The Day It Began To Change
(warning: This may be difficult to read.)
She was 11. 11½ to be precise. I climbed the steps to the school bus and saw her sitting there in the front seat by herself looking, well, unkempt and worn out. My first words, were, “Wow, what’s the matter, punkin?” She didn’t answer me—she can’t communicate in typical fashion. I have to rely on facial expressions and her modified sign language to decipher how she’s feeling. I unbuckled B*, helped her down the steps, then turned to thank the substitute bus driver before I picked my daughter up to carry her inside the house. We had our usual routine when she arrived home from school. I’d change her into more comfortable clothes, remove her AFO’s, rub her feet, get her something to drink, something to eat, then we’d sit and I’d ask her how her day went. She couldn’t tell me, of course, but I was able to read the daily note from her teacher to catch up. Of course there was always good news somewhere—how she matched colors out of a field of 5, how she helped in the library, how 4 kids from the regular education classes skipped their recess to come to her class to play with her.
Today was different.
Once she & I were inside, I removed her shoes and AFO’s. I had a freshly washed pair of lounge pants to put on her for her to relax in after her day at school, so I stood her up to remove the ones she’d been wearing all day. I pulled them down to her knees and gasped in horror. On the inside of her thigh, from her groin all the way to her knee, she has a blood red, nearly bleeding, swollen and very hot to the touch injury. I can’t call it a bruise, because this was a thousand times worse. I’d never seen an injury like this—and it was on my child.
I tried—oh how I tried to hide my horror. Immediately I dug her notebook from the backpack to see if there was a note about how it happened. I knew there wouldn’t be, because her teacher and the aides in the class called me for everything–I wouldn’t have been informed with a note. I called her teacher and asked what happened today. “Nothing, she was fine when she left.”
I was stumped–had no clue how it could have happened. To cover all the bases, I called the transportation office to let them know, too. My Mom said she’d come down the next day and we would go to the school and talk in person to the principal, and she would also bring a camera so we could take photos. The following day, Mom & I arrived early to the principal’s office. He’d been expecting us, and he’d also asked the transportation director to attend the meeting. She arrived with the video from the bus the previous day.
That meeting is forever etched into my memory. We all sat in silence, facing the television screen as the video played. I witnessed it. I saw it. And there was nothing I could do because it had already been done. A 20-year-old female student (special education services are provided until the age of 21) was very obviously hurting my baby girl. She kept leaning over almost on top of her. The only thing my child could do was say “Omma.” She said it faintly, but repeatedly. I noticed the 20 year-old kept looking into the mirror above the driver’s head as she held her down. At that time, my daughter weighed barely 70lbs. She cannot walk independently, so she couldn’t escape. She cannot talk, so she couldn’t tell the bus driver she needed help. All she could do was sit there—and call out for me.
After this meeting, Mom & I went to her classroom. She was sitting at the table, smiling, doing her schoolwork, and very obviously enjoying her day. I wanted to put her on my hip, run out the door, and never return. Just hide out in a cave where we would see no one and no one could ever hurt her again. I didn’t know what disciplinary measures would be taken, but I was assured B would never be around her again. As she began her physical healing, I had to begin my emotional & mental healing. I knew, however, I could never unsee the video from the bus that morning. What a horrible assault on my helpless child. For 45 minutes. On the ride home. As I was fixing her snack plate. Oblivious.
The Vortex
Late the next morning, as I started housework, a car pulled up in my driveway–it was the Director of Transportation and the Special Education Director. Initially I thought, “Wow, how considerate. They’re making a special trip all the way out here (we lived 30 minutes from the school,) to check on B.” I invited them in, apologized for the mess, apologized for how I looked since I’d not showered yet, then told them to have a seat.
The small talk stopped there. They came to tell me that I needed to take B to the emergency room to have an exam. They watched another video from a different morning, and it was evident that she had been sexually assaulted as well as physically, not once, but at least twice on two different occasions.
My mind went into shock mode. I no longer sat on the couch across from them, I was hovering somewhere above, watching this all take place. I heard the words I said—asking crazy, insignificant questions as if it would make null and void what they just told me. I saw my black pajama pants and white t-shirt, the story book by my foot, and the silky doll on the chair where B left it. It seemed as though our conversation was playing on a radio, and someone was slowly turning down the volume…until I heard nothing but still saw mouths moving.
Once they were gone, I immediately changed clothes and left. There was a torrent of tears and rage and hurt and pain and hysteria. B’s principal met me at the door when I arrived and asked if there was something he could do. I told him I wanted her teacher to accompany us to the ER. Without hesitation, he said, “Of course.”
There’s no need to go into detail about what transpired at the hospital. Suffice it to say, my 11 year-old baby girl had a rape kit done on her by two Sexual Assault Nurse Examiners, or “SANE” as I learned they were called. One was male. One was a female. Her teacher and I held her hands, and stayed up by her head to keep her mind off what was going on. All I could do was pray she wasn’t feeling violated yet again.
After the exam, a female deputy took me into a room where we could talk privately. She handed me pamphlets and information for us as we began the process of healing. All of the pamphlets seemed to have the words “sexual assault” somewhere on them. She told me about counseling services that were available. (B literally wouldn’t be able to talk about what happened, so any counseling would have been useless.) “I cannot believe I am standing here having this conversation in a hospital with a deputy. This happens only on Law & Order! This doesn’t happen to us!” I said. “I know,” she said. Though her words were few, her compassion was evident.
Realities
As the days went on, I found out the following information: The examination revealed that there were scrapes and abrasions internally.
There were at least two instances of sexual assault, and the 20 year-old used a pop bottle and her fingers to brutalize my daughter. The video that I didn’t see was so bad that one of the officers had to leave the room.
It was evident that the woman had done this before, as she was very calculating and planning in her method. When asked why she kept looking in the mirror when she was assaulting B, she flatly said, “Because I knew if I got caught I’d get in trouble.”
The woman had a history of crude sexual talk, but it was overlooked. “Of course she can’t be taken seriously about topics like that—she’s in special education.” That was pretty much the thought by those who had heard her speaking in such vile ways.
The case went to court. The deputy told me it wasn’t necessary that I attend, since B was unable to testify, and they had clear video evidence. It was pretty clear-cut. Unfortunately, however, the Commonwealth Attorney chose not to prosecute. Why? Because the woman was in special education. To this day, I still don’t understand that.
Something—something should have been done. While I wholeheartedly agree that a typical prison wouldn’t be appropriate for her, she definitely didn’t need to be let off the hook and in the general public. It would happen again. She needed serious intervention, and all children need protection from her. Instead, her punishment was that she was put on homebound education.
Accommodations were made for us. The Transportation Director gave B her own driver (of my choosing,) in a car by herself. B’s principal asked if there was anything more he could do. I told him that her school photo had been taken on one of the days she was assaulted, and I wouldn’t be able to look at them. He arranged for her to have them retaken at another elementary school, and he allowed her teacher to accompany us. Speaking of her teacher…I have no words to express my gratitude for her. She’s one of the dearest souls I know.
There were also so many ways we were failed.
Had there been aides…
Had there been dual-busing, which was provided for all student except for those in special education…
Had those who worked with the woman had taken seriously her crude comments and innuendos and actions…
Had the attorney taken seriously the magnitude of the crime, and realized that regardless of the IQ of the one committing the crime, it’s still a crime…
Crossing the bridge to the new normal
So, how did we move forward? No justice for my daughter, so what could I do for it not to have happened in vain? I could be proactive, and I could use this mouth that the good Lord gave me. I could love B–cherish her, reassure her, and comfort her as we walked through this together.
I researched and discovered that all the counties surrounding us had aides on buses. I began pushing to have them hired in our county.
I learned about the Special Education Advisory Committee. I began attending.
I went where other parents of children who had special needs would be and I began networking. I shared our story freely, in hopes to bring awareness. I implored parents to be hyper-vigilant about who their child was around, and never just assume they were safe—make sure they are. Make sure that every measure that can be taken has been. Never assume you know what someone is or is not capable of, because the truth is, we don’t know.
What can you do? Find out who is around your child. Who are their seatmates on the bus? In the classroom? In the cafeteria? Are there safety measures you think could be taken but aren’t? Share your concerns! Talk to everyone who has contact with your child. Get to know the bus driver, teachers, the aides, the principal, the office and cafeteria workers. I was a familiar face at B’s elementary school, and I knew most all the staff by name—and they knew mine.
I was blessed that I was able to be involved, but I understand many don’t have the extra time. If you can’t be there in person, send an email and introduce yourself. Make occasional phone calls to touch base. Open the lines of communication and keep them open. And when an opportunity arises that you can be there in person, take it.
Thirteen years have passed. To this day, I still have the occasional nightmare where I am on the bus, holding a video camera, and recording the assault. I stand frozen, unable to put the camera down and save my daughter. I am forced to stand there and witness it over & over until I’m mercifully awakened.
But also within these 13 years, I’ve shared. No, it’s not easy to do it, but the possibility of preventing another child (or adult) from experiencing what we did makes the difficulty of sharing worth it. It’s unfortunate that often we don’t find our voices until we’re met with hurt, discrimination, violation, crime….but thankfully they arrive. With force. And loudly.
We moms of children who have special needs know that when we speak, we’re speaking not just for ourselves, but for other moms, for other children. We stand in the gap. Over the past 25 years, I’ve noticed that when one mom’s voice is weak, another mom’s voice gets stronger. (I’m referring to mothers specifically because I am one—I’m not taking away from the amazing dads who are involved.)
I didn’t realize it at the time, but when B was born I was immediately part of an extended family. A family of voices by proxy, of protectors, of advocates. Resilience, persistence, tenacity, and a fierce, protective love are dominant genes in this family, and it’s amazing how quickly a quiet, timid personality can transform into a Warrior Mom. I am honored to be part of that family.
To all of you who have walked along side us in our journey of joys and sorrows, thank you…..
(*I’m using only an initial to protect her privacy)
