My upper body wasn't strong enough. I wasn't flexible enough. Due to a problem in my hip area, I was nowhere near quick or fast enough. I had recurring headaches that required Garvey to drain my sinuses on a regular basis. And now I had developed occasional toothache-like pain in my knees which Garvey said could be alleviated with regular massage and (you guessed it) more "treatment". I hadn't even made it to adolescence and I was a physical wreck.
The diagnosis of my knee problems was particularly interesting. Tired of continually failing to measure up to expectations, I had finally decided to confide to Garvey that I had been experiencing this pain in my knees. That much was true. He seemed to view it as another reason I wasn't more mobile on the court. I saw it as an excuse. Maybe if I had a legitimate reason for not playing up to his expectations, Garvey would ease up on me. I was tired of not making the grade.
He took me into the lockerroom and sat opposite me. Taking one leg in his hands he proceeded to push and prod at the areas in and around my knee. "Does this hurt?", he asked. "How about this?" I winced and pulled away in response, all the while nodding my head and answering "yes" in short pain-filled gasps. Then he began hitting my knees with the side of his hand in short little chops. He started with an area just above my knee and continued on down until he was mid-shin. With each chop I groaned and yelped in pain. By the time he had moved on to the other leg, Garvey was already telling me bits and pieces of what he thought the problem was and what could be done to fix it. Maybe I had something called shin splints, he said. Maybe I was just experiencing growing pains. Although painful, neither condition was all that serious. The answer for either was the same. My knees needed regular massage with Atomic Balm and "treatment".
What makes this all so poignant is that while I did truly have this pain in my knees, it was more of an internal thing. Like a toothache, my knees would throb and hum with a discomfort that would continue for an hour or two before subsiding. Banging, whacking, prodding or chopping at my knees didn't bother me unless the blow itself was sufficient to cause pain. My knees weren't tender. They just hurt. Nonetheless, every time Garvey looked up at me, I feigned what I believed was the appropriate response. And when I looked into his eyes, I was glad that I didn't notice any signs that he was aware of my attempt at deception. In hindsight, I don't know that his prognosis was any more legitimate than my reactions to his chops. In my youthful short-sightedness I had just given him another reason for me to need more "treatment". If he thought I was faking it, it didn't show or seem to matter to him. "Treatment" was what mattered. And conveniently, though oddly, enough, while the massaging of my knees could be done in the conventional fashion, it could also be incorporated into our bedroom sessions without even deviating from the current regimen.
As last detailed, my "treatment" sessions now consisted of me lying naked, face to face, atop Garvey who would be clad in only briefs, a matching white Jockey brand t-shirt, and dark dress socks, although lately the briefs had come off. We would start with me rotating my hips laterally in an oval pattern. Garvey explained that the rubbing of my knees into the mattress as I moved my mid-section constituted more than ample massage and thereby we could kill two (three, four...) birds with one stone. At first he even went so far as to apply Atomic Balm to my knees before I climbed on top of him. Previously, I mentioned that he had since instructed me, in the course of these therapies, to open my mouth and placing my mouth over his, to rotate my tongue inside his mouth. Until this particular day, this was the point to which this portion of our sessions had progressed. Normally, I would continue in this fashion until he said we were through. Today that changed.
Not long into this episode, Garvey took my hand and pushing it downward, instructed me to gently cup his testicles. Applying ever so light pressure, I was to coddle and tenderly roll his balls in my hand, all the while maintaining the rotating of my hips and the sloppy mouth-to mouth tongue-ing. I withdrew my hand at the touch of his scratchy, wiry pubic hair as it rubbed against my fingers, palm, wrist and forearm. I had never felt pubic hair and, at this time, still had none of my own. He told me to go ahead, and again instructed me as to what he wanted me to do. I just did it. By increments this was getting more and more bizarre. The feel of his pubic hair unhinged me, and touching his scrotum and cupping his testicles was enough to... was too much. A million thoughts were racing through my mind at the same time. Things that had been building inside me were screaming indecipherable messages to me . What were they? Images, senses, touches, smells, tastes, thoughts, feelings, questions, words, phrases... All rushing to the forefront demanding simultaneous attention. Too much data. Too much going on with no reference or place in which to sort it out. But something had changed. Although I couldn't put words to it yet because they weren't in my experience dictionary, something had turned. My feelings of avoidance and uncomfortability around Garvey, were evolving towards repulsion and revulsion. Something nameless but visceral.
My actions were mechanical and unnatural. Trying to focus on one activity, with all these colliding thoughts, perceptions, and conflicting feelings, caused me to forget and interrupt one of the other things I was supposed to be doing. My mind was obviously beyond overload. (His beard grating against my face. The smell of his cologne or after shave. The drool flowing out of my mouth and onto his face. His flaky, patchy skin against me. Escape. What is going on here? The wiry pubic hair. What am I doing here? Keep moving your hips. His scrotum and testicles. The sweat. The heat. When can I stop? The sheet against my back. When can I stop? Where is his penis? Uuuugghhh!) I could not control my thoughts. In addition, I had a terribly difficult time bending and contorting my body to comply with his wishes. Garvey would remind me of what I was doing wrong and tell me to keep up the correct activity. What a strange set of positions and seemingly unrelated tasks I was being asked to perform. I didn't get it. But it was supposed to make me heat up. Get my mucous flowing to aid in draining my problem sinuses. Unlock my hips. Massage my knees. Make me a better basketball player. I continued to perform as best as I could, all the while hoping for the end. An end.
Frankly, I was so focused on what was happening to me and how I was feeling that I had never really thought about what Garvey's stake was. Why did he do this? What did Garvey get out of it? And honestly, at this point, I wouldn't have understood the answer. This was all very circus-like, freak show weird to my young mind, and I had nothing with which to compare it. I was a naive schoolboy. I didn't feel that I had anyone with whom I could talk about it even if I knew what to say. My teammates were increasingly treating me like an outsider, or at least I felt that way, the more they picked up on whatever they sensed was going on with Garvey. I was afraid to tell a teacher because I wasn't that close to any of them, and Garvey was a co-worker of theirs, afterall, wasn't he? He was held (and unbelievably still is) in such high esteem. I should have trusted my parents, but I was afraid what my dad would do. And I did not want to live with the aftermath. Besides, I was still trying to figure out what was going on let alone whether it was wrong. This latest activity had started me finally leaning in that direction but I wasn't sure. About anything. Only my stomach, my gut, knew the truth. And I was starting to listen. Looking for words to unlock and define perceptions. Words to encapsulate feelings. But what if I was wrong? Now I had to think. There was more to my reluctance to participate in Garvey's "treatment" than I understood. Something unspoken was deeply troubling me. The truth was somewhere between my stomach and my brain. My stomach knew. My brain needed to learn something real about the physical nature of sex to put the two together. I was in the initial stages of moving towards a coherent picture and this last encounter had given me a strong push.
Listen. For a young kid, this is way too complex of a situation. The levels of involvement and the degrees of manipulation would drive an adult crazy. As a young boy, I was sad, afraid, and confused by Garvey and our interaction. Very confused. I was becoming more and more quiet. Moody. Withdrawn. Prone to quick bursts of anger that were not my nature. Things were going in directions that before mere months ago I was unaware existed. And now that they were being thrust in my face I was doing my best to make sense of them. But I felt alone. Betrayed and alone. And terribly confused.
predafile@hotmail.com
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
predafile@hotmail.com
Want to contact Jack or comment on predafile? Want to say something but you are uncomfortable talking about it in predafile's comment sections? Personally, I prefer to keep as much of this discussion as possible on the published blog site (because I believe it is for the greater good to get this information out), but if you prefer, you can now e-mail me/Jack at predafile@hotmail.com. Your e-mail will come to my private hotmail account, which is separate from this blog. I will try to respond in a timely fashion if it is requested/appropriate. Noone will see your correspondence except you and me. I understand and promise confidentiality and, if need be, your anonymity. Nothing will be published without your permission. No more victims.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
The summer of my discontent
Some of these "me only" summer practices took place in the gym in the basement of Old Main on the Mercyhurst College campus. Garvey had given me his home phone number some time before (I remember that number to this day) and when it became evident that we would be working together regularly over the summer, he gave me the number at which I could reach him at Mercyhurst. I called and a woman I assumed was his secretary, it could have been the switchboard, patched me through to his office. We would arrange for a date and a time for me to come up to the college and work out.
At first, when I would arrive, I came up the stairs to his office to let him know that I was there. Later, he told me to just come into the building and go straight downstairs to the gym where he would come down and meet me at the appointed time. The gym itself was reached by descending the staircase just inside the building's entrance. At the bottom of the steps, you could see what were the last few steps that led you down to the opening to the sunken gym floor that began under the basket at one end of the court. After playing my whole life at St. Johns, which had a wood floor, I was surprised that a college would have such a dungeon for its court, all-girl school or not. Being in the basement, it was dark, with no windows, and had a hard black or dark bluish-purple tile floor, from which the ball dribbled with a dead thud. Definitely not wood. It was cramped, had no built-in seating or room for any other seating to speak of, pillars along the side of the court, behind some of which there were small rooms recessed into the right-hand wall. Hidden behind cheap accordion-style sliding doors, these little rooms housed stacking chairs and the like and this was where I underwent my strength and flexibility "treatment" (see "Carpe diem", June 2, 2005), and paddlings. Needless to say, the acoustics in the gym were absolutely terrible. I had a difficult time trying to hear the instructions Garvey was yelling to me and at times this only added to his frustration.
The practice sessions were similar to those I have previously described. Lots and lots of drills. Driving to the basket from different angles and using alternate hands and releases. Shooting from the corners, the wings, and the head of the key. Foul shots. ("Put more arch on the ball! You're shooting a line drive.", he would tell me, pronouncing the "ch" in "arch" like that in "chocolate".) Dribbling and ball-handling drills where I raced the length of the gym, right-handed, left-handed, or alternating back and forth. Sometimes we used chairs and trashcans to make an obstacle course through which I would weave back and forth. And of course, the drill in which I chased a caromb, or Garvey rolled the ball to the perimeter, and I retrieved it, took one dribble and launched a jumpshot, sometimes going to my left, and sometimes to my right. These practices were similar to the ones that I've already talked about, including goals for the drills, time limits, and "raps" for failure.
I did OK on the various stationary and lay-up drills, but I had considerable trouble beating the set times when it came to ballhandling. The more I pushed, the more I did something stupid like dribble the ball off of my foot. Other times I simply could not get through the obstacles fast enough. On this particular day I quickly racked up three "raps". By the time we reached the drill where I chase-dibble-shoot, I was shot. Repeatedly my shot was off to the side or short. A sure sign of fatigue yet the drills went on until Garvey's disgust with me was such that he abruptly stopped me mid-drill, accused me of giving up, and told me to get off of the floor. He was disgusted with me. I was gutless. Weak. A baby. A waste of his time.
I had accumulated what seemed to me to be an extraordinary number of "raps" despite my effort. Although in reality it was only five or six, I couldn't bear the thought of it. I had worked my ass off and given everything I had until there was simply no more. When Garvey took me behind one of the accordion doors and into the little room for my paddling, and told me to drop my trunks, I balked. I cried. I whined. And I begged liked I hadn't done in a long time. This had been one of the most grueling workouts I had ever had and the idea that I would get beaten for my inability to reach some arbitrary goal, despite the fact that I had worked as hard as I possibly could, infuriated me. I resented it. And I resented him. I resented the power he had over me.
After the first couple of whacks, in anticipation of the crack of his hand on my ass, I straightened slightly to lessen the blow, and he grew furious with me. He had had enough. He told me that I had a choice to make. I could either finish taking my paddling, like a man, or I could end it right here. But if I did decide to end it, he was through with me. No more help, no more headache treatment, no more strength treatment, no more anything. He would cross me off his list and I would be on my own. No more special practices. No more help. No more special consideration. I would have to take my chances just like the rest of "those guys". I didn't know what to do. I saw daylight at the end of the tunnel but the tunnel led away from my dream and all that I had worked for. I certainly wasn't prepared to make such a big decision right there on the spot, despite my immediate feelings. So I reluctantly bent over and let him grab my balls and resume hitting me until he was done. Today there would be no strength or flexibility session but before I left the ultimatum was repeated, loud and clear. I either got with the program wholehearted, meaning regular "treatment" and regular one-on-one practice, or get used to being just another guy on the end of the bench.
Why did I put up with this abuse if it made me so angry and so resentful? Why? I don't know. I was torn. I didn't really understand what was going on. It would be some time yet before I started to put the pieces together. At this point, I was trying to succeed in a gung-ho basketball program and thought that if I went along with Garvey's regimen, unorthodox as it was beginning to seem, I could indeed not only succeed, but truly be something special. That's what Garvey said. He was Dr. William P. Garvey, afterall. As I've said before, the thought of sex, let alone abuse, had not really entered my pre-teen mind. It was not easy to compartmentalize which parts of this program were legit and which were manipulative, or abusive. I couldn't see the picture and therefore couldn't draw the line. I trusted his motives and his intent. If anything, I was questioning my own heart. I was beginning to think, no I now believed, that I was weak. I was too soft . I was a baby. I was thinking that I didn't have it in me to make the most of this tremendous opportunity. To do what I assumed those who had gone before me must have done to reach the point I only dreamed of. I didn't have what it took to be a "money ballplayer". A winner. I started to believe that I was, as Garvey chided me, a loser. It hurt and I didn't know what to do. What more could I do? I had to try harder. I had to.
My teammates, and the older ex-players, had picked up on some things, too. As secretive as I had tried to be about this special attention (fearing this very result), they started to tease me about being Garvey's pet. If they only knew, I thought. About more than special practices. About more than "raps". About "treatment". About "treatment" in Garvey's bed. Now I realize some of them did. There were those who had gone before, and those who would come after. At the time though, it was just me. To me, it was just me.
Coming soon: Ball-handling drills
predafile@hotmail.com
At first, when I would arrive, I came up the stairs to his office to let him know that I was there. Later, he told me to just come into the building and go straight downstairs to the gym where he would come down and meet me at the appointed time. The gym itself was reached by descending the staircase just inside the building's entrance. At the bottom of the steps, you could see what were the last few steps that led you down to the opening to the sunken gym floor that began under the basket at one end of the court. After playing my whole life at St. Johns, which had a wood floor, I was surprised that a college would have such a dungeon for its court, all-girl school or not. Being in the basement, it was dark, with no windows, and had a hard black or dark bluish-purple tile floor, from which the ball dribbled with a dead thud. Definitely not wood. It was cramped, had no built-in seating or room for any other seating to speak of, pillars along the side of the court, behind some of which there were small rooms recessed into the right-hand wall. Hidden behind cheap accordion-style sliding doors, these little rooms housed stacking chairs and the like and this was where I underwent my strength and flexibility "treatment" (see "Carpe diem", June 2, 2005), and paddlings. Needless to say, the acoustics in the gym were absolutely terrible. I had a difficult time trying to hear the instructions Garvey was yelling to me and at times this only added to his frustration.
The practice sessions were similar to those I have previously described. Lots and lots of drills. Driving to the basket from different angles and using alternate hands and releases. Shooting from the corners, the wings, and the head of the key. Foul shots. ("Put more arch on the ball! You're shooting a line drive.", he would tell me, pronouncing the "ch" in "arch" like that in "chocolate".) Dribbling and ball-handling drills where I raced the length of the gym, right-handed, left-handed, or alternating back and forth. Sometimes we used chairs and trashcans to make an obstacle course through which I would weave back and forth. And of course, the drill in which I chased a caromb, or Garvey rolled the ball to the perimeter, and I retrieved it, took one dribble and launched a jumpshot, sometimes going to my left, and sometimes to my right. These practices were similar to the ones that I've already talked about, including goals for the drills, time limits, and "raps" for failure.
I did OK on the various stationary and lay-up drills, but I had considerable trouble beating the set times when it came to ballhandling. The more I pushed, the more I did something stupid like dribble the ball off of my foot. Other times I simply could not get through the obstacles fast enough. On this particular day I quickly racked up three "raps". By the time we reached the drill where I chase-dibble-shoot, I was shot. Repeatedly my shot was off to the side or short. A sure sign of fatigue yet the drills went on until Garvey's disgust with me was such that he abruptly stopped me mid-drill, accused me of giving up, and told me to get off of the floor. He was disgusted with me. I was gutless. Weak. A baby. A waste of his time.
I had accumulated what seemed to me to be an extraordinary number of "raps" despite my effort. Although in reality it was only five or six, I couldn't bear the thought of it. I had worked my ass off and given everything I had until there was simply no more. When Garvey took me behind one of the accordion doors and into the little room for my paddling, and told me to drop my trunks, I balked. I cried. I whined. And I begged liked I hadn't done in a long time. This had been one of the most grueling workouts I had ever had and the idea that I would get beaten for my inability to reach some arbitrary goal, despite the fact that I had worked as hard as I possibly could, infuriated me. I resented it. And I resented him. I resented the power he had over me.
After the first couple of whacks, in anticipation of the crack of his hand on my ass, I straightened slightly to lessen the blow, and he grew furious with me. He had had enough. He told me that I had a choice to make. I could either finish taking my paddling, like a man, or I could end it right here. But if I did decide to end it, he was through with me. No more help, no more headache treatment, no more strength treatment, no more anything. He would cross me off his list and I would be on my own. No more special practices. No more help. No more special consideration. I would have to take my chances just like the rest of "those guys". I didn't know what to do. I saw daylight at the end of the tunnel but the tunnel led away from my dream and all that I had worked for. I certainly wasn't prepared to make such a big decision right there on the spot, despite my immediate feelings. So I reluctantly bent over and let him grab my balls and resume hitting me until he was done. Today there would be no strength or flexibility session but before I left the ultimatum was repeated, loud and clear. I either got with the program wholehearted, meaning regular "treatment" and regular one-on-one practice, or get used to being just another guy on the end of the bench.
Why did I put up with this abuse if it made me so angry and so resentful? Why? I don't know. I was torn. I didn't really understand what was going on. It would be some time yet before I started to put the pieces together. At this point, I was trying to succeed in a gung-ho basketball program and thought that if I went along with Garvey's regimen, unorthodox as it was beginning to seem, I could indeed not only succeed, but truly be something special. That's what Garvey said. He was Dr. William P. Garvey, afterall. As I've said before, the thought of sex, let alone abuse, had not really entered my pre-teen mind. It was not easy to compartmentalize which parts of this program were legit and which were manipulative, or abusive. I couldn't see the picture and therefore couldn't draw the line. I trusted his motives and his intent. If anything, I was questioning my own heart. I was beginning to think, no I now believed, that I was weak. I was too soft . I was a baby. I was thinking that I didn't have it in me to make the most of this tremendous opportunity. To do what I assumed those who had gone before me must have done to reach the point I only dreamed of. I didn't have what it took to be a "money ballplayer". A winner. I started to believe that I was, as Garvey chided me, a loser. It hurt and I didn't know what to do. What more could I do? I had to try harder. I had to.
My teammates, and the older ex-players, had picked up on some things, too. As secretive as I had tried to be about this special attention (fearing this very result), they started to tease me about being Garvey's pet. If they only knew, I thought. About more than special practices. About more than "raps". About "treatment". About "treatment" in Garvey's bed. Now I realize some of them did. There were those who had gone before, and those who would come after. At the time though, it was just me. To me, it was just me.
Coming soon: Ball-handling drills
predafile@hotmail.com
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
"Talk" about being the victim!
To come out and discuss my own abuse may be the single most intimidating and emotionally trying thing I have ever attempted. The emotions attached to the experience of being sexually abused are so strong to begin with, but once one decides to open up and take the issue public, the scrutiny is ratcheted up to a whole 'nother level. The victim ends up having to defend his victimization. His integrity, his honesty, and his motivation are all suspect. No man wants to come forward with a story of his childhood abuse. Noone is proud of it and, contrary to ludicrous statements by some Garvey supporters, noone is getting rich. We come forward, despite the humiliation, because we are compelled as men. Out of some sense of justice that our parents, teachers, and institutions instilled in us. In many cases the very same people who now look at us askance. We look to society for support, to be outraged by this trampling of our innocence. We suffered an abuse that has impacted the rest of our lives and we want to tell you about that. We want to tell you how to protect your children. We come forward to warn you. Yet, so often, our community treats us as pariahs, bringers of bad news, and seeks to discredit us so as not to have to face the reality of the situation. Let's talk about that. Let's talk about how we talk about victims. Let's talk about how, as a society, we mistakenly put the onus on and discredit the victim. Let's talk about why we let the molester off the hook. Let's at least ask the questions. The right questions. The questions that allow the truth to emerge and the abused to, perhaps, begin to feel good about themselves.
Real talk about pedophilia is uncomfortable. I understand. It is hard to imagine anyone more uncomfortable talking about it than I once was. As prominent as it is in the news today, pedophilia is still a taboo topic. When it comes up, people nod their disapproval but they really would rather not have this subject in their face. Don't get me wrong, some people have strong opinions, but the only people really thinking about the sexual abuse of minors are those involved. And to what depth or degree are they free to talk? It's worse than teen pregnancy. Hush, hush. Make it go away. This can't happen here. Well, unfortunately, it does, and it did. Oh, sure, there are rumors and a lot of water cooler gossip, but not serious discussion of the real issue. It's more about pointing fingers and secretly thanking God that it's not their son making these accusations. "Garvey never did anything like that to you, did he, Bobby?" More often than not, for a host of reasons (embarrassment, shame, and public opinion among them), even if Bobby was molested, he says "no". The parents heave a deep relieved sigh and that's it. Topic closed. The perversion in this seemingly innocent way of addressing the issue is that it leads one to begin searching for differences between "them" and "us". The difference between "our Bobby" and that other kid (or man) who is saying these terrible things about such a respected figure. We search for reasons why this terrible thing happened to them, and never could happen to us. Ultimately this leads to a list of flaws in the victim that not only made the victim prone to what happened, but somehow complicit in his own abuse. And that is absurd. The victim is made the victim again. And the abuser is free to abuse.
Rape is a classic case where the victim is often discredited and made to defend herself all over again. Let's look at the rape victim side-by-side with a victim of pedophilia. Both involve less-than-consensual sex imposed upon a victim by an individual with a physical, or other means of, advantage. A common response in the case of rape is that the victim was promiscuous. She dressed provocatively. She was a drunk or "druggie". Even worse, she "asked for it". Recognize the thinking? The problem is that it puts the responsibility for being raped on the victim, not the rapist. I will tell you this: I know no woman who would ever agree that how she was dressed, what she had consumed, or who she had slept with in the past, was akin to forfeiting her right to say "NO". I had little chance to say "NO". I was eleven at the time, and Garvey was my first and only sexual encounter. (Thinking about it still makes my stomach tighten.) I knew nothing about sex and never really thought about it. I had never kissed a girl, nor had I ever ejaculated. I hadn't gone through puberty. My school uniform could hardly be considered provocative. Although I did shower and dress in a communal atmosphere common in athletics, I don't think anyone would characterize such behavior as untoward. I did not use drugs, and I certainly did not "ask for it". I was eleven years old! To the contrary, my fault was that I was too young to say no. While some points of this comparison are almost comical, I believe the basic point holds true. It was no flaw in me, or in us, that caused this to happen other than trusting the wrong man. And we certainly are not complicit in our own abuse. We were raped of our innocence . We did nothing wrong. It's not our fault. Our community needs to see our abuse as something that we were too young to recognize and stop. Something they never recognized and stopped, either. When we talk about it, our aim is true.
Erie needs to realize that we were the victims once and that to make us the victims again is cruel and unjust. The blame, the guilt, and the shame all lie at one man's feet: Dr. William P. Garvey, our abuser and molester. Is it the victims who should have to fend off the accusations? The scrutiny has been misplaced. Let's talk about Garvey. Let's put his actions, his past and his present, under the light of truth. Why did he always choose to work around children? Male children. Did he ever hit us? When, why, and how? Was he ever alone with one of us ? Behind closed doors? What were the circumstances? Did he ever take players to where he lived? Why? How do so many of us know personal details about him like what his place looked like, the phone number, his birthday, his psoriasis? What was the nature of his relationships with his players? How about off the court? Did he ever buy these boys gifts? Take them places? Travel alone with them? Stay overnight? Does he still maintain any of these relationships? Have these men benefited from his largesse? Specify. Does he drink heavily? Has he ever given alcohol to an under-age player? Was it in his home? What were the circumstances?... What will that light reveal about Garvey's integrity, his honesty, and his motivation? We're telling you that he abused us, and he has been abusing your children since the '60s. Garvey's blanket denial and silence do not suffice. They only serve Garvey, the institutions involved, and those who gained from his position. Hush. Hush. His dismissal of the number of allegations, and the corroborated details involved, as related by men who in some cases have never spoken or met, is an insult to our intelligence. Our stories are remarkably the same. They span decades and yet the details are the same. They are the modus operandi of a serial pedophile. Allowing this man to operate as an upstanding member of the community is an insult to his victims. To further try to discredit us, and question our integrity and our intent, is unfair and again, unjust.
To you men who are reluctant to talk about your abuse: I understand. I know it's hard. You are, as I am, trying to come to terms with a very ugly thing that you have tried to keep buried in your past. And the increased scrutiny of coming forward can make it even more difficult for you. For me, keeping quiet any longer didn't work. I've begun to talk with those close to me. The past won't go away. What Garvey did to us won't go away. I think about it every time I'm around St. Johns, Mercyhurst, anywhere he touched. I think about it every time I see his face. Every time I bump into one of you. Every time. Maybe we don't yet control what people think about us. But if we let rumor, ignorance and innuendo stop us, we will always be the victims. If we don't talk about Garvey, we don't give anyone a chance to know the truth. To talk about the truth. And for ourselves to come to terms with, and live, the truth. Do not kid yourself, numbers matter. Your voice matters. Let's take credit for the men we've become. Despite Garvey. Despite the abuse. Let us look at those who would discredit us and force them to admit the truth. Let's talk the truth. You can do it.
predafile@hotmail.com
Real talk about pedophilia is uncomfortable. I understand. It is hard to imagine anyone more uncomfortable talking about it than I once was. As prominent as it is in the news today, pedophilia is still a taboo topic. When it comes up, people nod their disapproval but they really would rather not have this subject in their face. Don't get me wrong, some people have strong opinions, but the only people really thinking about the sexual abuse of minors are those involved. And to what depth or degree are they free to talk? It's worse than teen pregnancy. Hush, hush. Make it go away. This can't happen here. Well, unfortunately, it does, and it did. Oh, sure, there are rumors and a lot of water cooler gossip, but not serious discussion of the real issue. It's more about pointing fingers and secretly thanking God that it's not their son making these accusations. "Garvey never did anything like that to you, did he, Bobby?" More often than not, for a host of reasons (embarrassment, shame, and public opinion among them), even if Bobby was molested, he says "no". The parents heave a deep relieved sigh and that's it. Topic closed. The perversion in this seemingly innocent way of addressing the issue is that it leads one to begin searching for differences between "them" and "us". The difference between "our Bobby" and that other kid (or man) who is saying these terrible things about such a respected figure. We search for reasons why this terrible thing happened to them, and never could happen to us. Ultimately this leads to a list of flaws in the victim that not only made the victim prone to what happened, but somehow complicit in his own abuse. And that is absurd. The victim is made the victim again. And the abuser is free to abuse.
Rape is a classic case where the victim is often discredited and made to defend herself all over again. Let's look at the rape victim side-by-side with a victim of pedophilia. Both involve less-than-consensual sex imposed upon a victim by an individual with a physical, or other means of, advantage. A common response in the case of rape is that the victim was promiscuous. She dressed provocatively. She was a drunk or "druggie". Even worse, she "asked for it". Recognize the thinking? The problem is that it puts the responsibility for being raped on the victim, not the rapist. I will tell you this: I know no woman who would ever agree that how she was dressed, what she had consumed, or who she had slept with in the past, was akin to forfeiting her right to say "NO". I had little chance to say "NO". I was eleven at the time, and Garvey was my first and only sexual encounter. (Thinking about it still makes my stomach tighten.) I knew nothing about sex and never really thought about it. I had never kissed a girl, nor had I ever ejaculated. I hadn't gone through puberty. My school uniform could hardly be considered provocative. Although I did shower and dress in a communal atmosphere common in athletics, I don't think anyone would characterize such behavior as untoward. I did not use drugs, and I certainly did not "ask for it". I was eleven years old! To the contrary, my fault was that I was too young to say no. While some points of this comparison are almost comical, I believe the basic point holds true. It was no flaw in me, or in us, that caused this to happen other than trusting the wrong man. And we certainly are not complicit in our own abuse. We were raped of our innocence . We did nothing wrong. It's not our fault. Our community needs to see our abuse as something that we were too young to recognize and stop. Something they never recognized and stopped, either. When we talk about it, our aim is true.
Erie needs to realize that we were the victims once and that to make us the victims again is cruel and unjust. The blame, the guilt, and the shame all lie at one man's feet: Dr. William P. Garvey, our abuser and molester. Is it the victims who should have to fend off the accusations? The scrutiny has been misplaced. Let's talk about Garvey. Let's put his actions, his past and his present, under the light of truth. Why did he always choose to work around children? Male children. Did he ever hit us? When, why, and how? Was he ever alone with one of us ? Behind closed doors? What were the circumstances? Did he ever take players to where he lived? Why? How do so many of us know personal details about him like what his place looked like, the phone number, his birthday, his psoriasis? What was the nature of his relationships with his players? How about off the court? Did he ever buy these boys gifts? Take them places? Travel alone with them? Stay overnight? Does he still maintain any of these relationships? Have these men benefited from his largesse? Specify. Does he drink heavily? Has he ever given alcohol to an under-age player? Was it in his home? What were the circumstances?... What will that light reveal about Garvey's integrity, his honesty, and his motivation? We're telling you that he abused us, and he has been abusing your children since the '60s. Garvey's blanket denial and silence do not suffice. They only serve Garvey, the institutions involved, and those who gained from his position. Hush. Hush. His dismissal of the number of allegations, and the corroborated details involved, as related by men who in some cases have never spoken or met, is an insult to our intelligence. Our stories are remarkably the same. They span decades and yet the details are the same. They are the modus operandi of a serial pedophile. Allowing this man to operate as an upstanding member of the community is an insult to his victims. To further try to discredit us, and question our integrity and our intent, is unfair and again, unjust.
To you men who are reluctant to talk about your abuse: I understand. I know it's hard. You are, as I am, trying to come to terms with a very ugly thing that you have tried to keep buried in your past. And the increased scrutiny of coming forward can make it even more difficult for you. For me, keeping quiet any longer didn't work. I've begun to talk with those close to me. The past won't go away. What Garvey did to us won't go away. I think about it every time I'm around St. Johns, Mercyhurst, anywhere he touched. I think about it every time I see his face. Every time I bump into one of you. Every time. Maybe we don't yet control what people think about us. But if we let rumor, ignorance and innuendo stop us, we will always be the victims. If we don't talk about Garvey, we don't give anyone a chance to know the truth. To talk about the truth. And for ourselves to come to terms with, and live, the truth. Do not kid yourself, numbers matter. Your voice matters. Let's take credit for the men we've become. Despite Garvey. Despite the abuse. Let us look at those who would discredit us and force them to admit the truth. Let's talk the truth. You can do it.
predafile@hotmail.com
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