An open letter to a blind man
When I was twelve, you moved into my apartment complex. We kids liked you immediately. You had two kids of your own, and you really seemed to like kids. You took us to do fun stuff, like hang out at Newark Airport and watch the planes from the observation deck. You took us to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and the Statue of Liberty. You once took us sledding in the trailer of your 18-wheeler, telling some dozen kids to stay absolutely quiet until the truck stopped so that the cops wouldn’t pull you over and arrest you. It’s one of the coolest memories I have: A bunch of kids and their sleds in the back of your truck, shushing each other as you drove it through the snow to the nearby park so we could take advantage of the great sledding hill. You accepted us all, and we were a group of kids from all ages, four to fifteen.
Except.
Except now, every time I think of you, I think of her, and what you did to her. She was fifteen.
She was fifteen, and you were thirty-six. She was fifteen, and you were in a position of power and authority. She was fifteen, and you abused your power and authority. You had sex with her. She was fifteen. Your oldest child was two years younger than she. You were thirty-six. And you were married.
