vocabulary felt foreign and overwhelming.
“The Loggia,” he repeated softly when he told me.
Albemarle’s physical details also included the second-floor living spaces. Occupancy varied according to age, and in Trav’s first year he bunked with eight boys. Their bedroom connected directly to an overnight staff perpetrator’s room, and Trav remembers trying to sleep through the sounds from behind that particular room’s door, wondering if and when he might be next.
Stretching behind the school itself, a manicured, formal field extended toward a natural spring-fed pool with freezing-cold water where Trav would swim. Beyond this pool was a stand of forest where Trav hollowed out a place in the thicket to crouch and hide.
Trav described laundry facilities in a dark basement and a strange hallway-cupboard storage space on the main floor. The former he avoided at all costs, and the latter he converted into another secret hiding place.
Late at night, Trav snuck into the school’s kitchen and ate dry cereal by the handful.
“Well,” I said. “That might explain your current late-night food compulsions.”
I suspect many people have no idea about the pervasive and long-lasting nature of childhood sexual abuse, and this lack of awareness is among the hardest parts to navigate because no lawsuit, apology, or jail time will ever make things right. We both wanted some form of understanding, though, so when Trav gave me permission to contact the school, I struggled to find the right words.
I had long ago requested that the American Boychoir School stop sending us solicitation letters, and they did; so, I proceeded with the good-faith assumption that honest conversations can resolve most issues. Since the American Boychoir School had participated in a court case,22 however reluctantly, that helped change child sexual abuse laws, I expected them to be, if not leaders on the topic, at least willing to discuss the issues.
HARDWICKE V. AMERICAN BOYCHOIR SCHOOL. Decided August 8, 2006. http://caselaw.findlaw.com/nj-supreme-court/1138661.html
Given the long history of allegations about the school, I also expected there would be a basic protocol for reporting, resources, and reparation.
I was naïve.
Trav and I have a friend who practices law locally, and before I contacted the school I asked her informally about the best process for obtaining some form of apology. Instead of meeting over our usual coffee, our lawyer friend invited us both to her office. Her tone was grave, and she wanted us to fully understand the process.
Her space, warm and inviting with exposed brick walls, antique wooden fixtures, and natural light from tall windows, overlooked a small park in Portland’s Old Port district. Sitting at her conference table, we learned about criminal action and civil action.
In simplest and most reductive terms, criminal charges happen with a goal of jail time for the perpetrator. Civil action holds a person or an organization responsible for damages, almost always financially. Both put the burden of proof on the party who claims he or she was wronged. In a criminal proceeding, proof must be beyond a reasonable doubt. With civil charges, the burden is known as “preponderance of the evidence” or, in numerical shorthand, 51 percent. This is a key distinction. Civil cases must demonstrate it is more likely than not that a person or organization is responsible.
Our friend explained that the first step in a civil proceeding is to send a demand letter. Although this is a mean-sounding term, a demand letter outlines the circumstance and invites a conversation.
“Great!” Trav and I agreed. A letter seemed perfect! We would include a statement from Trav’s doctors to demonstrate our legitimacy with more than ten years of documented treatment, and we would start a conversation—exactly what we wanted.
That is when our lawyer friend said that if we sent this letter, we must be prepared to enter litigation.
“Say more,” we requested. Neither of us is stupid, but litigation was a word we generally heard only on televised court dramas.
The school, she explained, would likely give any demand letter directly to an insurance company. Since insurance companies often handle these situations, an institution typically extracts itself from any active participation.
“Huh,” we thought, confused. “That doesn’t seem right.”
What she described next was worse.
The insurance company would likely deny any claims, forcing us to bring a lawsuit. If we sued, the next step would be “discovery,” during which Trav would be required to disclose not just his own experiences, but any rapes witnessed by him or confided to him by other little boys, including names and any available contact information. This disclosure would bolster his credibility, and Trav would be asked to list each specific act of sexual misconduct he recalled and experienced, assigning dates, times, and identifying details for verification.
What’s more, Trav’s therapist, psychiatrist, and physician would likely be compelled to submit all session notes and patient files, and every private conversation would be used by a team of insurance litigators to discredit him.
Any mention of sexual dysfunction, any suicidal consideration, any medications tried, and any moment of marital or personal doubt would be scrutinized for inconsistencies. My husband’s entire collection of private physical and psychological details would be open to a roomful of professionals paid to cast doubt on his already shaky, twenty-five-year-old boyhood recollections.
“Just for an apology?” I asked.
“This could get very ugly,” our lawyer friend explained, noting that civil cases often last for years.
Perversely, Trav’s personal success would count against him. “How bad can his life really be,” a litigator might ask, “if Trav is able to work full time? If he owns a home? If he has never been arrested? If his credit score is good? If he is widely respected in his community? If he can maintain a marriage and friendships?”
“The school is aware of its history,” I countered. “Can we just send statements that show the severity of his situation?” I moved my head toward the window’s park view for a moment, the lush green grass color intensified by the overcast sky, as I tried to negotiate a saner alternative, because the system our friend described made no sense.
A statement from Trav’s doctors that summarized treatment details with dates seemed ample proof for a “preponderance” that, more likely than not, spending thirty sleepless months hearing, seeing, avoiding, and experiencing already-documented child sexual abuse is the source of his post-traumatic stress disorder.
And, once that was established, why wouldn’t the school officials say, “I am sorry this happened while you were in our care. How can we help?”
When I turned back toward Trav, his face had reddened, his breathing was shallow, and his eyes were glassy. There was no space for push-ups, and if he had had a hammer, he would have pounded it.
I wanted Trav to find his voice, but that day in our lawyer friend’s conference room, I imagined my own deepest, most shameful secrets and darkest memories not just being exposed, but exposed to a team of strangers whose professional mission is to discredit details, line by line, and I began to respect the strength many victims find in silence.
