Across
the street from the house where I grew up, a man named Mr. Howard lived. His
wife died. I don’t remember how she died, but I suppose she had been sick. The
whole neighborhood felt sorry for Mr. Howard. Mother fried up a chicken and we
took it over to his house. Other people were there with food. Mr. Howard worked
out at the base, just as my mother did, and they often carpooled.
After
his wife died, some of my friends and I began to go over and help Mr. Howard
around his house. We would clean up his kitchen, and dust his furniture. He
called us his little Brownies. I don’t think he locked his door, nobody did
back then, because all of his Brownies would go over to do chores for him before he got
home from work. I don’t know how old he was. To me, to all of us, he was an old
man. He was probably only in his forties. We were kids. To us, anybody over
twenty was old.
One
day, I went there by myself. My girlfriends were planning to come later, but I went
ahead of them did some little chores, dusted his furniture or something like that, and
while I was there, he came home from work. I think he probably carpooled with
Mother that day. He was so nice. He gave me a cookie and said could I sit and
talk with him for a little while. So I ate my cookie, and we sat on the couch
and talked. I don’t remember the conversation, I just know Mr. Howard was
patting my back and paying such close attention to me. He offered me a second
cookie.
I
was wearing a sweatshirt. Mr.
Howard was rubbing my back, very kindly, asking me about school and other
things. And all of a sudden, his hand was under my sweatshirt on my bare back,
and then it was around in the front, and he was touching my breast, which had
just begun to grow the least little bit. I was ten years old. I didn’t know
what a pedophile was, had never heard that word in my life. I didn’t know about
sexual predators or perversions, or anything at all about sex. It was 1963.
Children were more naïve than now. People didn’t talk about such things. So I
didn’t think Mr. Howard knew what he was doing. I thought he was being nice. But
when his hand went down to the drawstring on my pants, I stood up, said I had
to leave, and was out the door about as quickly as I could go.
I
did not tell my parents what had happened. I may have been ashamed, but
mostly, I believe I was confused. Mr. Howard was the nice widower who lived
across the street. He carpooled to work with my mother. I do remember worrying
a little about Mother after that incident, even watching her once or twice as
she and Mr. Howard drove off in his car in the mornings.
A
while later, I don’t know how long, one of my little girlfriends had the same
experience. Except she did tell her mother, who was divorced and lived right
next door to Mr. Howard. There was a huge blow-up about it, and I finally did
tell Mother. By then, she had stopped carpooling with him, and she got angry
that I hadn’t told her right away. But I don’t believe anything else really
happened. I don’t think Mr. Howard went to jail like he should have. Shortly afterwards, he
moved away and I never heard anything else about him.
Here
is the thing -- a child doesn’t understand, doesn’t have the mature brain cells
to fully comprehend when something like this happens. A child just feels
confused and kind of vaguely dirty, but she doesn’t know why she feels that
way, and she may not know it’s OK to tell somebody, or to trust her own
instincts. My instincts were pretty good, in hindsight. I got up and walked out
of that house. It was lucky I did that. No telling what else might have
happened. No telling how many other little girls were victims of Mr. Howard’s.
Compared
to other stories I have heard through the years from women I have known, this
was a minor incident, but it still should not have happened. And it made such
an impact on me that it has remained with me for 54 years. Of course, Mr.
Howard knew perfectly well what he was doing that day. He was sick and
perverted, and just because I didn’t run tell my mother the way my little
friend did, doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to tell this story now. I’m
sure Mr. Howard is dead by now and in hell where he belongs. But at least he’s
not in the US Senate.
These
kinds of incidents must be taken seriously. There is no reason for a woman to
make up such a story, or to be paid by someone to make it up. It doesn’t or
shouldn’t have anything to do with politics. It has to do with human decency
and the moral fiber of our country. People who do these things -- sadly, it’s mostly men -- need to be in prison. They don’t need to be representing anybody
in Congress, or for that matter, in the White House. Have we just decided that
this kind of behavior is no big deal? That it doesn’t speak to a larger cancer
that is eating away at who we are as a nation? Are we so divided that we can’t even
agree that a predator is a predator?
I
am not a naïve little girl anymore. I know there are pretenders in this world,
those who put up a good front, smooth talkers and manipulators, people who will
say anything, lie to you, to get what they want. We just can’t keep letting
them get away with it.
Onward...
