by Pearl Solas
I hope it helps you in some way for me to say, as between you and me, all the shame associated with what I did to you belongs to me alone. If you want me to be a part of any process that moves you closer to healing, I am willing to participate. For those of you receiving therapy, I am willing to engage in meetings in any format your therapist believes will be constructive. I have no illusions that such meetings will be a panacea, and again I do not and will not ask for your forgiveness. I will tell you I’m sorry, though. I will listen to you, and I will hear your pain. You deserve at least that much.
May God bless you and keep you and fill you with the peace that passes all understanding.
* * *
“But Sam, isn’t this exactly what you’ve been talking about needing?” Angela Sears’s small, close-set eyes gazed at Sam intelligently from behind her glasses. Although her cluttered office should have irritated Sam’s compulsiveness, the comfort he derived from its homey smell and its interesting, varied textures was one of the counterintuitive mysteries of their long history. “You told me just last week that you just needed someone to take responsibility for what had happened to you.”
Sam struggled with her question. “No, it’s not enough. I was wrong if I thought it would be. I don’t know what else I need, but it’s . . . more. I feel like . . . I feel like his throwing an apology out into the void is only one ingredient of the medicine, if you will.”
Angela looked particularly owl-like as she gazed at Sam while considering her response. She cocked her head and regarded the intricately woven baskets mounted on her wall. “Have we talked about the work I did in Africa during graduate school, Sam?” she asked.
Sam shook his head. They hadn’t talked much about her. Probably best because Sam had paid her for years to talk about him. She pursed her lips tightly as if deep in thought. Coming to a decision, she said, “I hate to do this, but I think we should end today’s session early. I have an idea about where we might go from here, but I’d like a little time to look into it. I don’t want to talk about it before I can figure out if it’s feasible, but if everything lines up, we can discuss it during next week’s session. Okay?”
Intrigued, Sam agreed and they confirmed their standing appointment for the following week.
* * *
“Okay,” Angela said breathlessly as she rushed into the office where Sam had been waiting for her for several minutes. As usual, her improbably red hair was disheveled, likely a result of her habit of running her hands through it hundreds of times a day, and her favorite Kelly green blazer contained evidence of a coffee mishap. “I did the checking I promised to do and I’m psyched out of my mind.”
She settled herself into her chair. “Last week I asked about my work in Africa because I think, maybe, we can use it here. During grad school, I studied the therapeutic benefits to crime victims of having the opportunity to confront their perpetrators, and to have the perpetrators accept responsibility. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity to study that dynamic here, because it’s just not how our criminal justice system works, but in researching South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, I interviewed people who had participated in that process. More interesting, for purposes of my specific focus, was what I got to see of the Rwandan gacacas.”
She stopped to take a drink of water and Sam asked, “What is that?”
“So, these were informal community gatherings that took place while the country was trying to rebuild after genocide in the ’90s. They included both the Tutsi victims and the Hutu perpetrators of rape, murder, and other atrocities. They were completely the opposite of our ideas about protecting victims of crime from exposure to the people who had harmed them. The Rwandan gacacas were founded in the reality that, going forward, victims and perpetrators would have to live in the same intermingled communities in which they had lived before the genocide. It would only be possible if both sides really worked at reconciliation.”
Angela explained that the parties to the process committed to work toward three pillars of reconciliation: truth-telling, repentance, and forgiveness. Perpetrators had to overcome their guilt and fear of consequences to publicly accept responsibility for the violence they had committed against their neighbors. In response, the victims and their loved ones shared their experiences, perspectives, and ongoing processing of the trauma they endured. After the process of multilateral truth telling, even those who had admitted to raping or murdering their neighbors apologized. It wasn’t a magic formula or a perfect process, and it was still necessary to put in more work toward justice, reconciliation, and forgiveness after the gacaca, but its positive effects seemed out of all proportion to its simplicity. The approach kickstarted the country’s healing and rebuilding in profound and tangible ways.
“This experience is what makes me excited about what Peña’s offering. I’ve seen how, with the right framing and safeguards, real healing is possible. Before floating the idea to you, I wanted to meet Peña, look him in the eyes, and gauge his sincerity. I didn’t want to travel down the road of a gacaca-like process if there was a substantial possibility that it would do you more harm than good. So—”
“Wait,” Sam interrupted. “Are you saying you met with Father Paul since I saw you last week?”
Angela barreled ahead. “Yes! I didn’t tell him anything about you that could reveal your identity and I don’t want you to feel pressured to do this if you’re not comfortable with it. But he’s willing if you are, and we could include a couple of other participants, including the prison chaplain and, remarkably, another victim of Peña’s who happens to be an inmate in the same prison. I gave them all some literature about gacacas to read while you make your decision. I can’t guarantee that it will help, but I think it will. I never thought I would see an opportunity for something like this here.”
In spite of the circumstances, Sam couldn’t help but laugh at her single-mindedness and excitement. “All right,” he said. “Tell me what it would look like.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Paul, Joshua, and Father Matt were already present in the fishbowl of a glass-sided room when they saw Angela and Sam approach the glass door. As Sam entered, he looked directly at Paul, and could see Paul’s brain working to match Sam’s features with a figure from the past. When Sam removed his dark wool coat, there was a collective intake of breath from the three men as they recognized the distinctive white collar that marked Sam as a priest.
The five participants sat around a circular table, and Angela asked everyone to bow their heads as she read a prayer Sam had written to commence the process. The men complied, and Angela began in a low, melodic voice:
Heavenly Father, Lord Christ, cause your spirit to move in us today. Bless our intentions with the purity of your grace and love. Bring your healing and cleansing power into this place, and align our words and actions with the perfection of your will. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.
When she finished, Paul, Joshua, and Matt opened their eyes and looked expectantly at Angela. Wasting no time, she inclined her head toward Sam and said, “We agreed that it would be best to start with Sam before anyone else shares.”
With the mention of his name, Sam watched as the final gear clicked into place, and the years fell away from his face before Paul’s eyes. Paul’s inner turmoil betrayed him only in his sudden pallor and in the way he wiped his palms on his pants.
Paul focused his attention on Sam, and in turn Sam stared down at his hands as he began to speak. He was surprised to hear that his voice was low and steady; not even the slightest tremor hinted at his overwhelming anxiety.
“I wanted to be a priest for as long as I can remember. I loved the ritual and mystery of the Church, and the community that flowed from and surrounded it. In my family’s lore, most of the stories about my early childhood feature the Church in some way. The story of the youngest version of me that my mom loves to tell happened in Church. I was four years old and, as young kids ofte
n are, I was lost in my own world during the service. When a lay reader with a particularly deep voice began to read that week’s scripture, my mother says my head shot up from my coloring worksheet, I looked around as if searching for the source of the voice, and then I whispered to my mother, ‘Is that God?’
“I always carried with me a sense of God’s active participation in my life. I was assured of God’s guiding hand over the world, and I was secure in my place within it. My path seemed perfectly clear: I would pursue the calling that allowed me to serve this omnipotent, loving being, and I would guide others to know him better.”
Sam lifted his gaze and looked directly at Paul. “When I met you in high school, it seemed like God was smoothing my path to his service. You were charismatic, smart, and funny, and unlike most adults, you seemed genuinely interested in what I thought. I could be honest about how perfectly I was created for a calling within the Church.”
“When you did,” Sam stopped speaking until he could gather strength to continue, “what you did, I felt so worthless. I thought I had stained myself so deeply that I couldn’t keep pursuing what had defined my life. And you did it by using your authority as a representative of Christ!” His voice rose in anger and disbelief that conveyed his still-fresh pain.
“I had learned my lessons well. I would have told anyone else that God’s gifts are given to us in spite of our unworthiness. For the first time, though, I understood what unworthiness felt like. Overnight, it became a whole lot more difficult for me to believe that God’s gifts were meant for me. You might think the shame would have settled more lightly on me because, unlike many of those you abused, I’m gay. You might think I didn’t have the extra layer of confusion that your straight victims felt. You would be wrong.
“At that time, I was still a very long way away from coming to terms with that aspect of myself. My life was centered on a religion that I loved, but that thinks I am fundamentally flawed because of how I was born. What you did made me even more confused and self-loathing, and added years to my journey to accept that I am as I am because God made me this way. To accept that even that aspect of myself is fearfully and wonderfully made.”
Sam continued to describe how his experience with Paul drove him into a spiral of seeking sex with other older men who, similarly, treated him like a plaything and then discarded him. To escape his constant feelings of shame, he turned to drugs. Within two years of finishing high school, Sam was living on the street—supporting his habit by whatever means presented themselves.
“Eventually I got on the road to lasting recovery, but it was a long road. It began through a friendship I developed with an Episcopal lay minister I met in a treatment program. As I spent more time in her church and with the Rector, God renewed my dreams of serving him. The path he showed me looked different than it had when I was younger. The gift of renewed purpose and reconnection with God enabled me to commit to recovery and, in time, I was ordained as a priest of the Episcopal Church.”
Sam spoke directly to Paul. “It’s a strange thing, but I know I’m more capable of sharing God’s compassion because of the way my experience with you humbled me. On the other hand, the more I’ve learned about compassion, and about the holy trust we hold as priests, the more I’ve understood exactly how terrible you are. The more I’ve hated your guts. I’ve prayed, I’ve worked with therapists like Angela, and I’ve tried to let go of that anger. I want to let go of it for my own sake. I just haven’t been able to move past it.”
As Sam finished speaking, Paul remained silent. His eyes moved between Sam and the hands clasped in front of him on the table.
Joshua responded to a cue from Angela. After ensuring Sam was finished, Joshua picked up the thread of conversation.
“Sam, a lot of what you said is familiar to me. I’ve struggled with the same anger, but in my case, anger turned into violence, which landed me here. I made my own choices, but I was never violent before Paul raped me. Like you, my anger and shame derailed my life. Unlike you, I never got back on track. I still have twenty years before I’m eligible for parole, so there probably isn’t a track for me to get back on.”
Joshua briefly described his history with Paul, and how seeing Paul in prison, and realizing that Paul didn’t recognize him, had felt like a gift—like an opportunity to repay Paul for some of the damage he had caused. He explained how he had seized that opportunity one night when Paul was alone in the showers, and how baffled he had been the next day to hear that Father Frank had died and that Paul had miraculously recovered.
“I don’t understand what happened with Paul and Father Frank. I’d be full of shit if I said it didn’t make me rethink what I thought I knew about God being a fraud. It also really pissed me off that God stepped in in such a big way for Paul, but he just sat on his hands while Paul did his best to ruin me, and you, and all those other boys.”
This was the first Sam had heard about the circumstances surrounding Father Frank’s death, and he struggled to wrap his head around it as Joshua continued.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about what they used to drum into us at that fucking school. ‘His ways are not our ways’ . . . as if that was supposed to magically get us through anything. I always thought it was just more bullshit. But then . . .” he spread his hands in front of himself. “All this happened, and I’m thinking, ‘It sure seems like a fucked up way to accomplish anything, but maybe something is breaking loose for the good.’”
Joshua took a deep breath, “After what happened, I was confused and depressed. Depressed because making my fantasy real didn’t make me feel better like I thought it would. I wondered why Paul should be protected at the expense of Father Frank. And I felt so small in the face of the kind of power that could make something like that happen.
“For such a long time, hating Paul has fueled me. When Paul apologized to me, it almost made me hate him more. He had shit on my love and trust so much that I had to wonder whether his apology was just some new way to be cruel. I’ll probably never be able to fully trust him, but my bullshit detector is better now than when I was a kid. I believe what he said to me and in his letter. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to forgive him. I might not ever be, but for the first time I can imagine letting go of my anger. Not for his sake, but for mine.”
They all sat in silence as Joshua gathered his thoughts to continue. Father Matt briefly placed his hand on Joshua’s shoulder.
“Paul’s apology didn’t fix me, but it helped me let go of some of my shame along with the anger. I wouldn’t have thought he could say anything that had the power to help or hurt me, but as much as I hate to admit it, his words still matter to me. I needed to hear him apologize. More than anything, I needed to hear him accept responsibility.
“I guess the reason I’m here, Sam, is to let you know that you’re not alone. I understand your anger like only the other boys Paul raped can.”
Angela allowed a period of silence to sink in before she nodded to Paul.
“First, Sam, I’ve heard everything you said. I’m so, so very sorry for what I did to you. As I’ll explain in a bit, I have more insight into what you were feeling than you might imagine.
“I know that you’ve read my letter, but it’s important for you to hear these words from my mouth: I am sorry, Sam, both for what I did to you and for how it impacted your life. I knew what I was doing. Sam, I know that part of your guilt is tied up in feelings of attraction you had toward me, which, at the time, you were barely able to acknowledge to yourself. Know this, Sam: you would not have done anything with those feelings. They were an innocent crush, and those feelings would have faded. Even if you didn’t say no, you were too young and inexperienced to understand the true dynamics of what was happening, or to consent.”
Paul caught Sam’s eye and held it, “What happened was not your fault, and you have no share in the shame. It belongs to me alone.”
Those words worked their way into Sam. Angela had made exactly the same point, and so had other
therapists, but they had never before penetrated in this way. Sam had never fully believed them. Sam buried his face in his hands and tried to hold in the flood of grief he felt for the confused young boy he had been. It was too overwhelming, and his floodgates burst as he gave himself over to silent, violent sobs. Angela soundlessly pushed a package of tissues toward him.
When Sam had finished crying, he looked expectantly at Paul. Paul continued, “Angela thought it would be important for you to understand how I finally came to repentance. It’s pretty new. Until recently, I didn’t admit there was anything wrong with what I did. If you and I had met shortly after my trial, you would’ve seen a man with a very different perspective. Joshua, Father Matt, and I experienced firsthand the story I’m about to tell you, but we understand if you find it tough to believe. We’re used to skepticism—but we know what we know.”
Paul related the dreams. “I carry with me all of those experiences, from the perspective of my victims. I had five dreams about you, Sam. The first time I touched you, you had been excited to give me a beautiful book of Neruda poems because I had mentioned in class how much I admired him. You hadn’t even begun to admit to yourself that you were attracted to boys. You had two clear thoughts as I took advantage of . . .”
Paul broke off mid-sentence. “No, that won’t do. Father Frank insisted I use accurate language.” Paul forced himself to look directly into Sam’s eyes, “I raped you, Sam. As I . . . raped you, you had two clear thoughts as you looked at the book of poetry on the desk. First, you thought that you must have asked for what was happening because you gave me the book. You did not, Sam. I had planned what would happen that day before you ever set foot in my office with the book. Second, you wondered how you could possibly make confession about doing what you were doing with a priest.