Fantasy and Science Fiction

I was in the second semester of my junior year at Los Gatos High and I was in my favorite class: Fantasy and Science Fiction. This was an English elective taught by Mr. Bradburn. He was this way-out hippy type who wore his hair a little longer than the other teachers and often pulled it back into a ponytail. He liked to sprinkle his lections with words like “groovy” and expressions like, “far out, man,” and liked to talk about his younger days surfing in Santa Cruz. He was quirky and we all loved him for it.

 

Today’s topic was a fantasy short story about a young girl with a weird genetic mutation. The girl’s parents, when she was twelve, moved out in the middle of the night and left her to fend for herself. Mr. Bradburn said, “Man, you can’t do worse than that to a child.”

 

Without thinking, I said aloud, “Yes you can.”

 

“How? Stand up, tell us what can you do that’s worse than that?”

 

I stood stiffly, frozen in place, looking at my feet. I had known, but I didn’t remember. Like someone who was in a car accident – one moment they're driving and the next moment they wake up in the hospital. They know they were in an accident; they can feel the pain, see the broken bones; but they don’t remember the accident. That’s how I was – until today. Suddenly, I remembered. Mr. Bradburn’s words were still ringing in my head, “What can you do that’s worse than that?”

 

It was a Saturday morning and I was eight. I had woken up early, about 6:30, and nobody else was awake. I wanted to watch cartoons but I knew I would get in trouble if I turned on the TV and made too much noise. Jim, my step dad, hated it when we made a lot of noise and we often tiptoed around the house to avoid his wrath. Rather than go back to bed, I curled up on the couch to wait for one of my brothers or sisters to wake up.

 

When I woke again sometime later, the house was still quiet, but somebody else was up. Jim was kneeling next to the couch. He was mostly naked save for a small Kimono which was untied and hung loosely from his thin, 6-foot frame. He was always naked around the house. He was fond of saying, “the human body is a beautiful thing and nothing to be ashamed of.” This morning, he’d pulled down my pajama bottoms and was using his mouth. I didn't want to see what he was doing and looked away and I saw my mother standing in the hallway. She was naked too; Jim insisted she always be naked in the house. I looked back at Jim but he hadn’t noticed she was there. It didn’t matter. When I looked up again, mom was gone. I was eight years old and I was alone with the boogeyman.

 

“You don’t know. There’s nothing worse,” Mr. Bradburn challenged me.

 

“Yes, there is. I know.” I was cold suddenly and felt very alone. Why couldn’t I just let it go? Why couldn't he realize there were much worse things? I didn’t know what to say to his challenge. Surely he knows there’s worse than that, doesn't he? I don’t have to tell him. But he didn’t know. This was Los Gatos and they didn’t speak of such things here.

 

“Speak up or sit down.”

 

Before I could stop myself, the words just came pouring out, “I was molested by my stepfather over a two year period starting when I was seven.”

 

The room was quite for a moment before Mr. Bradburn shouted, "Boom! That’s worse.” Then he continued on with his lesson as if I'd not said anything. So, I sat back down. I felt like everyone was staring at me, but when I looked around the room nobody would make eye contact. I thought I had just made a big mistake.

 

After class, and over the following weeks, none of the other students in Mr. Bradburn’s class said anything to me about my comments. At the end of the semester, Diane, the girl who sat next to me, wrote in my yearbook: “I admire you so much for what you said in class. It helped me with problems that I was having at home just knowing someone else had suffered as I had. Thank you for sharing.”

 

I realized then that I had been keeping this dark secret and it was hurting me. My words had the power to help others and suddenly, I wasn’t so alone anymore. I had spoken out in front of thirty-two strangers and this huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I knew I shouldn't keep it inside any longer; I had to let it out. I was a victim, yes, but what happened to me wasn't my fault. Everything I do after that, whatever I become, is my fault.