, I am truly sorry.

      I thank you for your time.

“Giving a Voice to the Victims: Speaking for the Victims of Freedom, Part II”

On By Tony CassonIn Victims - Their Stories2 Comments

“Okay, this is what the good guys do. They keep trying. They don’t give up.”   Cormac McCarthy  “The Road”  

” ‘You will succeed’, said the Lord. ‘Go ahead and do it.’ ”   1 Kings 22:22 NLT

“I asked, ‘What should I do, Lord?’ ”   Acts   22:10a NLT     

“Don’t be afraid! Speak out! Don’t be silent!”   Jesus   Acts 18:9b NLT     

      I was gently informed by the woman who wrote so eloquently about healing and forgiveness, that those who have dealt with sexual abuse consider themselves to be survivors of it as opposed to being its ongoing victims. I applaud her, and those like her. I admire their courage and their ability to control things that happened TO them rather than letting those things control them as human beings.

      There is no way of knowing how many survivors are out there, but it is highly likely that there are many times more who are still victims living day to day with the pain of past – or present – abuse. Some published estimates place the number of females in this country who were sexually abused as children at one out of every three. Similar reports also estimate that the number of males who were sexually abused as children is between 1 in 7 and 1 in 4.

      While politicians push emotional hot buttons in a quest for votes, and media outlets sensationalize tragedy and capitalize on fear in their quest for ratings, studies show that the greatest threat to children does not lie among faceless predators lurking in the community. The most reliable sources available estimate that somewhere between 90-93% of all sexual abuse occurs by a family member or acquaintance.

      In her book “A Nation Of Wimps”, Hara Estroff Marano, award winning author and editor-at-large of Psychology Today writes, “In fact, the greatest threat of child physical and sexual harm arises INSIDE the home, presented by family members, often stepparents, and especially stepfathers……Infants and children who do not live with two biological parents face forty to ONE HUNDRED times the chance of being killed within the family as those who live with both biological parents.”

      Why, then, is so much time, effort, and money spent on these misguided efforts to protect our children from dangers lurking outside the home when the overwhelming majority of incidents occur within?

      Quite likely, it is because of tragic stories such as one I read recently in an Arkansas newspaper about a 16 year old girl whose body was found buried in a barrel on property owned by the family of the prime suspect in her disappearance. The suspect was already a ‘Level 3’ registered sex offender who apparently ‘met’ the girl on a social networking website, struck up some sort of relationship with her and ultimately got her to agree to meet him. The evidence points to her willingly being picked up by him, but it ended horribly for her, and her family and friends.

      The fact that this particular individual was a registered sex offender did nothing to help this poor young woman or keep her safe. To compound the situation, he was a ‘Level 3′ offender. Let’s look at what that means, for therein lies part of the problem we face today, albeit a small part since these types of crimes (for all of the massive amounts of publicity they receive) are relatively rare:

      The suspect in this case had been sentenced in 2001 to ten years in prison. He was released in 2008 after serving about 7 years of his sentence. That original crime? He entered a woman’s home through a window, held a box-cutter to her throat, taped her mouth shut, and raped her.

 Seven years.

      Just to put things in perspective, let me say that I am surrounded by individuals serving 7, 10, even 15 years in prison for looking at pictures. I am most certainly NOT insensitive to the fact that the pictures in question involve children. The individuals involved with the production of these pictures should be dealt with severely. Of that there is no question, but so too should the individual who uses threat of physical harm, or death, to take from a woman (or man, for that matter) that which should only be given freely.

      That woman was a victim. Whether she is a survivor I do not know. I pray that she is and that God has given her some peace and comfort and helped her to heal.

SEVEN years.

      For raping a woman after breaking into her home and threatening her by holding a razor to her throat.

      If this individual had gotten a sentence of, say, 30 years, perhaps the young woman he is now accused of murdering and stuffing in a barrel to be hidden away in an unmarked grave would still be alive, doing the things that 16 year olds do. Perhaps the time will come in this country when crime, criminals, and the victims the crimes create will be dealt with in a manner that is devoid of emotion, haste, sensationalism, and political grandstanding, because the truth of the matter is that dealing with crime – even crimes involving children –  in the heat of emotion makes for bad laws and bad decisions that punish everyone, including the victims of those crimes by taking much needed funding away from where it can do the most good, or by clogging courts and prisons with so many people that the truly violent have to be released to prey again.

      Cases such as this are heartbreaking to the extreme. They are tragic, senseless, and emotionally explosive. They receive hours of air time on television and days of coverage in the newspaper. Grieving parents are sidled up to by politicians drawn to the cameras and the reporters as moths are to a flame. Fists are shaken like sabers before battle and various new laws are passed in haste that pertain to the unique set of circumstances of that particular tragedy.

      Unfortunately, the nest senseless tragedy will be accompanied by its own unique set of circumstances.

      As we seek to make children safer there are those who would argue that what is being done is having a reverse effect. In a passage from “Perverted Justice”, author and forensic psychologist Charles Patrick Ewing writes:

      “From the research, however, it appears that the emperor has no (or very few) clothes. The consensus of empirical research is that these sex offender registration and notification laws have no statistically significant effect on sex offender recidivism and thus fail to provide the protection upon which they are premised and which they promise to the public. Related laws that restrict the residences, workplaces, and movements of sex offenders also appear to do little if anything to reduce recidivism and may have the unintended consequence of making sex offender recidivism more likely because they engender hopelessness in some offenders, impede their contact with social support networks in the community, and create disincentives for pro-social behavior. Moreover, these laws may make citizens (especially children) less rather than more safe because they engender a false sense of security.”

     In an article in “Prison Legal News”, Lt. Ruben Diaz, who heads the sex crimes unit for the Harris County Sheriff’s office in Texas, admitted that it is “very rare to find a perpetrator of a new sex crime among those already in the registry”.

 

     According to a blog called “Sentencing Law And Policy”, the National Center For Missing And Exploited Children states that there are currently 747,408 registered sex offenders in this country, an increase of 25% since 2006 ALONE. The number continues to grow at an ever-increasing rate and is on track to grow another 10% just this year. Those convicted of possession of child pornography make up the largest number of additions to sex offender registries in this country. James Lang, chief of the criminal division of the US Attorney’s office in Massachusetts was quoted as saying, “There’s been recognition nationwide that there’s been an epidemic.”

An epidemic indeed.

     The Supreme Court of this great nation has unconscionably legitimized immorality and the removal of God from many aspects of daily life. It has endorsed the absence of any requirement of decency in the way that people live and it has paved the way to the creation of this nation’s obsession and preoccupation with sex.

     As America descends deeper into the depths of depravity and degeneracy, those who have become obsessed are now becoming the obsession itself. Society has become so maniacally obsessed with the sex OFFENDERS that the waves of arrests and the flood of new legislation and restrictions on a select class of citizens’ freedoms and liberties threatens to overturn society and capsize the very core of its existence.

     And all because we have the right to use our freedom in pathetically meaningless and depraved ways that contribute nothing TO the good of mankind and take away much that is good FROM it.

     In the meantime, as local, state and federal governments struggle to find ways to pay for services that taxpaying citizens should have a right to expect, hundreds of millions – indeed, BILLIONS – of dollars are thrown into a cesspool of our own making rather than going to the very agencies that were created to protect children in the first place.

     Every state in the union has some form of child protective agency. Instead of using them for their intended purpose, and growing them to meet today’s special needs, we have turned the FBI into a very ineffective, and very expensive child protective agency while at the same time we reduce funding to these very critical, very well-positioned agencies that were designed to do what the name implies – protect children from neglect and physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. It is easy to find stories in almost every state about cutbacks in funding. Poorly trained case workers and investigators, and fewer of them in today’s world are things that should not be tolerated by anyone who claims to be a protector of children.

     There is no dispute from any quarter that the overwhelming majority of the dangers that exist to children comes from family, friends, or acquaintances. It should be as obvious as the problem itself that funding for these agencies should be a top priority. More investigators and caseworkers who are better paid and better qualified. More therapists to turn the victims of child sexual abuse into survivors.

     It’s time to take steps that will substantively help these young victims become survivors through education, treatment, and therapy. It’s time to spend money where it will have a positive impact on someone’s life rather than using it to paralyze an entire nation, filling its citizen’s with fear and paranoia about dangers that comprise a small percentage of the damage done to children through sexual and physical abuse and neglect.

     I look forward to one day being able to write about the SURVIVORS of freedom rather than its victims, but until we re-focus our energies, intellect, and resources on solutions that can actually fix problems, we will just continue to incarcerate more people and make their re-entry into society a near impossibility, thereby effectively destroying MORE families and creating hundreds of thousands – if not millions – of victims of another kind.

     It’s time to stop the madness and end the sadness that comes when this nation’s children are victims of freedom not used well.

     I thank you for your time. God bless you and your families.

Forgiveness – A Choice and A Process

On By Tony CassonIn Victims - Their Stories1 Comment

Dear God,

Something came to my heart and I felt a strong desire to write it down in my journal. Lately the word “forgiveness” has been running through my head, and specifically towards a someone who stole my God-given innocence many years ago.  It has been a long process, but I just couldn’t get this out of my head. Is it because it’s a process of mending relationships? Realizing that we as people have our faults and fail on a day-to-day basis? Forgiveness is an every day thing, big or small, and it plays a huge role in all of our relationships. If I could actually grasp the concept and the true identity of forgiveness then just think about how much easier loving people would be. There is so much love to be given, and yet it’s masked with the bitterness and anger that we carry around as baggage. It does not take away pain, or undo the done, but it’s a process, and it’s a choice…

Thoughts on Forgiveness:

First of all there is no such thing as “forgive and forget”. It is impossible for us as humans to do, and those principles are usually taken completely out of context in the bible. My “Someone” is a lost boy and as a believer I should not turn my back on him. The love of Christ that he will see and feel through me (after sinning against me and hurting me terribly) might be the only thing possible for him to find the right path. And I may only be able to maintain positive feelings about him due to the grace of God, but that’s okay.

Second, forgiveness is not a “one time” thing that we do and then move on. True forgiveness is an attitude. Forgiveness does not involve “excusing the act.” In fact, forgiveness is about the inexcusable. Forgiveness does not involve turning a blind eye toward sin, or ignoring or denying it, or even pretending it didn’t happen. That type of response would be indulging in sin rather than dealing with it through the work of forgiveness. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting to remember—it means remembering to forget. I will remember the offenses, probably every time I see that “someone”.  But when I declare, “I forgive you” I am really saying that I am committing myself NOT to treat “someone” on the basis on what he has done, even though I remember very well what it was. Time is likely to dull the pain, but it is unlikely to ever completely erase the memory.

Third, forgiveness involves both choice and a process. I have made the choice, and now I am involved in the process. The first step in forgiving anyone is by dealing with the sin honestly. I still am confronting the sins committed against me, however Luke 17: 3 says “if your brother or sister sins, rebuke them and IF they repent, forgive them.” The goal of confrontation is to bring about repentance, then forgiveness, then restoration/reconciliation. True forgiveness really requires “someone” to “own” the sins committed against me and to repent of those sins. True repentance goes beyond/deeper than an apology or expression of regret. The biblical definition of repentance describes a change of mind that produces a change of direction. Repentance is more than a feeling of wrongdoing or regret and more than just an apology. Without repentance the process of forgiveness is broken. True forgiveness flows toward true repentance. If “someone” has truly repented (which I’m not certain) then it is more than understandable that I want to forgive and be reconciled with him. And my feeling of that is a reflection of Christ’s love shining through me.

Fourth, Jesus requires us to forgive the repentant. To forgive is to win one’s brother, to reclaim him from the bondage of sin…right? It basically means to release the desire to “get even” or the “right” to require him to pay for what he has done (and specifically done to me).

Fifth, I have to remember that forgiveness is not the same as reconciliation. Forgiveness is given. Reconciliation is earned. Forgiveness and reconciliation are related, but quite distinct. Forgiveness cancels all debts, but does not eliminate all consequences of it. To be reconciled with my “someone”, they must demonstrate a clear and convincing way that over time they have has changed their attitude and mind about the sins committed against me. They are not to be trusted until his actions reflect his repentant words.

Forgiveness is ultimately an act of the will, not a stirring of emotions. For a flower of Christ, it is a choice to obey God and let it go. So when I say “I forgive you” I have to promise myself to not rehearse in my mind the evil that occurred, and declare that the issue between us is dead. When the painful memories, surface (which they do and always will), I promise myself to take it to the Lord and lay it at the foot of the cross.   C.S. Lewis says “to forgive for the moment is not difficult, but go on forgiving, to forgive that same offense every time it recurs to the memory- that’s the real tussle.” Clarissa Pinkola Estes said “forgiveness has many layers, many seasons. The important part of forgiveness is to begin and to continue. The finishing work of it all is a life work.”

The bible says “God can restore what the locus has eaten.” No matter where I am or what has happened, I am not damaged goods and I am a very special and precious child in His sight. God will use my pain to refine and strengthen me and to sharpen me and to give me compassion and understanding so that he can use me in a mighty way down the road. I just have to trust for now, that God is in control and he has a plan. I cannot let Satan let me suffer twice for the same evil—first what happened to me and what was done against me, and second by hardening my heart towards God.

God works in mysterious ways. A friend told me that taking a step back these last few weeks would be good for us (not pertaining to this) but by doing that I have been able to really focus on myself and fix the things that were going on my life and refocus. Little did I know God would lay this all on my heart and really make me face the facts. This situation took a toll on me these last few months and I was looking for an “out” in all the wrong places. Made me become someone I was not and dependent and needy upon others. It ruined relationships with friends, parents, and even people I cared about in other ways and potentially love. If only I had taken a step back and listened and wasn’t so stubborn, I could have stayed true to myself.

Thank you God, for giving me this opportunity and for the man (who I admire so much) for telling me to “chill”, even though he has things he has to figure out as well. Without that, I don’t know if I would have ever come to this realization. Relationships take work, and the most important one is between you and I. My family, that ‘someone’, my love life, and my friends will all fall into place once if I stay true to the person I know and the woman you have created me to be. I will fail you and others on multiple occasions, but I ask for your forgiveness in that, it’s a process and its one I’m willing to take head on. I love you.

Love,  A Forgiving Victim

Giving A Voice To The Victims

On By Tony CassonIn Victims - Their Stories, Volume 22 Comments

“My job is to take care of you. I was appointed to do that by God.”   – Cormac McCarthy , “The Road”

“Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from Him.”    – Psalm 127:3 NLT

“But if you cause one of these little ones who trusts in me to fall into sin, it would be better for you to have a large millstone tied around your neck and be drowned in the sea. – Jesus Matthew 18:6 NLT

I pray daily.

I pray from the depths of my heart. Often my prayers go something like this:”Lord give me the wisdom that will enable me to write words that will somehow make a difference in someone’s life. Illuminate my path and lead my heart and my hand to a way of communicating that will help me to do my part to leave this world that you created, and the people in it, in a better way than I found them.”

I struggle with that concept, for the world and the people in it are in dire need of God Himself. What can a mere man do – a man who is in prison, no less – to change or improve anything for anyone?

Praying for an answer to that question, the path is suddenly made clear and I am led to the words of Helen Keller: “I am only one. But still, I am one. I cannot do everything. But still, I can do something. I will not refuse to do something I can do.”

With the encouragement of my editor and inspired by the courage of a very special individual who wrote to me and wishes to share thoughts about their own struggle with being sexually abused, I have decided that I can do this: I can, in a very small way, give a voice to victims of sexual abuse.

Some cannot or will not speak for themselves, so I will humbly – and most likely inadequately – endeavor to use my voice on their behalf. Others, like the young person who I am sure God is using to help me find my way, will speak for themselves.

That is my hope.

That is my prayer.

That collectively, all of our voices will be heard clearly around the world with the knowledge that, together, we are more than one and with God lighting the way, the something we can do can change things, if only just a little.

We cannot change the whole world. We cannot change everything.  But we can change something. We simply must not refuse to change the something we can.

WHO ARE THE VICTIMS?

–  According to an Associated Press story I read some time ago, forty eight women are raped hourly in the Congo. The article went on to state that 400,000 women were raped in a twelve-month period between 2006 and 2007.

–  A more recent· AP story showed a horrific photo of a fifteen-year-old child bride in Afghanistan who was viciously tortured and sexually abused in her in-laws’ basement for six months. They ripped out her fingernails, broke her fingers, and tortured her with hot irons – all in attempts to force her into prostitution

–  According to a report by RAINN, the Rape, Abuse, Incest National Network, in which statistics from the U.S. Departments of Justice, Health and Human Services, and various others quoted, there are 207,754 victims (age 12 or older) of rape and sexual assault each year in this country. That’s the equivalent of one every two minutes.

– Also according to RAINN, in 1995 (the only year for which I had statistics) local child protection agencies identified 126,000 children who were victims of either substantiated or indicated sexual abuse. Of that number, 75% were girls. 30% of them were between the ages of four and seven. Of the assailants, 34% were family members, 59% were family acquaintances. Only 7% were strangers to the victim.

The first person to lend their voice here knew the assailant very well. While the victim does not offer specifics about the abuse or the individual responsible, the victim’s Christian-based thoughts are centered on healing and forgiveness – a healing and forgiveness made possible by a strong support system and the understanding that sustained, professional counseling will help with the pain and suffering, the life-long wounds sexual abuse leaves on a person’s soul.

As society struggles to determine how best to deal with the perpetrators of sexual abuse, the victims struggle to deal with recovering from the abuse itself.

How does one go about reclaiming something that has been taken in a way that leaves the victims feeling responsible somehow? Leaves them feeling less than whole? Leaves them feeling alone, isolated, abandoned and ashamed?

Here, then, is the voice of a victim:

I applaud the courage and determination of the person whose words you find in the next article in this series.  I applaud the commitment to heal and help the one who wronged.

If anyone would like to share a story in a future article or comment without your e-mail address being published, please write to: oakdaletoc@gmail.com.

We did something at least. We can do more.

I thank you.

Send your stories to:      oakdaletoc@gmail.com

A Sex Offender Like Me: The New Kid in Town – Part 3

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me2 Comments

“We spoke of the whites. ‘They’re God’s children, just like us,’ he said. ‘Even if they don’t act very godlike anymore. God tells us straight – we’ve got to love them, no ifs ands or buts about it. Why if we hated them, we’d be sunk down to their level. There’s plenty of us doing just that too’.” – John Howard Griffin     “Black Like Me”

“Don’t say, ‘I will get even with this wrong.’ Wait for the  Lord to handle the matter.” – Proverbs 20:22 NLT

      The ‘hater’ with the tattooed proclamations of love for God and hatred for others returned with another man Alan hadn’t crossed paths with yet, but who was familiar to me and  everyone else in the unit as the loudmouthed leader of the movement to control people’s lives and suppress the rights of anyone with sex-related offenses.

      If Alan was intimidated at all by the physical appearance and demeanor of the first man, the second man’s appearance should have been enough to send his nervous system into sensory overload. To say this man was unpleasant to look at would be an enormous understatement.

      Whereas the first man’s eyes were pale, cold and devoid of any friendliness, the second man’s eyes were the eyes of a ferret … dark little beady spots that darted about as they peered out from a greasy-looking face that was scarred and pockmarked, mercifully covered with a beard that was mostly grey. I say mercifully because the beard helped to cover a small weak chin set in an altogether unattractive countenance and helped to mask the fact that most of his teeth were missing. His hair was very fine, thinning, greasy-looking and usually worn with rubber bands spaced a couple of inches apart up its twelve-inch length, giving it the appearance of a rat tail. Like his beard, his hair was predominately grey. He was only about 5’8″ tall. His lower body was slight of build but his arms showed evidence of a view toward “working out” that only consisted of repeated lifting of heavy objects to bulk up his arms. His stomach was huge, fed by a constant stream of snacks and meals whenever he was observed in the unit. Sometimes it seemed as though his eating was the only thing that prevented the unpleasantness of his nasal backwoods twang from permeating the air of the housing unit.

      He had a rather offensive habit of wearing only shorts, socks and sandals around the unit in the evenings when he was in “relaxed mode.” His status provided him a front row center seat in front of “his”  television and he would sit there, sometimes for hours, staring at the screen, usually munching by spoon or hand from an ever-present bowl of chips or something that had been “cooked,” prison style, in one of our two microwaves.

      The man’s stomach was so large and so round, it appeared to sit in his lap and every square inch of it was covered in tattoos, most of which were more than likely applied during one of his many years in state or federal prison. In fact, every bit of visible skin not hidden by shorts or socks was covered in tattoos.

      In particular, the ink on the stretched skin of his stomach looked like a freakish collage painted in blue on a flesh-colored over-inflated balloon.

      As Alan’s further misfortune would have it, the man was in “relaxed mode” when he was brought to the cell where Alan was waiting apprehensively and he was totally unnerved when he stood facing this grotesque beast.

      Alan was asked again, this time by the “beast”, what his charge was and when he began to offer an explanation, he was immediately told to stop, pack up his meager possessions and leave the cell. He was informed that they would have other arrangements made because he was definitely not welcome in that cell.

      Holding his bedroll and little bag of toiletries, Alan wandered out into the common area. Observing an empty chair near a game table, he sat down to await his fate.

      Unfortunately, there were two things wrong with what he did: it was not his chair and sex offenders were not allowed to sit at the game tables. Alan, of course, had no way of knowing these things at this point so he was probably unaware that his actions were only serving to pump up the overall hostility level and increase the tension which, like the rubber band attached to the propeller on a little balsa wood airplane, was being wound tighter and tighter, approaching the point at which it might break.

      Seeing this, someone who sides with those who hate but is a bit more merciful about it, moved him over near the wall and arranged for him to sit in a chair until some sort of resolution was arrived at.

      Many minutes later, Alan was approached by both the “hater” and the “beast” and told to go see the counselor again. He was given another room assignment across the hall from his first one and down a few doors from where he had been sitting.

      He was met at the door to that cell by its current occupant who made it instantly clear that, “You’re not staying in here!” At that point, he stormed past Alan on his way to the counselor’s office, huffing and puffing, beating his chest and loudly proclaiming that he was not going to have this man pushed off on him.

      Given the size of the unit itself and the dynamics of living in a place where small things are big news, word was rapidly racing through the unit that this latest addition to the “chomo” population was getting a hard time. All the while, I sat quietly oblivious in my cell reading a newspaper. Now I am no one’s mother, father, leader or savior. But I do try to make sure that new people are made aware that they are safe and have people to go to with questions or needs.

      In a way, I failed Alan that day by remaining in my cell. But I just felt that we had progressed to a level of tolerance where it was not necessary to stand on the rail and gawk, adding to the discomfort that newcomers feel. As evidenced by what was transpiring outside my door and down the stairs, I was wrong.

      Once again, Alan was placed in the chair along the wall. Most of the activity swirling around Alan – the angry looks, the cursing and grumbling spoken louder than was necessary, the marching in and out of the counselor’s office – was all for show . . . a lame prison version of “shock and awe.” As it is with gorillas loudly beating their chests and giving their fiercest roar, most of what was transpiring was for show. But to the uninitiated, it can all combine to be tremendously intimidating, demeaning and nerve-wracking.

      The individual who had originally “rescued” Alan attempted to calm him down, told him to just sit in the chair and he would be right back. The knock on my door came a few moments later.

      Well folks, Alan did survive that day and, as most people do has adapted in his own way – a way that works best for him – to life in an environment that just a short time ago was as foreign to him as one could possibly imagine.

      As I have said, most enter this place without any discernable tension. For some, however, like Alan, it can be a frightening experience when you’re the new kid in town.

A Sex Offender Like Me – The New Kid In Town – Part 2

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me1 Comment

“He wondered why people thought they had to die in order to go to hell” – James Lee Burke “Feast Day of Fools”

“Don’t pick a fight without reason when no one has done you harm” – Proverbs 3:30 NLT

      The air crackled with tension as my foot hit the bottom stair.

      I observed tight unsmiling looks on the faces I could see and noticed several people avert their gazes as I glanced in their direction. The person who had come to get me was waiting near the bottom of the stairs and I looked at him and asked, “Where is he?”

      “Over by the wall,” he responded, using his head as a pointer to indicate the direction in which I should go.

      As I turned and started walking in the direction indicated, I could see the person I was looking for sitting in a chair by the wall about twenty feet away. As I moved toward him, I could see that he was a rather rotund middle aged white male. He had somewhat long thinning salt and pepper hair, a very thick and  well-established beard and moustache, which was also salt and pepper, but both the hair on his head and face leaned more toward salt than pepper. He also wore wire-rimmed glasses.

      In the midst of all that had transpired before my presence was requested, someone had at least had the decency to get the poor man one of the plastic chairs that come with the cells we are issued and he was frozen in that chair up against the wall between two cells.

      He leaned forward slightly, his ankles crossed and tucked beneath him and his hands clasped in front of him, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. His gaze was straight ahead and down, as if he had seen all he wanted to see. Even from the side, I could see a look on his face and in his eyes that sent my thoughts and emotions hurtling back to April 6th of 2010.

      As clearly as if it had happened the day before, I remembered the full range of my emotions as I made my way up the walk toward my “new home” here in Oakdale.

      At that moment, looking at the frightened man before me, all that I had felt on that day long ago flooded over me as if it had happened just ten minutes earlier. Yet somehow, at the same time, it also seemed as if it had happened so long ago as to have not happened at all.

      But it did happen, of course, and I knew this. The part of me that remembered it with such crystal clarity allowed me to feel the anticipation as I approached the building that day all over again.

      Flashing through my mind as well was the sense of foreboding that built as the faces lining the walk in front of the building loomed larger with each step I took. I could only hope that I didn’t look as frightened as I most definitely was.

      I recalled the inquisitiveness of their eyes turning to a visceral loathing in some as their assessment of me, my crime and my worth as a human being transformed from simple curiosity to a virtual certainty, if only in their minds.

      My perception of the conclusions that were being arrived at was confirmed as I passed by the one I have referred to before who stood like a sentinel near the doorway with his large, tattooed arms crossed over his equally large chest.

      He sniffed the air and spoke three words as I passed: “Smells like one.” Those three words contained all I needed to know about what awaited me inside, a taste of what hell must be like. “Smells like one” … words that, when pulled from the place in my mind where unpleasantness is stored, still had the same chilling effect that they did when they first spilled from the mouth of the man whose self-appointed task it was to be among the first to let me know I was not welcome.

      All of this coursed through my mind and body as I took the few final steps to the person who seemed frozen in fear in front of me.

      I knew that, regardless of how unnerving my own experience had been, it would prove to be sedate compared to what this man was living through.

      After introducing myself and assuring him that he was not alone and everything was going to be alright, he told me his name was Alan.

      The look in his eyes showed a slight sense of relief as I’m sure mine did so many months before when Aaron tapped me on the shoulder and said pretty much the same thing.

      I was anxious to hear what I had missed since I had chosen not to be part of the visual gauntlet newcomers had to walk through.

      Much of the time this had proven to be wise since most of the new arrivals seemed to be entering without incident or unnecessary drama.

      Not so with Alan, as I discovered later after we got him temporarily bunked with another older white male, also a new arrival, although quite vocally not a sex offender like me and, apparently, Alan. Things had gotten a little too heated and expressive this time though and a cooling down period was required. More permanent sleeping arrangements could be made later and he could tell me what  had happened to create such a tense atmosphere.

      “I’ll tell you . . . we don’t want you people. Don’t you understand that?”

      That statement is from “Black Like Me” and the words were spoken by a white plant foreman in Mobile, Alabama in 1959 to a “black” John Howard Griffin. They could just as easily have come from the mouth of the man in the first cell Alan was assigned to that day.

      Upon his arrival, Alan took the bedroll he had been given into the cell he had been told he was to live in. As he began to put his sheet and blanket on the top bunk, the other occupant of the cell entered.

      As bad luck would have it, Alan had been placed in a cell with a man whose tattooed body proclaimed a love of God on the same pasty white flesh on which his hatred of others was evidenced by other artwork that proclaimed his white supremacy.

      He is what is commonly referred to here as a “hater,” and less desirable as roommates than non-whites to him are those with sex related charges.

      When he walked through the door, he instructed Alan to stop what he was doing for a minute. I can only guess at the emotional churning taking place within Alan as he took in the physical appearance of the man who was now challenging Alan to assure him that his charge was “straight.”

      The man’s eyes were pale and displayed not one tiny measure of friendliness or welcome. His shaved head and goatee, combined with the ink on his skin that crept out of the collar and sleeves of his t-shirt, served to flash a warning that this was not a person full of warmth and benevolence.

      To the question asked, about his charge being “straight,” Alan groped with the intended meaning and settled for responding, “I’m not a homosexual, if that’s what you mean.”

      That reply would have been  humorous were it not for the fact that simply not knowing what was implied by the question told the one asking it what he needed to know. He was actually looking for verification that Alan’s charge was a “good” charge – drugs or bank robbery or any other such glamorous event. Not knowing what “straight” meant could only mean that he was a “chomo,” a sex offender like me.

      The man instructed Alan to stop what he was doing and just wait, at which time he walked out of the cell door. Alan was no doubt left wondering how the long stressful day was going to end.

      Alan had begun the day almost eighteen hours earlier in Oklahoma City where he was awakened at 2 a.m. to be processed for travel.

      Oklahoma City is the site of a large Bureau of Prisons facility; a large hub or distribution center. Federal inmates headed to all different parts of the country pass through OKC, usually staying there only a week or two. Some may stay a little longer but usually not much.

      Alan had spent about a week in OKC, arriving there from a CCA facility in Mason, Tennessee. He had spent about three weeks there after being sent there from court following his sentencing. That day’s wake-up call would send him to Oakdale FC!, where he had been “designated” by the BOP to serve at least the beginning of the time given him by the federal judge back in Pulaski County, Arkansas.

      After being awakened, he and the forty others chosen for the trip were moved to a holding area where they were processed out and prepared to board a bus for the journey to Oakdale.

      With wrists in handcuffs, ankles in leg chains and both of these secured to another chain that circled each prisoner’s waist, they were finally loaded onto a prison bus at around 4:30 a.m., each man carrying a bagged meal for the trip which consisted of four slices of bread, two slices of meat, two slices of cheese, a small bag of chips and a drink. This would be their only sustenance until their arrival in Oakdale at around 3:30 p.m.

      When they finally arrived, I imagine that Alan saw pretty much the same thing that I had as the prison came into view, although the glass in the bus windows had wire running through it and there were metal bars bolted to the outside. I, on the other hand, had the unobstructed view of the window of my brother’s car.

      Still, the day he arrived was gloriously sunny and the razor wire along the top of the high chain link fences glittered in a way that was somehow appealing to the eye yet incredibly frightening at the same time.

      All of the hours spent sitting on the hard plastic seats of the bus, still wearing all of those chains, probably made even that sight perversely welcome as the senses perked up with the knowledge that the tedious discomfort of the bus ride was almost at an end.

      Once the bus was securely inside the enclosure built to receive it, the inmates were led off and into the facility where they were unchained and placed in the holding cell.

      Undoubtedly the sensation of movement stayed with Alan and the others and they remained numb and dazed as they were all processed into their strange new community.

      After four more hours of waiting, having been given another bagged meal similar to that given in OKe, having been given a bedroll and a bag of toiletries, Alan and the others were led off toward the housing units. Our unit was first, so Alan and a few others were dropped off here. It was late for new arrivals, the time being around 7: 30 p.m. or so.

      Alan entered the place he was assigned to live tired, dazed and apprehensive. He had not had a stellar day to this point, to say the least, but it was going to have to get considerably worse before it would get better.

. . . . To be continued

A Gray-Beard Behind Gray Bars

On By Tony CassonIn Inmates - In Their Own Words1 Comment

Written by Steve Marshall

      Before I came in, I lived in faded Levis, a myriad of rock ‘n’ roll t-shirts, (souvenirs of countless rock concerts in days past) and an ever-present baseball cap.

      I am young.

      I take my stairs two at a time and I am seldom under the weather. I have never had a serious illness and can count the days I have been hospitalized on the fingers of one hand.

      I am young.

      So it always takes me by surprise when someone addresses me as “Pops” or calls me “Old School.”

      “Hey, Old School.” That’s the name reserved in here for anyone over the age of fifty. Makes me want to respond, “Yeah, Pre-School?”

      I am young because I think young. I am not in denial of the fact that I am sixty-eight years old. I know my hair, what remains of it, is snow white and I have a beard to match. But thinking young is my best defense against the encroaching years.

      When I first came in, I saw an elderly figure sitting in front of his cell. He leaned on his cane, had no teeth in his head and very thick glasses. He walked as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. I pegged him for early to mid-eighties. I wondered what someone that old was doing in prison. Finally, I asked someone how old the gentleman was and was told that he was sixty-seven . . . one year older than I was at  the time. To say I was shocked would be an understatement.

      I was assigned a cell with a man who was two years my senior. This is a man who hated rock ‘n’ roll (“Those Beatles were nothin’ but loud noise!”) walked around humming “The Camp Town Races” and listened faithfully to “The Prairie Home Companion.” To me he seemed to be much more of my grandfather’s generation than my own.

      I am young.

      Oh, the hell with it. Facts are facts. Before I came in, I collected social security and was on Medicare. I had been eligible to join AARP for over fifteen years. So okay, for the purposes of this article, I will grudgingly admit that I’m getting up there. So what’s it like being a senior citizen (blech) in prison?

      To most of the inmate population, I am invisible. As I move about the compound, others tend to look through me. If they do see me at all, I am totally inconsequential to them.

      There are certain advantages to this.

      First and foremost, I am safer than most of the other men who populate this world. Seldom is someone of my age ever targeted for violence because there is no cache in beating up an old man. In fact, the inmate’s code holds that anyone who would beat up an old man would receive retribution of the severest order. Just last week, a man about my age was found standing “too close” to the television. The viewing area was empty except for him but he is a sex offender and therefore required to view television from the back row. Someone approached him and ordered him to move. He refused, saying he wasn’t hurting anyone or anything. With that, the offended party hauled off and slapped the older man hard enough to knock him down. Within fifteen minutes, two other inmates sought out the violence-prone individual and exacted their revenge, prison style. All of them are now locked down in the Special Housing disciplinary unit, including the old man who was slapped.

      But incidents such as this are rare. If an older man minds his own business and doesn’t smart off to anyone, he will normally go about his business unmolested.

      Still, many of the prejudices and judgments made against older people in the free world are here, often even amplified.

      When I first arrived at Oakdale, I was assigned to work on the serving line of the dining hall. It’s a fast-paced, pressure filled environment. One of the others working on the line has a pre-set bias against older men, automatically assuming them to be slow and suffering from some measure of diminished capacity.

      In the year and a half that I have worked on the line, he has never spoken a kind word to me.

      I work hard and my energy reserves are the equal of any man there. I have never once been responsible for the line having to slow down. While my position is somewhat menial, I take pride in doing a good job at it. But back in July, the corrections officer normally administers the dining hall was rotated to another department for the quarter. The prejudiced individual went to the new man running things to complain that I was slow, confused and couldn’t get along with anyone else on the serving line, none of which was remotely true. I was then demoted to “Spoon Roller,” a job usually reserved for older inmates, which consists of sitting at a table rolling up sporks with salt packets in a paper towel, to be passed out at mealtime. My pay was cut from $36.00 a month to $5.25. I did the work without complaining and two months later, when the original man in charge returned, I was immediately reinstated to my former job. The man who had me demoted swore he would quit if I returned to the serving line but that proved to be bluster.

      What has been hardest to accept for me as an older inmate in a federal prison is that these are supposed to be my “golden years.” While I am presently in good health, a seven and a half year stretch for someone of my age could easily become a life sentence. My greatest wish is that I do not die in a place like this. I remain focused on that goal.

      I have a granddaughter who was born five months after I went into house arrest. I have met her once, when my daughter and her husband visited and brought her to see me shortly after she turned one. When I get out, she will be nearly seven years old. I mourn the passing of each day that I cannot be a part of her life. But she is regularly shown pictures of me and I talk to her each week on the phone. She is two now and still can’t quite figure out where that voice is coming from or how a person could be small enough to fit into that tiny device. But I struggle to make an impression nonetheless; to let her know who her “Popi” is and just how very much I adore her. I hope it takes.

      Now if you will excuse me, I’ll revert to the state I was in.

      I am young.

 

 

The Gift

On By Tony CassonIn Uncategorized, Volume 2Leave a comment

       As you all exchange gifts this year with those you love, take time to remember the greatest gift that was ever given. The gift that God gave to all of those He loved – the gift of His Son, Jesus Christ.

      In a booklet I read recently from RBC Ministries entitled “The Amazing Names of the Messiah”, I discovered the following: “We often have a low view of the miraculous, and therefore a limited sense of wonder.”

      I look back on when my son was just an infant. The memory of him lying on top of me, barely filling the space between my chin and my waist; the scent of his hair; the movement of his perfect, tiny fingers; the beating of his little heart – all of these things come flooding back to my consciousness today and fill me with a sense of wonder, and an appreciation of the miracle of life itself.

      Could I give you that miracle as an expression of my love? No – I think I’ll keep him for myself.

      But then – I am not God.

      I am, however, profoundly and humbly thankful and appreciative for the gift given to us all, so long ago. In the chaos and confusion as you race to the malls for those last minute gifts for those YOU love, take just a few seconds to look up and say, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you very much.”

Merry Christmas

A Sex Offender Like Me: The New Kid in Town

On By Tony CassonIn A Sex Offender Like Me1 Comment

“I learned within a few hours that no one was judging me by my qualities as an individual and everyone was judging me by my pigment.” -John Howard Griffin  “Black Like Me”

“God alone, who gave the law, is the judge. He also has the power to save or to destroy. So what right do you have to judge your neighbor?” –James 4:12 NLT

      To a sex offender like me, simply existing in prison on a daily basis can be unnerving. But for many, nothing compares to the sheer terror of walking through the front door that first day and enduring the unabashed stares from those who have now become their neighbors.

      Large buses carrying new “residents” arrive with some regularity – usually weekly. Some of the passengers on those buses are moving closer to home; some are working their way down from a medium security facility; still others come from county or federal detention lock-ups where they have endured many months under lock and key as they moved  through the long process from their arrest to conviction or plea, on to sentencing and then finally being designated by the bureau of prisons to their ultimate destination.

      When news of a bus hits the compound, the collective antennae of all the various groups in each of the different housing units goes on high alert. They eagerly await the processing of the new arrivals who are soon escorted to their new “homes.” This usually occurs right after the four o’clock stand-up count or immediately after dinner, which means that most inmates are at “home” and can be counted upon to form an eager gauntlet of curious onlookers, anxious to size-up the new neighbors.

      No peeking through the curtains here. No sizing up the new arrivals by the types of possessions carried into the house or the cars parked in the yard. Here it is about the color of his skin, the language he speaks, the tattoos he displays and the charge that brought him here in the first place. It is all about adding numbers to your particular group and, ultimately, weeding out the outcasts – any new sex offenders, like me.

      If you are black, it’s … well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? After it is determined what state you are from, you are welcomed and situated by others from there. A lot of handshaking and hugging as introductions are made; perhaps some laughter and shouting as old acquaintances are rekindled or common threads in a particular city are unraveled; all of it very friendly, all very warm and welcoming.

      The same can be said for those of obvious Latino origin. They are lavished with warmth, friendliness and camaraderie by the Mexicans, Columbians, Puerto Ricans or any other group that may be a subset of the larger Latino community. As far as white faces are concerned, the dynamics are a little different. The desire to categorize is foremost in the minds of those who have proclaimed themselves to be superior. It is of paramount importance to them to cull the “undesirables” from the herd as quickly as possible in order that they can make a big showing of putting down and then ignoring those who are deemed unworthy. Then they can move on to the more pleasant business of giving a welcome and a tour to those who are socially acceptable. This tour includes unabashedly pointing out all of the resident “chomos,” enabling the newcomer to properly hate someone he has never even met. But the process serves its intended purpose: it lets the new people who are accepted into the upper echelons of the prison hierarchy know who not to be seen talking to.

      Most of the time, once the new arrivals have been properly “slotted” and the new sex offenders have been put together with those of their “own kind” and they have been given the “rules,” life evolves into more of a situation wherein they are ignored. For the most part, this means that we are pretty much left alone, provided that we don’t forget our “place.” In and of itself, this is not entirely a bad thing. But sometimes, the silence can be deafening. Sometimes what is not said speaks louder than voices shouted from a mountaintop. Sometimes an averted gaze or a cold shoulder can gnaw at a man’s dignity and self-respect, creating a wound that is every bit as real, every bit as raw and every bit as painful as if it were caused by a physical assault.

      But all of that comes after the crucial beginning; those critical first moments when you have arrived at the place where you will be staying for a while and your stomach is churning, your heart is racing and your mind is literally screaming at you for what you have done that has landed you in the midst of this surreal landscape.

      New arrivals who are white, heavily tattooed and in their mid-thirties to mid-forties are likely to be initially accepted as “okay” by the “Dirty White Boys.” Questions are asked that can further validate a claim that someone is a drug dealer, a methamphetamine “cooker” or maybe even a bank robber. Paperwork will probably be required to back up any of these claims but the initial acceptance will be there and at least that individual will be alright to talk to for the time being.

      On the other hand, older white males without tattoos are pretty much assumed to be “one of them,” and if you are a similarly unadorned younger white male who appears educated or perhaps slightly nerdy, the same net of suspicion is quickly cast over you as well.

      Most of the time, new sex offenders are identified and pulled aside quickly, quietly and without much fuss. They are then reassured by their “own kind” and made to feel safe and allowed to settle into their new “home” with barely a ripple on the waters of prison life.

       Other times, however, this crucial first step can be difficult. For some, it can be embarrassing or even frightening. I’ll tell you about one such experience when I continue relating the plight of “The New Kid in Town.”