Loosing My Innocence

I was twelve years old. He, in his late twenties or early thirties. He was an extremely close family friend, an employee in my dad’s business – so close, that my dad considered him as the son he never had – a big brother to me. His family and my family knew each other. They lived a stone throw away from my fathers business and my grandmothers house. His father, like mines; was also a successful businessman.

It all started innocently one Easter Weekend, Good Friday to be exact. We were sitting at the dining room table having a traditional Good Friday meal of ground provisions and fish. It was him, my first sister – who was still a toddler at that time – and I. As we ate, we had small conversations that somehow eventually led to us talking about what kinds of fish we loved to eat. As we called the names of different fish we ate, he said “I love salt fish” as he winked and nodded at me. I said I didn’t because of the smell. He laughed and said “all salt fish good, you have good salt fish too.” It took me a few seconds to catch on to exactly what he was implying, and when I did; I burst into hysterical laughter and I said to him “nobody eats that kind of salt fish.”

In Trinidad, Salt Fish; is one of the many names that a woman’s vagina is called.

As we finished the meal he said “maybe one day you’ll let me see your salt fish.” I replied, “maybe.” We left from around the table, I washed the dishes and he left to go back to helping daddy at the business.

About a week later, I was home alone, and he showed up. This was nothing unusual. As I mentioned before, he was like family to us. Therefore, he had full access to the kingdom. My dad owned several vehicles, which he had the privilege drive to run errand as well as to pick-up and drop-off my step-mother, myself and my sister to any required destination. Anytime day or night, he was at the house. On holidays, weekends, during the week – anytime. So him just appearing and spending extended time at the house was nothing strange or new to us.

He came into the house, asked what I was doing, then he fixed himself something to eat, had a cold beer out of the refrigerator then he made his way to the living room where I sat; watching television. He sat with me, watched what I was watching for a few minutes then he asked me, “do you want to show me your salt fish now?”

I blushed, laughed it off and said no. Before I knew what happened, his hand was between my thighs and his fingers had already slithered their way into my underwear, I was on my back, he climbed on top of me, entered me and within a few minutes was on his feet and helping me up; as the blood ran down my thighs.

Because no one ever had “the talk” with me, I was clueless as to exactly what just happened and what to expect. I said to him “my stomach is hurting, you hurt me, I’m bleeding.” He said “it’s okay, just go bathe and lay down for a while.” He let himself out the door, as I did exactly as he advised. A few hours later, he came back to check on me. I was fine, he had another beer, watched tv with me for a few hours and left.

I saw him everyday after that; it was business a usual. He didn’t treat me any way different and I acted no way different towards him. It was about two weeks later when he came at me again. I was home alone, watching tv and it happened again. From here on out, this was a weekly, sometimes twice per week event. Every moment or opportunity he had to be alone with me, he took full advantage of it. This went on for about six to eight months. Although he never told me not to tell anyone, I knew that it was our secret. Or so I thought.

For months we both kept our “secret activities” between us and all was well; until my step-mother confronted me one evening about a rumor that was brought to their attention – the secret was out.

Apparently, one evening while he was hanging out with the boys, who happened to be tenants of my dads, he must have had one too many beers, and he began to brag about being my first – spilling the tea.

Of course boys being boys, one of them had oral diarrhea and ran off at the mouth to someone outside of that circle and the rumor-mill ran with it, until word got to my father.

Only after being asked about it by my step-mother, did I ever tell anyone. Of course she had to break the news to my father, that the rumors were true. He was livid. Hurt. And more than anything else, embarrassed. This forever changed the course of the relationship between my father and I. From then on, my father didn’t speak to me. He was cold. He lost all trust in me. He didn’t want to see my face. He just couldn’t look at me. I was confined to my room as long as he was at home. I was scared and always thinking that he was planning to ambush and beat the life out of me.

As for the other individual, he got word that my dad now had knowledge about what he did and he stayed at home in hiding, possibly hoping to ride out the storms until it was calm and clear enough for him to poke his head out again. However, this was not to be so. Just like me, the time to be most terrified of my dad, was when you know he’s hurt, dangerously quiet and appearing to be normal. Via the same media he delivered word about his deed, my dad sent one simple message to him.

“Disappear! If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to kill you!”

Knowing that my dad had all of the necessary recourses, including known “hit men” as his closest most trusted friends, he didn’t have to be told this twice or on a bullhorn. The morning after he received the message, he did indeed disappear. Rumor had it that his parents shipped him off to a remote location in either Tobago or Grenada, where they had property. Where ever he vanished to, not even his children or their mothers knew where he was.

As for me, the months preceding this were; let’s just say; uncomfortable. I was uneasy at home and always worried and afraid that my father will snatch and maul me when I least expected. Whenever I was let outside, I felt like the entire world knew “my secret” and felt like all eyes were on me or like I was always the daily hot topic. It was an uncomfortable and embarrassing feeling.

Vacation came up and I was sent to my aunt’s house for the break. That was a whole other episode of torture. Because daddy told my aunt about the incident, I was now fair game for her as well.

She judged me.

Only her judgement was next level. I was always a “chubby” child and to this day, never had a flat stomach. However, in her mind, I was all the way pregnant! She didn’t allow my cousin and I to play and have our usual interactions. There was always an extra secret meeting between them in their respective bedrooms, but this time around there were extra, extra secret meetings. So I knew they were constantly talking about me and what had happened, and of course my aunt’s assumption that I was pregnant. My aunt had hawk eyes on me. She watched me constantly. She began over feeding me – feeding me for two. And every so often, she would poke at my stomach. Apparently she was expecting to feel or see something in there. She questioned me about being pregnant, “let me ask you, you wouldn’t lie to your aunt right? You sure you not pregnant, nothing in there?” as she poked at my stomach. She impregnated me! I had to endure this for the few weeks that I spent with her. To this day, I don’t think she ever believed that I was NEVER pregnant. Even as I grew older, had other relationships, got married and this was long gone and forgotten, she still questioned me – “you wouldn’t lie to your aunt right, you sure you wasn’t pregnant right, ’cause that’s not what I heard?” Apparently she still thinks or heard from the rumor-mill that I was indeed pregnant and had a secret back alley abortion at some point in time. Or maybe she was just phishing for information.

As for me, I turned out just fine. This incident didn’t turn me into a raging sex addict, a drug addict, stripper, escort, night walker, man-hater, gay, the village slut, a serial killer or the mother to a brood of children with different fathers, or some type of vigilante against rapist and sex predictors – none of that thank you. Neither did it leave me with a messed-up mind. I’m not judging either. Everyone is different. Not everyone has the strength to manage, handle or cope with something as traumatic as this and move on, let alone stay sane.

Even as a child, I’ve always been way more mature in my thinking and mentality for my age. I took my share of the blame for this incident. I held myself accountable for this. Yes, I know that he was and adult and knew right from wrong (hopefully) and should not have even looked at me in that way, much less to have that sort of conversation with me; for it to have led to where it ended. But I was a willing participant. I responded to the questions instead of shutting him down AND notifying my parents. I was feeling myself and got way in over my head.

This is my “Me too” moment, but I didn’t play victim them, and I’m not going to play victim thirty-something or more odd years later.

This incident taught me valuable lessons. It taught me about boundaries, trust, integrity, honesty and accountability. It made me the strong, fearless and outspoken woman that I am today.

As for him, he stayed in hiding for years. Even when both his parents and sister died, he never showed his face at their funerals. He stayed under his rock until, I guess, word got to him that my dad had migrated to the US. Then and only then, he came out of hiding, but still remained in seclusion; and was only seen visiting his children after dark.

I migrated to the US not too long after daddy did, and within a few months, we got word that he had died – via a massive heart attack. Perhaps fear.

I wrestled with myself for a few weeks about writing about this oh so personal chapter in my life’s stories; but I’m old and comfortable enough speak my truth about it, and hope that it helped someone else.