The living room paneling reflected a small glow of light from the tiny black and white TV in the trailer. I focused on that light darting as it traveled on the walls; sometimes brighter and then dark as night. The movie “JAWS” played on that foil bunny eared TV. Out of nowhere I hear a voice; “Is this okay?” the voice asks. I snap back to my body and realize I’m being touched. This touch is not like anything I’ve ever felt at 8 years old. I’m confused by how to respond to this question. I don’t recall even providing a response. I was frozen stiff and my body refused to move away from this person. As I lay on my back under a large blanket being shared by that man on the floor of the living room trailer.

My Mother and Father had long gone to bed that evening. At this time we only had the one trailer on our lot on the Island with a living room area for my little brother and I to sleep on a couch or floor. My Father’s friend whom we had spent time with camping in the past year at Rendezvous events was visiting the Island. For those unfamiliar with what they called a “Rendezvous” camping trip it was quite intriguing. We would dress as Settlers or Indians, setup Teepee style tents and dry camp in campgrounds that had been rented exclusively for this type of event. My Father made me deerskin moccasins and my mother had a linen dress for me to wear with a beaded belt. I loved being a little Indian girl; those were good times at those events, life was simple and we would barter and trade for items we wanted. This adult man had befriended my father and spent time with us during these events. He was unmarried and had no children. He was an English school teacher and at that time if math serves me correct would have been in his mid to late 40’s.

The touching continued as I tried to focus on the lights bouncing across the ceiling and not look at this man. I could tell he was moving next to me under his side of these covers but at 8 years old I had no concept of what was occurring. Now as an adult I am fully aware that he was pleasuring himself as he touched an 8 year old little girl. This memory has resurfaced strong in the last month as my partner and I were watching the Original “Jaws” moving on TV. My partner loves that movie and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him this truth. It hurts too much to come to terms that my distrust for men began at such a young age between my Father’s alcoholism and also allowing a man into our summer place to molest me. I would like to say that was the only time some thing of that nature occurred on that Island but that would be a lie. As much as I have fond memories of being a barefoot, bike riding, night time swimming, tanned skin and hippy kid I also have trauma from events that took place there that is ingrained in my soul.

By now you’re probably wondering what happened to this man? Well, I wish I could tell you that I told an adult, he was arrested and I never seen him again. But again, that would be a lie. The truth is far worse. This man was invited by my Father to be a Partner in his dog breeding business and also in the summer cabin. We will call this man “Steve” for the remainder of this Blog post. “Steve” continued to share our space, provide money to help fund the Summer drunken debauchery, run the dog breeding business and was known as “Uncle Steve” to my Brother and I. From the time I was 8 until I left for college I was forced to being polite and told to be respectful to this grown ass man whom I knew had sexually molested me. Due to his financial commitment and our inability to afford the cabin expenses without his help, I never felt safe to tell anyone what had occurred.

My Father and “Steve” had numerous arguments over money, the cabin, the dog business, drinking and bad behaviors that my Brother, my Mother and I were subjected to rants and fights between the two of them. Eventually an opportunity came up for “Steve” to purchase another cabin and my parents had to “buy him out” of his investment he made in our cabin. Which is laughable as I remember hearing them talk about buying him out; as the place was run down and not much effort or money was spent to fix up much of anything. Finally when I was around 18, “Steve” went to his own cabin, I didn’t see him much and for that I was grateful.

The last time I seen “Steve” was in 2017 at my Father’s Celebration of Life. I never forgot that movie “Jaws”, the way the black and white TV cast light on the trailer walls or his voice asking me if what he was doing was “okay”. It was a final moment in time at my Father’s service and I silently told myself I would never have to see that man again. My Father would have beaten that man to death had I told him the truth all those years ago, that I know for a fact. I’m still struggling with knowing I saved him from a beating and I bore the scars instead.