* Warning: brief description of sexual maltreatment.
I was a very good girl: I was pretty, intelligent, and did and said the right things. It was not hard for my little self to figure out who and what I was supposed to be. I got compliments that I remember from the time I could walk—so cute, so smart. My parents indulged me and my older sister, and my mom had very high expectations, which were, in some ways, a gift and in other ways truly limiting. I became ever more careful of my words and deeds.
My mom was an artsy type (theater, mostly, where for supporting roles, she received standing ovations) and the head speech therapist in my town’s school system. My dad was a lab chemist. He brought non-exploding science experiments to us girls to ogle at and be amazed at. Scientific Americans lay next to the art books (Monet, Manet, Picasso) on the coffee tables in the living room.
I began drawing and painting lessons at six, tried on numerous instruments (anything I asked for) from the time I was seven (recorder, piano, flute, bass viola, voice, ending up with a lifelong involvement with singing, was the “star” of my third-grade play, Babes in Toyland, and painted the scenery of dancing penguins for the backdrop of another elementary production, this one Mary Poppins, when I was 10. I saw my first Broadway production at eight, with Zero Mostel starring in Fiddler on the Roof, and remember my first visit to the Guggenheim Museum at nine. I sang in the chorus in elementary school as well as junior high and was in the elite chorale in high school as well as the musical in all high school years.
I got a volunteer summer job at 15 in a local camp for kids with Cerebral Palsy and other birth and neurological problems. For decades, I stayed in touch with Beth, who was only two years my junior, though I clearly was the counselor, and she was the camper. She was brilliant, though hampered in mobility, in a wheelchair with limited control of her limbs and with speech difficulties. I read to Beth. We joked around. I was struck by her fortitude as a young person, and I was awed by her strength as an adult. The last time I saw her was about 20 years ago. I should look her up.
I am truly fortunate. I know that. I am forever and heartfeltly grateful. I grew up inspired by ideas, beauty, art, and creative spirits; service with others; work well done; and, mostly, kindness. I was exposed to and looked up to heroes in my younger and evolving life who have included Helen Keller, Jane Goodall, Beverly Sills, Chagal, and Monet, among others. Not bad role models.
And this is what is also true. I was taught in no uncertain terms never to hurt anyone’s feelings for any reason—ever. Be a good girl. That means that when Linda, Diane, and George bullied me on the way home in sixth grade, calling me names and pushing me around, I said not a word. That means that when the attention came from boys—and, as we all know, that comes early—I could not make them feel bad. If I did not like them or did not want to be with them, I could not say that. I just let it wear on until they went away, uncomfortable the whole time. That means that when insulted or wronged by anyone, or just angry, I could not speak up. Little things, perhaps, but they set lifelong patterns.
It was hugely confusing, anxiety-producing, and sometimes exhausting, and I think I just got tired of being that good. I began little rebellions. When I was 15, my mom turned to me while we were downstairs dealing with some laundry and said, “You were such a sweet girl; what happened?” (Quite the reinforcement: be good!)
And, still, when, at 17, I visited the internist in the New Jersey town where I lived due to a cyst on my labia and I noted the problem, and he, with me on my back and legs spread, looked across and up at me, touched my clitoris with pressure, and with a leer and a smirk, said, “You mean… here?” I said nothing to him but an amazed “No!” and nothing to anyone else, except, finally, my mom, who told me not to say anything! (Don’t make waves. Don’t upset the status quo.)
True change would come in spurts and over a long period of time. I had been well trained, after all. I could not say, I could hardly even think that I did not like someone until I was in my 30s.
By my first and then second year in college, all hell broke loose, and my brief life and feminism were transforming me from “Good Girl” to “Girl Does Good,” learning to stand up for myself, say “No” and “Yes” when I meant either, and taking risks. But metamorphosis comes with effort and sometimes discomfort and pain. It was during those years that I experienced the first crack (there would be more). The changes in location, people, and situations, which forced change, also had me reeling, trying to figure out for myself how to be in the world. I cried and cried; I had barely a friend; I went to a therapist, where I cried and cried some more and through entire sessions, hardly being able to express any idea in words because of overwhelm. He told me, “You don’t need to do anything except eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, and exercise. When you are done doing something you want to do, think of the next thing you want to do, and do it.” The pressure began to fade. I carry his words with me to this day, particularly when I am confused… There will be more time. There will be another day. I can make decisions, then.
I arrived in early adulthood as a scientist, humanitarian, leader, singer, painter, and author, and mustered the courage to combine all these to tackle some big problems. It brought me to a jumping-off place of going to work at the Medinat E’Noor (City of Light) Leprosy Hospital in Yemen to an international career in public health, to founding and running Stop the Silence® – Stop Child Sexual Abuse, Inc., and the work that I have now been doing on the prevention, treatment, and mitigation of Child Sexual Abuse (CSA) and other Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) for the past 25 years.
What has it all taught me? Lots: understanding, strength, how to be challenged and take on a challenge, tenacity, how to listen, how to speak my mind, how to make a difference, how to be wrong, humility, and much more, including an undying commitment to allowing children (and others, too) to be who they are.
Thank you, Wellness Universe, for giving me a chance to tell my story. Thank you to those who read it for “listening.”
Vulnerability always involves Risk, Uncertainty, and Emotional Exposure. One cannot embrace Courage without Vulnerability. The abilities to want connection and work to create it, but stand courageously alone if needed, are fundamental to our sense of solid being.
~Brené Brown
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Traveling through a career in international health, I’ve worked for the past 2.5 decades on the prevention, treatment, and mitigation of child sexual abuse and other adverse childhood experiences through advocacy, education, and training, using science and art to educate and open hearts and minds.
Thank you Pamela for sharing your story so vulnerably. Thanks for speaking out as a heart-led leader.