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A rapist lives a mile down the road.
Technically, he lives slightly less than a mile. And it’s not quite down the road. It’s more of a left, then a left, then a right, then a right.
What is true is that he was convicted of sexually engaging a five-to-seven year old girl. He was sentenced for this crime and recently paroled.
My wife pointed this out to me after seeing it on FaceBook. I would not be lying that my first reaction was much like those of some of the commenters on this post: talk of bullets and rope and castration.
Subsequent thought, however, has cast my thoughts in many different directions. The first, and most pressing, has to do with my daughter, and how I should handle this. Realistically, there is not much I should need to do, at least not any more than we have already done with her in regard to sexual predators and other dangers. We’ve had talks. We’ve told her what she should do, and we’ve made her repeat it back to us. This man is a mile away, true, but, because of how secluded we are and that my daughter is home-schooled (and therefore doesn’t ride the bus), in the normal course of events, it’s highly unlikely she would ever encounter him in any type of dangerous way.
Not impossible, though. So tonight we will have another conversation. And we will tear down another board in the safe house she lives in, where there are still happy endings, where Santa Claus still exists, where girls like her don’t get raped and murdered. That house has to be torn down. It’s a necessity, but it’s a necessity that feels shameful.
Theoretically, a man gets punished for his crime (or, in a quite laughable concept that I’ve heard actually happens in other countries, he is rehabilitated), and he is able to continue his life as a productive member of society. The chances of that happening, particularly in America, are slim. In the cases of sexual abuse and rape, less than that. As a parent, that last statement is hard to reconcile with my forgiving nature and my need to protect my children and, to an extent, all children.
I’m not going to attack or harass this man, though. I see what people write on FaceBook, and there is empathy for them, some, but also disillusionment. What they write they do not mean. In some ways, they are doing no more than posturing in front of others, like a child would do until he is called out by someone. In a way, it’s understandable, almost a ritual or superstition, a ceremony to keep the darkness away. Darkness held back with darkness still consumes.
For now, I can only keep my eyes on my child. I can only tear another board off her house. I’ll hold her hand as we walk through parking lots, anticipating her pulling her hand away once we get in the store, because she’s too old to need her hand held all the time. Better that than have it snatched away.
Technically, he lives slightly less than a mile. And it’s not quite down the road. It’s more of a left, then a left, then a right, then a right.
What is true is that he was convicted of sexually engaging a five-to-seven year old girl. He was sentenced for this crime and recently paroled.
My wife pointed this out to me after seeing it on FaceBook. I would not be lying that my first reaction was much like those of some of the commenters on this post: talk of bullets and rope and castration.
Subsequent thought, however, has cast my thoughts in many different directions. The first, and most pressing, has to do with my daughter, and how I should handle this. Realistically, there is not much I should need to do, at least not any more than we have already done with her in regard to sexual predators and other dangers. We’ve had talks. We’ve told her what she should do, and we’ve made her repeat it back to us. This man is a mile away, true, but, because of how secluded we are and that my daughter is home-schooled (and therefore doesn’t ride the bus), in the normal course of events, it’s highly unlikely she would ever encounter him in any type of dangerous way.
Not impossible, though. So tonight we will have another conversation. And we will tear down another board in the safe house she lives in, where there are still happy endings, where Santa Claus still exists, where girls like her don’t get raped and murdered. That house has to be torn down. It’s a necessity, but it’s a necessity that feels shameful.
Theoretically, a man gets punished for his crime (or, in a quite laughable concept that I’ve heard actually happens in other countries, he is rehabilitated), and he is able to continue his life as a productive member of society. The chances of that happening, particularly in America, are slim. In the cases of sexual abuse and rape, less than that. As a parent, that last statement is hard to reconcile with my forgiving nature and my need to protect my children and, to an extent, all children.
I’m not going to attack or harass this man, though. I see what people write on FaceBook, and there is empathy for them, some, but also disillusionment. What they write they do not mean. In some ways, they are doing no more than posturing in front of others, like a child would do until he is called out by someone. In a way, it’s understandable, almost a ritual or superstition, a ceremony to keep the darkness away. Darkness held back with darkness still consumes.
For now, I can only keep my eyes on my child. I can only tear another board off her house. I’ll hold her hand as we walk through parking lots, anticipating her pulling her hand away once we get in the store, because she’s too old to need her hand held all the time. Better that than have it snatched away.
