“Healing Pain” (colored pencil) © Lorraine Caputo 2009, 2024
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The more I have traveled, the more I have learned one thing:
Once you strip away the layers of geography, language, culture, time and you arrive at the bare bones of what life is … you will discover that our lives are not at all that different: We share the same joys (a mother nursing a newborn baby, a mother wanting to be at the birth of her first grandchild) and the same sorrows (the death of a loved one, a disaster – a fire, hurricane, tornado, flood – that destroys all we own) …
Once we understand that – not only with our minds, but also with our hearts, our souls – how can we view others of other countries, other cultures as enemies?
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Since 1988, I have been sola traveling in Latin America. In an article, 10 Things Women Solo Travelers Need to Know, I share my tips on how to navigate journeying in a region stereotyped as a “hotbed” of machismo. One suggestion I offer is to spend time volunteering at a women’s center, to learn about how life is for your sisters in the land where you are travelling.
Several times in the 1990s, I volunteered at a women’s center in northern Nicaragua. The first time, I reorganized the information center, took stock of medical supplies so the clinic could reopen, and interpreted for visiting foreigners. I also designed and illustrated a pamphlet that described the programs offered by the women’s center, and the material aid and volunteer assistance needed. (In a later trip, I would meet a volunteer from Boston who had seen the pamphlet when she was a nursing student.)
Another time, I interpreted for visiting U.S. medical team performing consultations. I was also invited to witness talks the center was participating in, to introduce women to the network of safe zones and services for abused women and girls, and their rights under the new law to protect them. One of the presenters was a fourteen-year-old survivor of physical and sexual abuse.
But mostly, whenever I visited the center as a volunteer or just dropping in for a quick visit on my journeys, I spent hours working alongside the compañeras, sweeping and mopping, and sharing our experiences as women – experiences that all-too-often cut across cultural and geographic lines …
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The narrative I am sharing today is about my experiences at this Nicaraguan women’s center.
It was originally published in Magnolia : A Journal of Women’s Socially Engaged Literature (volume 1, 2011).
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Sensitivity Warning: Child abuse and sexual abuse content.
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OURS
Compañeras, this is for you and you – every one of you in corners hiding everywhere afraid to speak, afraid to tell – This is your voice, OUR voice. Sleep in peace.
– Diana Nomad-Cloud
It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck, and he were thrown into the sea, than he should offend one of these little ones.
– Luke 17:2
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Prologue – Missouri, March 1995
For over a year, I could not put my pen to paper to write this, even though I knew it had to be told.
The OTHER, the OTRO … On a personal level, it does not happen. Only to the OTHER … It does not happen in our lives. It happens in the lives of OTHERS … It does not happen in our socio-economic group. It happens in OTHERS … It does not happen in our culture. It happens in the culture of OTHERS ….
Though women seem more willing to admit the OUR, la NUESTRA, leaning into cups of coffee around the kitchen table.
Sisters, compañeras, I could not begin to tell this OUR, because of the OTHER. Even Tashia couldn’t bring the words close enough to tell the OUR. But the girl in Oklahoma – yeh, she gave me the courage … and her offender got a millstone around his neck.
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Nicaragua, January 1994
For the seventh time today, I put the broom away in the corner by the washtub. Outside the open door, waves of dirt roll across the highway, across the vacant lot.
I walk past the legal office. Esperanza says good-bye to the last woman seeking her counsel and calls to me: “Lorena, will you come on a visit with me?”
In the large room of the women’s center, the weekly beautician class is meeting. Women chat while rolling each other’s hair in curlers. A woman walks past us in the hall, towards the washtub to mix the bleach for too-dark hair on arms and upper lips.
We bid the compañeras a quick good-bye.
Esperanza and I walk along the highway, the January winds scuttling dirt around our calves. She tells me about the Canadian doctor who has volunteered his services. For the first time in over a year, the women center’s clinic will be open.
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We sit in the coolness of his house, in large, hand-carved Masayan chairs, talking about his volunteer work at the clinic. The sweating glasses of fruit drink wet our hands. Esperanza places her glass on the table.
“Doctor, there is another reason I have come here…. I have a girl in my care. She is eight years old. She was sexually abused by her mother’s boyfriend. Her mother abandoned her when she found out.”
Esperanza brings her balled hands to her chin, her eyes concern-bright. She leans forward.
“I took her to the doctor because she was ill – she has gonorrhea. With the last of my money, I bought her medicine. She completed the prescription, but she is still sick. It has not helped.”
The doctor leans forward and asks Esperanza about the medicine and her symptoms.
“The problem is that what he prescribed is not very effective against some types of gonorrhea.”
He runs his hand through his sandy-colored hair.
“And she may also have another disease – chlamydia. But there is no way to test for it in this country. If it is not treated, it can damage her. I can give you medication to cure both infections.
“Does her mother know that she, too, probably has it?”
“No – there is no way to warn her.”
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The large room is still cool and not yet brightened by the early morning sun. Already a few women have arrived. Some sit on the stoop outside the front door. Others take a chair in this room. One woman’s face is bruise-darkened.
Reyna is sweeping the dirt away from her, towards the far door. I follow her with the rag mop.
At that far door, a young girl appears. Her bright yellow dress is soiled by travel, peaked by small breasts. She covers her face with a towel slung over one shoulder.
Reyna walks up to her and kneels, asking her what she wants. The girl pulls the towel up further and turns her head.
We lead her into the kitchen. I hand her a cup of coffee. She will not speak.
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All day long, she stays there at the women’s center, finding places to hide. All day the women arrive. No-one knows this child. Everyone pities the deaf-mute.
But I watch her. She reacts to conversations. “She can probably hear,” I tell the compañeras. “Just watch her and you can tell.”
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Every evening one compañera or another takes her home. After three days, her caregivers tell their frustrations to Albertina, the director: She will not clean herself or her clothes. Albertina leads her to the bathroom. In a kindly, firm tone, she tells her in words and sign language that she will wash. She hands her a clean towel and clean clothes.
A short while later, the girl comes out smiling, her hair wrapped in a towel-turban.
Albertina leads her to the washtub, hands her the bar of laundry soap. After a bit of defiance, the girl sets to work, masterfully scrubbing her yellow dress.
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All day, every day, she hides in the corners of empty rooms. Or she drifts away towards the highway – one of us always runs after her and leads her back to the center.
She watches me draw pamphlet illustrations, and points to the pictures of crying, abused women. She smiles. I hand her a pencil, paper, and ask her, too, to draw. But she shyly shakes her head and drifts away….
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Maybe someday someone will recognize this nameless, placeless girl ….
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The morning chores are done. I am in the clinic-room taking inventory of supplies with Rafael, a gay man with AIDS. We discuss what there is, what is needed – From where can we ask donations?
Esperanza walks in and asks if she may speak with me. We walk into the library. She closes the door behind us.
“I have this case – A seven-year-old girl was sexually abused by an old man, in his seventies. She is mildly retarded. There are no witnesses, only the girl’s testimony.”
She straightens her back. I study her face.
“The judge has thrown the case out because of the girl – and because he doubts a man that age can perform. What can we do?”
“That is ridiculous – A man that age can’t perform?”
“I know …”
“Oh, to have a prostitute lure him and testify, then, as to his performance ….
“Or to show him a pornographic movie and see if he ‘rises’ to the occasion….”
Esperanza giggles.
“But no – The only thing, Esperanza, is if someone can testify about his ability, or if there are other victims of his.
“Or protest – in the neighborhoods, in the streets, wherever – against the judge’s decision.
“I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything else.”
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Several women and I sit in the large room, near the open front door. Outside, the January wind whips up dust devils, blowing across the highway and dirt lots. The sun is bright.
On the other side of the room, a half-dozen or more wait – some for Esperanza, others just to pass the workless, foodless hours. Their legs are dark, varicose-vein-bulging from too many pregnancies, too-hard work.
Today, the compañeras each have brought a little food – some vegetables or rice. Reyna and Mariana have been in the kitchen, tending the pot. Soon there will be a little soup for everyone.
“What shit,” I mutter from behind today’s newspaper.
“What’s that?” asks Gloria. The right side of her face droops. I can tell that again, today she is in pain.
I lay the paper in my lap, crumpled open at this story: “In Managua, a five-year-old girl was sexually abused by her mother’s boyfriend, who is nineteen. He would often bathe her…”
A ripple of ¡Ay!s and shaking heads flows around me.
“…. And his explanation to the court: Me invitó – She invited me.”
The ripple becomes a wave,
A five year old?
¡Qué cabrón! Invited him?
then murmurings.
We’ve all known too many stories like this.
I look up across the large open room, where the yellow-dressed girl peeks around a door.
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I am travelling northward again, after spending a week in the southern part of the country. I stop by the center to say one last good-bye and thanks to the compañeras.
They tell me a truck driver passing through recognized the yellow-dressed girl. She is from a village south of here, but he doesn’t know her name. Now, though, there’s a bit of hope of finding her family.
She still will not speak ….
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How can I tell your stories, compañeritas?
Will people there in the North understand?
Or will they just dismiss them with a wave of the hand, with a shrug of the shoulders and say: “It just goes to show how macho they are down there” … ?
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Alaska, Summer 1994
A morning off from work. In the dining hall, I dig through piles of newspapers – so rare here in Alaska.
With a stack before me, I begin reading last month’s news, a cup of coffee warming one hand. Then my Spirit stops with this story:
Tashia Shipley – sexually abused by her mother’s boyfriends since she was three. At age six, she was diagnosed with herpes and gonorrhea ….
I sit straight in my chair, leaning into her story, holding it with both hands.
… Later she was found to also have syphilis and venereal warts …
My mind quickly shifts to you, compañeritas – then back to Tashia’s story.
… When she was nine, she was diagnosed with AIDS. All that she knew was that she had bad blood, a disease that would kill her. When she came to live with the Shipleys, Tashia was frightened and shy. She hoarded food and hid in closets …
Again my mind shifts.
… But she was tough and proud – “A little Southern belle,” said her counselor.
I tough her picture on this newspaper magazine page quivering in my hands. It is Hallowe’en 1993. Tashia is dressed as an angel.
… Her foster parents told her there is no pain in heaven. She will have a new body. No-one will ever hurt her again – God will protect her. She’ll slide down rainbows. Tashia decided that heaven was like Disneyland, and God, Mickey Mouse …
… In March 1994, eleven-year-old Tashia died of AIDS.
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Epilogue – Missouri, January 1995
For three days, Tashia, we searched for your story through on-line and computer newspaper indices ….
I wanted to touch you again.
I could not remember your name. I’d read about you there in Alaska – I thought it was the Anchorage paper – I thought you were Alaskan. But your story cut beyond geography.
Some friends offered to look for your story – with no luck. I decided to search myself – for however many hours, for however many days – until I found you again.
Sexual Abuse! and Child! and AIDS!
over 1,000 articles.
Sexual Abuse! and Child! and AIDS!
(March 1994 to October 1994)
760 articles
Sexual Abuse! and Child! and AIDS!
(May 1994 to September 1994)
574 articles.
Damn – How could I narrow the field even more to find you?
… A sheaf in a huge field …
Slouched in my chair, I began skimming the stories, calling them up one by one.
Story 47: A girl’s tragic life of abuse
Your name jumped out. I jumped up straight in my chair. There you were …
I touched the computer screen, dazed, awed by your presence.
I searched anew:
Tashia Shipley!
Five stories about you, Tashia – from your native Florida to Baltimore, to Chicago and LA.
Once more you are tangible ….
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Postscript – Oklahoma City, February 1995
Charles Scott Robinson is convicted of six counts of rape of an unnamed three-year-old girl.
The jury recommends he serve 5,000 years for each count. The judge rules they are to be served consecutively.
Robinson is sentenced to prison until the year 31995.