HERO

Written by Pamela Taeuffer

When my sister Jenise walked through the door, her clothes didn't look quite right. The color was drained from her face and her eyes were distant. The first thought that crossed my mind was, "She looks dead."

"Where have you been?" My mother asked sternly.

Emotionless, calm, and already in shock, Jenise answered, "I was raped."

Another sickening despair began circling us. We'd had so many, and now…my sister.

"I wanna take a shower and go to bed," Jenise said as if she were a zombie.

"No, first we need to go to the hospital," our mom said. She was well aware of the protocol needed from her job at Juvenile Hall where she'd taken care of girls that were molested or raped.

As always, Mom stayed calm, trying not to lose control of herself or escalate an already delicate situation. Her emotions were even, steady, and numbed from living with an alcoholic.

"Watch your sister," mom said. "I need to let them know we're coming and order a SANE nurse to be present with a rape kit." Then she rushed to her bedroom to get dressed.

I had no idea Mom meant she was ordering the proper treatment for my sister before they left, but even so I was irritated the way she was "processing" her own daughter.

My sister stood still, frozen, without any expression until she finally lifted her head, and looked at me with her sad eyes which seemed to scream, "Why did this happen?"

I turned away.

Her spirit was gone and the pain was too much for me to acknowledge.

She was my hero and I didn't want to hear her talk about all the things ripped out of her, taken by some power-crazed and very sick man.

I knew she'd never look at life the same way.

But what I didn't know until days later…it wasn't one man. No, it was three high school seniors who went to the same school she did.

They'd followed her for several weeks, knew what time she came home, and how far is was from the streetcar stop to our house.

They lived within several blocks of us and planned the perfect day when one of the boy's parents were away. As she got in their car she thought nothing of it; she knew them.

"Do you wanna come to the hospital or stay here?" my mother asked.

"I'll stay here," I said. I couldn't face her.

I didn't want to see another one of my family broken.  Not my sister, please God, not my sister.

I was eleven and Jenise fourteen and I didn't want to be at the hospital watching my sister's legs spread open, while medical and legal professionals looked on, poking and questioning her in every way as she lay vulnerable, taking the semen and blood samples from her body.

All I could see was that my family had another trauma to bury. Another grave opened at our house, another funeral, quiet, without question. Don't ask questions.

Jenise and me were already adults in some of the ways we had to take care of ourselves. For me, that was easy. As long as it was me that it happened to, I was ready and prepared.

But watching my sister's face, even for just that brief instant where her desperate eyes burned through my heart…I realized what little girls we still were.

Some switch turned on deep inside my body that said, "This is what happens when you come of age and flirt, go to parties, show off to boys, and open up to sex. It kills your spirit."

I loved my sister, but if my hero could be hurt, I'd never be healthy.

Jenise was the strongest person I knew; the one who took the whippings from my father and kept him away from me.

She was my friend, my power, and the only one who shared in our family secrets the same way I did.

At the hospital, Jenise was questioned about the use of force, was there a weapon, was she penetrated, and where the crime took place. She was asked to describe exactly what her attackers did, what she was wearing and why she'd gotten into their car.

It made her feel guilty, dirty, and less than she was "before".

Her life was now divided into "before" and "after".

When she was asked to name the boys again, for the fourth time,  Jenise stopped talking.  She'd had enough. Her body was in hell and as her brain short-circuited, it began to protect her.

It told her she'd had enough, said enough…it's enough.

The first few weeks after her attack, she stayed home. She was ashamed and afraid to go back to school; afraid she'd see those boys, the ones who took a piece of the way she'd previously looked at life.

But when she did return, through the urging of her counselor, Jenise got professional help and for two years learned how to recover from being raped.

Even shut down and broken, my sister forged ahead, helping herself silently and powerfully.

At the time I didn't understand the strength it took for her to do that.

What was my reaction?

I was angry she let those boys take her spirit. It seemed like they conquered her; as if they won in every way.

In those first few months, If I had to walk by her room and the door was open, I moved as fast as I could.

At the dinner table, I hardly looked up, even though I sat next to her.

I turned my back on her and blamed her for being weak. She was giving in, giving up, and being a victim. I withheld forgiveness.

I withheld forgiveness, as if it were mine to withhold.

Didn't she know she had to get out of our house as soon as she could?

Didn't she know she had to watch me?

Couldn't she see that besides me, she was the only one who knew about our darkness?

There was no time for therapy; she needed to get on with it. How could she talk about her secrets? We don't talk about those.

As siblings in families struggling with alcoholism often do, when one reveals family secrets, they're a traitor.

It changed our relationship for years.

I wasn't receptive to the times she reached to me, nor I suppose mature enough to understand.

She "abandoned" me and left me on my own to deal with our parents and I resented her for it.

She was trying not to be swallowed up forever and be defined by the violence of her youth but I didn't get it.

I should've admired her because of the way she overcame her challenges and the courage she had to ask for help, but I was too young, and too afraid.

I knew, if this could happen to her, a strong female, surely I'd go through the same pain.

But not only did she overcome her darkness, when I was eighteen I realized she came out fearless and with the strength of many.

She asked for what she wanted every day and never danced around a difficult situation.

She was my hero again, and so much more.

Jenise was one of the great loves of my life.