Opinion | After Telling My Sexual Assault Story, The Floodgates Opened: Sexual Assault In The USVI Touches Everywhere

Sexual assault and rape in the U.S. Virgin Islands is probably far more pervasive than we previously thought. I never thought I would ever willingly submit an editorial about my own experience with sexual assault, but I’ve found it impossible to rest without sharing what I’ve learned since telling my story about a high school experience with sexual assault and predatory behavior by adult men targeting teenage boys.

I learned more. One month ago, when I shared my story with the world, I was scared of the personal damage it could inflict on myself and my family. Today, I’m scared for the lives of the children in the U.S. Virgin Islands.

Since the story came out, the support I’ve received has been overwhelming, but it hasn’t been all sunshine in my own personal life. People reached out to me, shared their stories and of course I cried and tried to continue doing my daily work which doesn’t involve topics like sexual assault or rape. It has been a challenge trying to close a door that I opened up myself (kicked open, maybe?). I love sharing stories with the world, but not stories like this.

On February 23rd, 8:18 p.m.

I met with a former high school classmate. Before we met, he had reached out to tell me that he believed he knew the officer that I mentioned in my story. This was not any of the three male classmates that I mentioned in my editorial earlier in February who were being pursued by the police officer between 2009 and 2011 in St. Thomas. This classmate was new. I couldn’t remember the last time we were in the same room following our high school graduation in 2011.

We met up that evening to talk about his experience with the police officer and he shared information he thought would be useful. Like before, I’ll only share details of the most important/shocking things the gentleman shared with me. Let’s call him, Jordan to help the story along and call the police officer Vince. (These are fake names detailing a real conversation)

I sat down with Jordan on February 23rd, unsure of what would be shared with me. As we began talking, he showed me a photo of a man on his phone and my heart sank. It was him. The police officer that I mentioned before, Vince. So we shared more stories, and I recovered memories that I had suppressed — unintentionally.

As Jordan shared details about his experience with the officer, I began to recount my own experience with Vince. Even remembering that night that I had been to the officer’s house at least once and that he had fondled me at age 17. I eventually began piecing together the parts I couldn’t remember in my story, even realizing that I willingly let the police officer touch me in a sexual manner. 

Jordan started by explaining how him and Vince met and mentioned that he was at least 15 or 16 at the time. We quickly started piecing together how this officer targeted quiet, smart, and misunderstood young boys and manipulated us. In high school, I thought I was pretty smart. I wasn’t sure if teachers thought so, or if family members thought the same thing.

But a charismatic police officer, could say the same words (at the time) and suddenly I felt smarter than any A+ I received in school. Jordan and I sat down for nearly two hours, detailing how we were hand picked, and in some cases, stalked by Vince.

Jordan mentioned that the first time the police officer gave him a ride home, he dropped him right in front of his door. Jordan also lived in a housing community, like me, and had never told the officer where he lived. Jordan told me that night that he brushed it off as a coincidence, but in his adult life, realized that he had been targeted way before their first physical encounter. 

By the end of our conversation, Jordan had detailed several inappropriate conversations with Vince as a minor, including one instance where the officer invited him over to his house and emerged from a backroom naked minutes later.

On February 24th, 11:43 a.m.

I received an electronic communication from a digital influencer born in St. Croix who also wanted to go public with her story — anonymously. After accepting her offer and encouraging her to take her time I began calculating the gravity of releasing an anonymous editorial after the conversation ended.

How could her story be credible without a name? Would my audience think I made it up and published it myself to boost my online newspaper? All of these questions swirled in my head.

On February 24th, 11:47 a.m.

I reached out to a therapist working out of St. Croix who I regularly communicated with and even collaborated with over the past 2 years. I had also sent him my story the night before I sent it to the Consortium hoping that he would talk me out of submitting such a shocking piece.

On February 27th, 11:35 a.m.

I received the story from the young lady and I was heartbroken. Her experience, which took place in St. Croix was tragic and shocking. I first read the story in the morning while collaborating on a seperate project with a friend on St. Thomas. I read it, and my day continued as planned.

I gave him a heads up that a story scheduled to be published anonymously on my newspaper would be coming his way in a few seconds and I needed his guidance before publishing. I revealed the young lady’s identity to him after she gave me permission to loop him in for credibility. 

I forwarded the story to the therapist based in St. Croix and his exact words were “Holy f—, call me.”

On February 27th, 6:55 p.m. –

By that evening, I was working on stories that didn’t involve sexual assault or anything of that nature, but at 8 p.m. mid-sentence, it hit me and I broke down. I was angry. I was crying. I was even yelling. I paced around my apartment cussing because I couldn’t believe what I had read. I couldn’t believe where I grew up. And I most certainly couldn’t process that this was actually happening to children right here in the Virgin Islands — today.

I eventually made my way outside because I felt like I needed to make a phone call. I also had guests so I was trying to stay calm, but it felt useless.

On February 27th, 7:08 p.m. –

I stepped outside, away from my guests and started crying again. This time, I wasn’t angry. I was scared. I texted a friend, “I’m going to call you right now, please pick up. – Ziah”

I called him and I only remember crying and being hysterical on the phone. My words didn’t make sense to him, and I’m usually pretty clear on most days. He managed to calm me down, and I told him I was scared. I’m not sure if the young lady’s story scared me. Or if I was simply afraid to revisit another heavy op-ed or if this was a new layer of personal trauma emerging after going public with my story.

Here’s an excerpt from her story:

“I grew up in a village that raped me.

I do not remember how old I was when a boy first touched me inappropriately. I do remember that all I wanted was to play with my dolls while he tried and tried to convince me that it was normal for boys and girls to practice like “mommies and daddies.” I thought it strange that a boy in junior high school wanted to play with a little girl. I didn’t understand why he wanted to “see if I had hair down there.” I thought it strange that mommies and daddies needed to take their clothes off all the time. He was my best friend’s brother. What if I cried or made a scene? Would my best friend stop being my best friend? I told their mother that I wanted to go home earlier than scheduled. It was the middle of the night, and I was crying. She asked me why, and I said that I didn’t want to play with the boys anymore. She scolded me. Little girls aren’t supposed to play with bigger boys. I was just scared of sleeping away from home. She said nothing to her son.”

I had work to complete, a video interview to attend in a few days and had to muster up a way to stay positive to protect my own peace. I also had a mountain of work piling up as I tried to push through February and complete projects for clients on schedule.

On February 27th, 7:35 p.m. –

Earlier that day, I had already set up a time to talk to the young woman in hopes of convincing her to go public with her story, and hopefully drop the anonymous cloak we erected to protect her and her family. The therapist would also join me on the call.

I spent most of the day distracting myself because I wanted our plan to work. We connected the three-way and I began talking first, it didn’t work and she insisted that she’d like to keep her identity concealed. 

I wanted someone else to stand beside me as we tore down decades of rape culture and inappropriate predatory behavior from adult men. That didn’t happen, but make no mistake, I will stand by her side until she is ready to come forward, because we believe her.

Vacation and Rest

Nearly a month after the most revealing story of my life was published for the world to read, the noise in my head became deafening. Every painful thing that I managed to bury over the years dug itself back up and tortured me. All the stories I hid and the people I protected made me feel like I would explode.

I booked a trip to St. Croix to relax, but that too was impossible. I browsed through my cloud documents while there in search of an old letter. In this letter, I thanked an elementary school teacher for assisting me after high school and mentoring me for much of my life. Attached to the letter was nearly $900 in cash that he had given to me so that I could move to Seattle in 2012. 

The cash from him helped me leave island two months earlier than expected and I thought it was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to me. A few months passed and I received news that he had sexually assaulted two young girls close to me while I was still in high school.

I stopped taking his calls after realizing that they were telling the truth. In the letter, I thanked him and never acknowledged that I knew what he had done. After five years of silence from me, I think he understood why I never contacted him again.

On March 1st, Brunch (St. Croix)

I had a trip scheduled in St. Croix for about a month. A friend of mine visiting from California flew down to help me with a few photography projects we both wanted to get off the ground and St. Croix was one of our stops.

I already had a full schedule, so I wasn’t sure which friends I could meet. Afterall, I was working and relaxing for three days on my favorite island. So I texted a friend I had only met on Instagram, asking him if he wanted to meet.

I arrived late, sat down and four of us at the table exchanged greetings. (Three men and one woman) Immediately we rolled right into the conversation, with my editorial as the star of the dialogue.

This was probably the first time I sat publicly with anyone as they talked about the story, became emotional about it and eventually thanked me for sharing it. I wasn’t uncomfortable, but I could feel myself resisting because it was painful to think about.

About 25 minutes into brunch:

My friend, who was at least in his late 20s or early 30s blew me away with his own confession. He revealed that he was molested by a teacher while enrolled in a public school in St. Croix. 

I froze. And I’m pretty positive I interrupted him, asking him to repeat what he had just said. He repeated it again and added that he was not the only male student being touched by a teacher. He added that the teacher first coerced him into a sexual act after telling him that “other students were doing it too.” Which meant it was okay.

Today

I fought the urge to write a follow up editorial for fear of looking like an opportunist. I’m also battling with my own professional guilt in the industry. As a journalist, am I doing my community a disservice by selectively reporting on sexual assault? This is hard and I don’t think it will ever get easier.

But I’m slowly realizing that I can’t carry these truths alone, the burden is too heavy to carry. I’m encouraging everyone with a compelling story about sexual assault to tell someone they love and trust. Many of us are willing to listen, and provide support.

I’d also like to add that I have begun removing friends and business partnerships out of my circle that breathe life into rape culture in the Virgin Islands. One month ago, I called for safe spaces in schools to protect children from sexual abuse and exploitation.

Today, I think we can agree that schools in the territory are under attack, and the perpetrators are predatory adults. #SafeSpaces #WeToo

Written and submitted by: Amaziah George, a Virgin Islands journalist.