I Am A Dancer: From Victim to Victor

By Anita Grace

Anita’s account takes readers though her childhood days of shame and torment to the present, living under the tender grace and mercy of the Restorer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carpenter's Son Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781940262185

Book preview

restoration!

1

Sugar and Spice and Not All Nice

Sitting in a courtroom in early spring with the sun shining brightly, and the cool breeze blowing, felt surreal to me. Am I really here? Am I really doing this? Nothing could have been more absurd. I, Anita, had been chosen to serve as a juror to hear and determine the judgment of a man accused of sexually assaulting a child.

Upon receiving the jury summons in the mail, my heart beat quickened. I knew I would be a part of this trial. I also had a strong sense this case would involve a child. I prayed daily for the judge, lawyers, jurors, everything connected with this trial. This was one of those unique times when the Holy Spirit was going before me and quietly leading me to pray in ways only He can. John 16:13 explains my experience; But when the Friend comes, The Spirit of Truth, he will take you by the hand and guide you into all truth.

I had a holy excitement in my heart as I entered the courthouse on the first morning of jury selection. Many of the people present were put out by having to change their schedules to show up. I’ve never heard so many lame excuses as I did while those twenty people waited in line. They wanted a few minutes each to convince the judge serving on this trial would be too great a hardship on them. I was shocked by the behavior I witnessed in some of those people. I have always considered jury duty a privilege. As the day continued, I was continually shocked by what I heard come out of the mouths of those of us being asked question after question by both attorneys. At this point, we had been made aware of the nature of the case, so attitudes and opinions were flying! One man angrily stated he would not be fair because his son had spent time in prison for raping his young female cousin. The father spewed out his sense of justice by saying this cousin dressed in a manner in which she asked to be taken advantage of. A handful of men agreed girls these days bring trouble on themselves by wearing too much make-up, low-cut T-shirts, tight jeans, and short skirts. These men claimed girls today are just getting what they deserve! Others stated anyone who had committed a crime against a child was guilty, period. The defense attorney asked every possible juror, male and female, to raise their hand if they had ever experienced sexual assault of any kind. He stipulated we as jurors did not personally have to be victims, but simply knowing a friend or family member who was victimized was important.

Almost every hand among the jurors was raised. A wave of grief washed over me. How had this atrocity been allowed to run rampant? I fought to steady my emotions knowing I was in the right place, at the right time, and the Comforter would give me all I needed to be the Lord’s voice in this very trying situation.

Once the jury selections were finalized, we moved straight into the first phase of the trial. I prayed a lot under my breath as I witnessed the evidence presented against the accused. I don’t watch television. Violence and inappropriate material bothers me. Thankfully, I haven’t been desensitized to this kind of crime. I felt the weight of all the evidence and watched as the defense attorney immediately attempted to cover those facts up. I was outraged! Twisting facts and lying is beyond me. We jurors watched the video as the accused told the officer one thing and later in the courtroom contradicted himself and changed his entire story.

Two significant segments of the trial affected me greatly. The first was the testimony of the female victim. She was a young teenager. She was small in stature. She began to cry the minute she sat down in the witness box. The fear emanating from her was almost tangible. My heart broke for her. A few moments passed before I realized I was holding my breath. One thought repeated itself as I sat without moving, This could have easily been me.

FAMILY TIES

I was born during the winter months of 1959 in Wichita, Kansas. My sister was born the year prior. Before my first birthday, my parents moved our growing family to beautiful southern California. Upon arriving in The Golden State, our small family of four moved in with my dad’s parents just long enough for my parents to get jobs and set up their own household. Life continued to move fast as our little family was blessed with the addition of two more precious girls born within two years.

For the most part, my sisters and I were very close friends. We had our little tiffs, but we would make-up quickly and return to being best friends in no time. Honestly, this is as far as I can go with the fairy-tale version of our family story. Adding anymore niceties would be a flat-out lie.

FAMILY LIES

Out of necessity, my sisters and I joined forces to survive the abuse from our dad and grandfather. Our small efforts didn’t amount to much. We still received the insane spankings for real or imagined infractions and were subjected to demoralizing molestation. When everyone around us failed to protect and support us, we knew we could count on each other and only each other. My older sister took the role of the protector among us siblings. She would step in and physically fight off my dad to protect the younger ones. I took on the role of the nurturer. I did my best to make my sisters feel loved and cared for, but our world felt off center. The children were the adults. The adults were worse than children. Nothing made sense, and my father’s alcoholism made home life worse. Family rules changed from one day to the next according to my dad’s needs. My mom remained silent if my dad’s actions didn’t adversely affect her. If my dad decided he wanted to go out on the town and get totally smashed, he would. His behavior conveniently set the standard we all had to adhere to. We had to adapt to his momentary whims. On the occasions when the tables were turned and one of his girls had too much to drink, all hell was unleashed. Lying was punishable by martial law in our family, unless the lie was spoken by a parent. When the latter occurred, the rules were adjusted by my parents to secure their desired outcome. As you can see, hypocrisy ran rampant in our home! So much for clear lines drawn in the sand! My parents looked well put together and appearances were good enough. After all, we never went without the basic essentials. We had food to eat and clothes to wear. Who were we to complain about our parents inconsistencies? We were far more fortunate than the starving, naked children in Africa, so we were told.

SUNDAYS COME AND SUNDAYS GO

Church going was always a little tricky. The sun would dawn on Sunday morning, and the show would begin, let me tell you. We would arrive at church clean as a whistle, dressed in our finest, and ready to play our parts. We, as a family, would all line up in a neat little row on the pew about half way back in the sanctuary. We were very obedient and polite as young girls, especially at church. To be anything but the perfect child would have embarrassed my parents. If an adult spoke to us, we were to politely answer back. If no answer was required in the conversation, we were to remain silent. The complete dominance of adults was drilled into our thinking. The behavior or actions of adults were never in question, only our submission to them. My dad viewed this as respect.

Above all things, his girls would be respectful. Dad, in his unbelievable hypocrisy, would insist we, his daughters, sing at his command. Two of my sisters were shy and this sort of public performance really undid them. They sang just to be spared our dad’s displeasure. We had no way out. How bizarre! The songs my dad chose for us to sing were always the good Christian songs we’d learned at church, not the drinking, cheating songs he enjoyed listening to and would sing at the top of his lungs once we got home. I always thought the drinking, cheating songs were dearer to his heart. Many nights my dad would be too drunk to drive himself home from the bars he frequented, so strangers, mostly women, would enter our house late at night to drop him off. Strange, questionable people knew where we lived. This only added to my feelings of vulnerability. I hated the way it made me feel. Some nights he risked his life and drove himself home. When this was the case, my sisters and I had to clean the vomit from the car before we could drive to school the next morning. As far as I can remember, my dad never took responsibility for his morning mess.

We never told the truth about our dad’s drunkenness. This lie was the most important. We all acted like he was the perfect dad. My mom blazed the trail for us by pretending he was the perfect husband. All was well, as long as we held to the pretense we were the perfect church-going family.

HOW TWISTED NORMAL CAN BECOME

One day, a girlfriend and I decided spying on my dad would be fun. We wanted to find out what he really did. We were convinced he had a girlfriend, or boyfriend, honestly. We never made much progress because we had to follow him on our bicycles. I think back to just how twisted my normal was. You would think with all I’ve just shared that someone would have seen the dark side of my dad and stepped in to help. Sadly, this never happened.

For the most part, my dad was able to hide the fact he was a full-blown alcoholic. Few people at church knew about his drinking. No one knows if the leadership had the courage to step up and challenge my dad about his alcohol abuse. In those days, our church left family problems to the family to sort out. Amazingly, he functioned well at work, despite the debauchery of the night before. A couple of years before I moved out of the house, my dad had racked up a few too many drunk driving tickets. My dad’s