By Mark Bernstein
There’s been a lot of attention in the news about sexual abuse. The most recent scandal involves some sports coaches at a large American University culminating in the firing of a legendary and iconic football coach for being complicit in the cover-up of a younger coach’s indecent activities. This most base of human indiscretions seems to be rampant in the worlds of religion and sports – men of the cloth and coaches being the major perpetrators. Much of the abuse we hear about seems to be man on boy. For many victims, the sexual abuse has had an initially occult but eventually profound effect on their lives, which is completely understandable, undoubtedly due to their betrayal by highly trusted adults which makes it difficult for them to trust again. What may be much more common is everyday sexual abuse which never makes it into the newspapers, TV shows, or law or mediation courts, or even into conversation.
Like what happened to me. I am now 61 and it would have been when I was about 10. It happened over several summers at my family’s summer cottage. There was an older boy BC, I guess 5 years my senior, whose family had the cottage next to ours. One of the families had put up a large old-fashioned white canvas box tent between the two cottages for the boys to use as a play-house or fort. BC was fun to be with and we did a lot of fun stuff like walking in the woods, going fishing, making forts, swearing, shooting arrows with bows, smoking cigarettes, drinking stolen alcohol, spying on our sisters, boy stuff. I guess I felt honoured to have an older boy spend time with me. And I was such an insecure little kid I would have done anything anyone older than me told me to do.
So I did. He did not physically force me but he must have asked and saying “no” would not have even popped into my immature little brain. So, at his instruction I used to regularly go into the tent, undress him, get on my knees and put his erect penis into my mouth and with his verbal guidance and probably some help from his right hand, (as I’m sure I was not very good at it) bring him to orgasm. During the act he always regaled me with tales of the last girl he had felt up. After 50 years I still remember the name of his favourite girl (her initials were CH). I don’t remember if I swallowed or got any on my face. I do not recall if I felt any sexual arousal. Maybe it was just another simple and not unpleasant chore like putting out the garbage or mowing the lawn.
I do not feel remotely scarred by what happened. I do not recall feeling badly, or frightened, or violated at the time it happened. It did not feel particularly unnatural. Maybe I thought it was some kind of game boys play. And when I reflect on it now (which I seldom do) I don’t have any negative feelings. My heterosexual development was within normal limits regarding my sexual appetite and performance, or any other metric I can think of. And while I completely embrace homosexuality (including being a strong supporter of gay marriage) I feel no homosexual desires and do not recall ever having had such urges. Similarly, I do not find the idea of being with a man repulsive. In fact the opportunity of giving pleasure to one’s fellow homo sapiens of any gender is a very wonderful thing to do and may trump other factors.
So I guess the questions for me are: Why did this not have a greater (or any) impact on me? Am I a latent homosexual? Was the bond of trust between me and BC just not powerful enough to produce consequences when it was broken? Or has it had an impact and I’m just not aware of it? Maybe I would have been a better husband, a better father, a better brain surgeon had these things not happened. I’ll never know and I’m not going to lose a minute’s sleep over it. And I almost never think about it. I’m not even sure why I wrote this piece except maybe to convey to others like me: “You’re not weird if childhood sexual abuse did not screw up your life”. I guess that’s why.
Mark Bernstein is a neurosurgeon at the Toronto Western Hospital and Professor of Surgery at the University of Toronto. He and his wife Lee (a native Los Angelina) have three daughters and two pet Labradors. He has written extensively in the medical literature for over 25 years and for the last few years has been trying his hand at non-medical writing. He is the world’s second worst saxophone player.