“Yeah.” No shucks, Sherlock. I rolled my eyes a little and glanced at my dad, who was starting to look like he would soon have steam coming out of his ears.
She forged ahead. “Did your kidnappers tell you they would hurt you or your family if you tried to get away?”
“You know, they did. And I really am here to support the bill and not to go into what happened to me, because I’m not here to give an interview on that. I’m here to help push this bill through.”
“And I want you to push the bill through,” she said earnestly. “And I want people to hear—your—voice.”
This rang a little hollow, as people were mainly hearing her voice not talking about the bill. The way she said it let me know in no uncertain terms what was expected of me here. Mug shots of Mitchell and Barzee were already being projected over my face as the interview continued to go downhill.
“You know, a lot of people have seen shots of you wearing a burka.” Nancy shook her head and smiled as if she was asking me about a Halloween costume. “How did you see out of that thing?”
At that point, I had had enough. I’d gotten past the initial jolt and was gathering a nice glow of bright red anger. “I’m really not going to talk about this at this time,” I told her flat out. “I mean, that’s something I just don’t even look back at, and to be frankly honest, I really don’t appreciate you bringing all this up.”
She quickly offered a classic sorry-not-sorry apology, as smooth as honey butter, emphatically forgiving me for disappointing her. “I’m sorry, dear. I thought that you would speak out to other victims, but you know what? I completely understand.”
Just a side note: Don’t ever say you completely understand what someone else has been through in their life. You don’t.
“A lot of victims don’t want to talk about it,” Nancy went on, “and don’t feel like talking about it. Let’s talk about the bill. To Senator Hatch. Senator Hatch, you said you wanted…”
Abruptly, Dad and I were shut out. Our mics and earpieces were turned off, so we could only see what was being shown on the screen. My dad was about to burst. He got up and said, “Come on, Elizabeth. This is ridiculous. We’re leaving.”
Members of the camera crew all ran up, whispering, “The segment isn’t finished. Sit down, sit down. You can’t leave yet!”
“Watch me,” Dad said.
But by that time, the segment was on the wrap-up. We said a terse Thanks for having us, and it was over. Needless to say, that was the first, last, and only time I ever went on Nancy Grace’s show. I have certainly grown and learned a lot in the twelve years since then, but even as a teenager, I knew that you have to do what you think is right, and you have to stick to your guns. The fact is, I did speak out for other victims. I did speak up about what happened to me. I still do. But I’m not obligated to share my story on cue just because someone else wants me to—just as Norma is not obligated to keep her story to herself. Each of us owns the story of herself; it’s a personal choice when and where to share it. Others have the personal choice to listen or not, but they have no right to push us into the limelight or back into the closet.
“I stood my ground this time,” says Norma. “I said, ‘This is my right, and if you are uncomfortable, you’re welcome to step back and not be part of this process. You don’t have to come. Don’t read articles; don’t come to any of my talks. You have that right. Absolutely. But do not stand here and make me responsible. I refuse to apologize for anything.’”
I’m so proud of Norma for standing her ground. I understand firsthand how difficult it can be to stand up for yourself, whether it’s against someone you know or someone you don’t know. I was a pretty shy kid, and that really didn’t change after I got home. In fact, there are days when I need to disconnect and just be another onlooker in the crowd. But there are times as well when I have to overcome my shyness and take my own stand. It’s important to set boundaries and stand your ground and know that no one has the right to push you further than you want to go, whether it’s someone you love—like a spouse or a family member—or anybody else.
Questions will be asked that are insensitive and ignorant. I hear this from people in so many different situations—cancer, divorce, sexual assault, the loss of a child—and I tell them that it’s perfectly acceptable to be angry, and I mean both angry about what happened and angry about the gall of some people’s responses to it. The important thing is that you address your anger, acknowledge it, feel it, and then move on.
* * *
It took about eight years after my rescue for my case to finally come to trial. I’ve been asked if that was frustrating, and yes, in some regards it was terribly frustrating, but I also look back and wonder, If it had happened immediately, would I have been ready for it? I hadn’t wanted to talk about the kidnapping at all when I got home. I remember thinking, after I’d gone through all the necessary questioning by the FBI and other branches of law enforcement, that I never wanted to speak about it ever again. And so for those eight years, I was able to go to high school and then on to university. I studied abroad, and then started serving my mission in France. In a way I had been given a reprieve, a chance to discover who I, Elizabeth Smart, really was. So in that sense, maybe the delay wasn’t such a bad thing.
But the trial had to happen eventually, and I knew that getting through it wasn’t going to be easy. I was called back from France to testify. The first day of the trial, part of me was quite nervous, because I hadn’t been in the presence of Brian David Mitchell in eight years. I didn’t know how I would feel seeing him in person again. Thankfully, I had a lot of family by my side.
I have to digress here for a minute and tell you about Grandma Smart, who is full of zest and vitality and has a flair for the dramatic. She knew that it was going to be hard to find a parking spot near the courthouse, so instead of driving herself there or calling a car service or a taxi, she walked outside her house, waved down the next car to pass her, and said, “I’m Elizabeth Smart’s grandmother. Could you drop me off at the courthouse, please?” And that is how she arrived there—she hitchhiked. This tells you everything you need to know about Grandma Smart.
The court proceedings were long and grueling. I spent three days on the stand. I wasn’t allowed to hear my mom or sister testify; I had to sit outside. The rest of the time, I sat in the courtroom and listened to testimony that made me wonder, Who thought it was a good idea to have that person testify? I’d been warned that Mitchell’s attorney would go to great lengths to mount a strong defense. Some testimonies were almost comical, they were so non sequitur, but others were outrageously ugly and hurtful. I lost my cool only once: during testimony by Dr. Paul Whitehead, who had been assigned to observe and work with Mitchell in the Utah State Hospital. Dr. Whitehead, who had spent what was, in my opinion, a pitifully small amount of time observing Mitchell, went on about how I had been looking forward to becoming pregnant with Mitchell’s child and how I had even chosen a name for the child.
At that moment, all I saw was a rush of red. In the middle of his testimony, I completely lost my composure, stood up, and marched out of that courtroom as fast as I could. I was absolutely fuming. I’m surprised smoke wasn’t coming out of my ears. I don’t remember ever being that angry.
What Dr. Whitehead didn’t say was that my captors (always planning ahead) had forced me to keep a journal. I was told exactly what to write in it. That’s where this “expert witness” had gotten most of his information. That journal was something I had hoped would never see the light of day. I was embarrassed and ashamed that my hand had ever written anything like that, but the truth is, I did what I had to do to survive. That journal was their ultimate weapon against me, something they could use to deny the harm they’d done me and possibly go free to harm someone else. From the moment I got home, I wanted it burned. I never wanted anyone to see it. Maybe it doesn’t seem like much in the context of everything these people did to me, but to this day, that is still an object I ne
ver want to see again. I hope it is incinerated.
I suppose the judge must have been taken aback when I abruptly stormed out of the room; up until that point, I had remained calm, emotionless, composed. He must have paused the proceedings, because next thing I knew, my parents were searching the building for me. I had gone to a different floor. I just wanted to be alone. Once I realized what I had done and how it might have looked, I also knew that I didn’t want to be questioned about why I was so angry or upset. I just wanted to be left alone. I remember thinking, How would Dr. Whitehead like it if his life were being publicized and put under a magnifying glass, and people who spent next to zero time doing what they should have done—who knew and understood nothing about what it was like to be Mitchell’s captive—were testifying as an “expert” for the opposing side? In contrast, the prosecution had spent hundreds, if not thousands, of hours on research, observation, and interviews.
After the brief break, I did regain my composure, and the court was recalled to order so the proceedings could continue. That court experience was neither easy nor enjoyable. It had interrupted my life—and my mission—and brought back my most difficult and painful memories. But that trial did one thing for me: It confirmed that neither Mitchell nor Barzee would ever have any power or control over me ever again. Mitchell’s attorney tried to have him sent to a mental hospital, but he was sentenced to life in federal prison without parole. Barzee pled guilty and was sentenced to fifteen years. But more important, I walked out of there knowing that I had survived, that I was in fact thriving. Their lives were effectively over, but mine had just begun, and I would never have to think or speak of them again except on my own terms.
* * *
Toward the end of my conversation with Norma, I ask, “So many people have hurt you. Do you feel like you’ve forgiven them?”
“That’s a difficult one,” she admits. “I think the biggest thing was forgiving myself for something that I felt I had done wrong—that I blamed myself for—because I did believe it. Forgiving myself was a really big, big step. Really looking at myself and saying, ‘I still didn’t deserve it.’ For so long, I did that. Why didn’t I scream? Why—all those whys. And now I don’t. I just forgave myself. I did not deserve any of it.”
“What about forgiving others?”
“Forgiving the other people is harder for me. The people who did those things had no excuses. None were ever compelled to come clean. Not even one of them went to prison. I don’t really know about forgiveness. Having said all that, I have been applying to work as a sexual aggression corrections officer. I’ve been working with victims for so long, and I think that that’s how I would learn a lot about forgiveness: by switching gears and applying for a job that’s going to make me responsible for the people who are the criminals in the system. Only because I understand that I need to be better. I cannot have this hatred. I think it is a value of being better than the people who caused the pain. Showing kindness to the people who probably don’t deserve it—that’s one of the most difficult things. I still have a hard time feeling sympathy for somebody who, in my case, doesn’t deserve sympathy, just because they’ve done something and now they’re caught and stuck in the system. That’s kind of something that I’m working on, but it’s not going to be an easy thing for me, for sure.”
I’m equally sure it’s not easy for anyone else, but I agree with the Buddhist proverb “You will not be punished for your anger; you will be punished by your anger.” I believe that we have to be honest with our anger and work to tame it so that it energizes us instead of incinerating us. So I admire Norma’s startling desire to help sex offenders survive in the prison system—her way of powering past this blaze of anger. It can’t be smothered; it has to burn itself out.
“I want to grow as a person,” she says resolutely, “and I think the more I understand both sides, the better able I am to help. Because I’m able to offer one point of view, but I’ve made a commitment: If I do this, it better be with the intention of really helping as much as I can. Being a beginner and putting yourself in a position of others teaching you is what gives you humility instead of standing onstage, saying, ‘I know it all.’ I don’t! I’m still managing, sharing a little bit. It is an intention of being able to learn more and more, and being able to understand it from both sides, how they are, and handle it.”
Putting it that way, she confirms the very feeling that prompted me to go out into the world and ask these questions I’m asking. When people ask me about anger, I know they’re talking about Mitchell and Barzee, but the fact is, during the trial, I realized that I had let go of that anger a long time ago. Right before the court proceedings began, Mitchell appeared, marched in by guards, shackled, and arrayed in a prison jumpsuit. I listened to my heart for a reaction, but amazingly enough, there was nothing.
I wasn’t intimidated. I wasn’t infuriated. I felt nothing.
Not nothing in the sense that I was numb. I had strong feelings about life in general. That day, like today, I keenly felt all the gratitude and joy and love that I feel every day of this beautiful life I have with my family. People say living well is the best revenge. But why would I want my life to be an act of revenge? Doesn’t that just extend a tormentor’s occupation of your head?
Which isn’t to say I never get angry. Every now and then—especially when I hear another story of a child who’s been abducted or a woman who’s been grievously harmed—I feel that rush of red. There’s no bitterness, but there’s anger—“righteous wrath,” Scripture calls it—clean and proud and powerful, and sometimes it gives me the strength I need to stand up for what I know is right.
My conversation with Norma left me thinking hard. Could I even imagine giving up my current occupation to work in prisons with sex offenders, child molesters, and kidnappers? I honestly don’t know. Truly, I would have never thought of that as an option—a way to learn, to overcome anger, to forgive—and I’m not sure it is an option for me. Is it for you?
Can you see yourself stepping into the perspective of someone who’s wronged you and using that new understanding in some positive way?
And if not, can you see your anger energizing some other positive direction?
4
Loss and Renewal
Grief is in two parts. The first is loss. The second is the remaking of life.
—ANNE ROIPHE
Grief is one of the emotions people don’t know how to help with when they’re looking from the outside in. We often feel uncomfortable around people who are grieving—and it’s okay to feel that way. Totally understandable. But it helps to recognize that there is a beauty and a strength of character that emerges as we grieve. Washington Irving wrote: “There is a sacredness in tears. They are not a mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”
Virtually everyone growing up in Utah recognizes certain names that we almost think of as dynasty families, and one of those names is Covey. That name rings a bell far beyond Utah, of course; Stephen Covey wrote the best-selling self-help book The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. The Covey family is well established in the Utah community, involved in philanthropy, community service, and nonprofits. I don’t remember the first time I heard of the Covey family, but I do remember my first interaction with them.
In 2015, I received an email from a nonprofit group called Bridle Up Hope, which was founded by the Covey family in memory of Stephen Covey’s granddaughter Rachel, who had died in 2012 at the age of twenty-one. They asked me if I’d be willing to speak at a gala they were holding to help raise funds to build a private stable for the sole purpose of helping young women. They explained how they worked in equine therapy, how they focused on working with girls who experienced depression, anxiety, and other mental illnesses, and that to date, they had never turned away one single girl. I didn’t know anything else about the story behind Bridle Up Hope. I wond
ered but didn’t feel free to ask how Rachel had died so young. I was intrigued by their mission and eager to help, however, partly because instead of asking me to dive back into the gory details of my past, which is usually what people want to hear, they wanted me to speak about my experiences with horses and how they had helped me.
Horses and riding with my grandpa definitely made an enormous difference for me after I was rescued. When I came home, my parents allowed me to make as many choices as they could. Among those choices was whether or not to seek therapy. Offers for therapy were coming out of the woodwork, but I remember thinking, Where were you when I was kidnapped? That’s when I needed you. I chose not to go down the traditional therapy road but instead found therapy through music, through my parents and family, through taking back my life. I also found it through horseback riding in nature, experiencing that wide-open feeling that I had when I was out riding with Grandpa Smart. He never pushed me to talk about anything. He just stayed close enough that I could feel safe without feeling confined. He would occasionally look over at me with a twinkle in his eye and then that was it, we were off galloping as fast as the wind until the horse and I were both drenched in sweat and my nose was sunburned to a crisp and my limbs felt like ramen noodles. Freedom, more than anything, was what I needed. I had to breathe that freedom under the bright blue Utah sky I loved. I had to feel upright and strong again, which is how I felt riding high up in my favorite saddle.
The night of the Bridle Up Hope event, I was thinking, Okay, this is a horse-friendly group. I should wear my cowboy boots! Unfortunately, they were a little too dirty and a little too scuffed-up to pull off with a floor-length black skirt. What’s a girl to do when she doesn’t have the right shoes? Turn to the old standby black stiletto that goes with everything, but maintain that cowboy boot attitude.
Where There's Hope Page 7