A Real Nightmare on Elm Street…and why women don’t speak up

Warning: This post contains information about child molestation. It may not be suitable for all readers. 

August 2017. My husband and I did what we often do when we find ourselves back in our hometown of Denver, Colorado: drive around checking things out.

It’s always interesting to see the growth and changes. I don’t even know how we ended up over by Eisenhower Park. That’s not one of the areas we always check out when we’re home.

I think it happened because we took a different way down Colorado Boulevard after leaving my dad’s girlfriend’s house.

I don’t know if Wayne wanted to drive by the park, if I did, or if it was a mutual decision. But there we were and I started recognizing landmarks I hadn’t seen in decades.

I knew we were near the school where I’d attended kindergarten. Was it still there? Could I find it?

Somehow we did.

And then I recognized it. The street. The street the babysitter’s house had been on.

The Street

I asked Wayne to drive down it. I was curious if I’d recognize the house.

I didn’t. I have an inkling of which one it might be, but I can’t be sure.

We got to the intersection at Yale and I looked up, curious what the street name was. Maybe I could use Google Maps to go back and take my time trying to figure out which house it had been.

“Wait!” I shouted out when I saw the street name.

Wayne could’ve turned. It was clear.

“What?”

“I have to get a picture of this.”

“Of what?” he asked. As far as he could see, there was nothing picture-worthy in sight.

And really there wasn’t. This was just for my own personal record. I wanted a photo of the street sign. As unremarkable as it might be. Because it could be from almost any American city.

But I couldn’t believe it. One of my all-time favorite horror movies is A Nightmare on Elm Street. 

Who knew the nightmare I’d lived all those years ago also happened on Elm Street?

Circa 1975

I don’t remember much about how the minutia of how life worked before I was five. I remember glimmers of events that must’ve been pivotal moments, but as far as going to and from school and that sort of thing…no, I couldn’t tell you how it all worked.

So maybe I’d always been going to that daycare on Elm Street. Which was really just a lady’s house on the same block just down the street from the school where my mom had enrolled me in kindergarten.

I don’t remember the daycare lady’s name. I don’t even remember the school’s name. It’s now called Bradley International School. Maybe it’s always been called Bradley something, though I’m sure it was called elementary school when I went there.

I do remember the names of two other little girls who were in that daycare with me: Christine and Gigi.

I adored Christine. I considered her my best friend. She was a pretty blond girl with a sweet disposition.

I despised Gigi. She was a threat to my friendship with Christine. She had beautiful dark hair that maybe Christine liked to play with? I don’t know. I just knew Christine liked he –better than me, I feared– so I didn’t play well with Gigi and was very mean to her. I’d shut her out of games every chance I got.

There was also a little Chinese boy who came into the picture later. I don’t remember his name. He was younger than the rest of us. He was probably three. We were five. 

There was also one other player involved at this daycare. I don’t remember his name either. The babysitter’s son.

The Babysitter’s Son

He was much older than us. I believe he was 14 and in high school. I’m fairly sure about the high school part. I’m less sure about his exact age, other than he was a teenager.

The babysitter’s house was very modest. Small and humble, yet functional. I’m not even sure what the style was called. It was likely built in the early 1950s. (I looked on real estate for sale sites in the University Hills area and picked similar looking homes to see if they named a style. Listings call it “Other.” But they also listed “Year Built” and they were all coming up 1950s.)

Anyway, I’m not sure how many bedrooms total there were. Maybe three? I know we all laid down for naps in one room. I’m assuming the babysitter had her room. Her son’s bedroom was downstairs.

That’s one place I never went. Well, the basement, yes. Sometimes us girls played down there.

But I never went alone with him into his bedroom –even though he, and my friends, tried to get me to.

Haunted by What Was Behind The Door

What happened behind his closed door?

I’m actually pretty curious by nature, and I hate —HATE— feeling left out or like I’m missing out on anything, so it’s kind of amazing I never went behind that door.

But I knew it must be bad. Worse than the other stuff.

Oh yes. The other stuff. 

We went to school half days for kindergarten. We’d come home, have lunch, then take naps. 

It was during nap time he’d come home from school. I don’t know why he was able to come in the room. We were usually awake, or just waking up, by then.

Maybe he told his mom he’d check on us for her and get us up? I don’t know.

All I know is that’s when he’d “play” with us. And not with our Barbies or toys.

I don’t remember when it started. I just remember once it did, it happened over and over. Not daily. But usually several times a week.

Even worse, he knew how much I hated Gigi. He’d use that against me.

He’d pit us all against each other for our chance for him to come taste our “perfume.” (I’m not going to go into any more specifics than that, but I’m sure this gives you an idea of what was happening.)

I also don’t remember if it was Gigi or Christine who first went with him into his room and closed the door, but I remember them forever after that saying, “You have to go see what’s behind the door. He has something very special to show you.”

Like I said, I don’t know what happened when he took them in there individually. I never went.

I remember regretting it. Because I wanted to know.

But there was a loud, bossy part of me that adamantly overruled my curiosity: “No. Uh uh. Absolutely not. You do not need to know! It’s bad. Bad dangerous bad. Bad, bad, bad. The kind of bad you can never take back.”

And even though Christine and Gigi would giggle and encourage me to go, I saw something in their eyes. It was bad. Disturbing bad. I got the sense they wanted me to join the Behind the Door Club to validate that they had done it and it was okay, because then we all had. So they wouldn’t be alone.

But that’s something else I’ll never know.

And I guess to the babysitter’s son’s credit, at least he never forced me to find out. He easily could’ve picked me up and carried me in there. I’m grateful that didn’t happen either.

The Police Officer 

One day a police officer came to speak to our kindergarten class. Or maybe the whole school? I don’t really remember.

I just remember he was among the special guests we’d have come in telling us what to do. The dentist came and told us how to brush our teeth. The firemen came and told us what to do in case of fire.

Then here was the police officer telling us what to do to stay safe –and what to when we were in trouble.

 As far as exact words, I’m not sure what he said exactly. But he did allude to the fact that if we were ever touched inappropriately to tell an adult.

I didn’t necessarily think what the babysitter’s son was doing was bad. Sadly, I enjoyed the attention.

It makes my stomach churn to admit that, but I’ve learned that’s part of the problem with child molestation and sexual abuse. The abused often finds pleasure in it too. The same way I might’ve if I’d been “experimenting” with someone of the opposite sex my own age. You’re curious. You’re exploring. You don’t realize it’s bad.

Until someone explains that it is. Like the police officer did.

The Tell

I went home that afternoon determined to do the right thing: tell an adult. The one in charge of me at that moment, the one who was supposed to care for me, was the babysitter.

I don’t remember exactly when I did it that day. During lunch? After
naptime during snack?

I do remember food was involved. And I clearly remember what I was eating, because I used to love them: raisins.

This is the day I developed an immediate and intense aversion to them. And I’m convinced this is why. (Though if you’d asked me that before my 30s, I would’ve told you I always hated raisins. Couldn’t stand the things. It wasn’t until this suppressed memory burst forth that I made the connection.)

Anyway, we were seated at the counter, Christine, Gigi and I. Our babysitter was on the other side in the kitchen.

“Your son is touching us,” I said. I’m sure in that blunt and honest way kids do at that age.

I’ll never forget that moment.

Time stood still. The air got heavy. Dense with tension.

The babysitter stopped. Stood completely motionless. I’ll never forget what happened next.

“What on earth are you talking about, Courtney? I don’t have a sun (that spelling is deliberate). The sun belongs to the whole world.”

I was confused for a second. I looked over at Christine and Gigi, who were not looking at me. Their eyes were cast firmly down.

Then I realized she thought I’d said “sun.”

“Not the sun in the sky. Your son.”

“I just told you I don’t have a sun.”

“No!” I yelled, frustrated. Why was she acting stupid?

That’s when I said his name. Which I still don’t remember. I was hoping this would help draw it out. All that’s coming to me is I believe her last name was Robinson. But I also can’t be sure of that.

Do you know what she did next?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

She didn’t respond to me at all. She completely ignored me.

And that was that.

Until I told my mom…

My Mother’s Reaction

This is the part that breaks my heart. If I had one wish, it would be to go back to this point in time as my adult self and rescue my five-year-old self.

I’d wrap her in a hug and time warp her back her with me, where I could shower her with all the love and encouragement she craved and was denied back then.

I don’t know how much longer after the telling the babysitter incident it was that I told my mom. It could’ve been that same night. It could’ve been the next day or the weekend or even the next week.

I don’t know. Time didn’t move then like it does now. It was more fluid, less tracked.

Now any normal kid might’ve spoken right up that day when they got picked up. If they felt comfortable talking to their mom.

My mom was not very approachable.

And the babysitter’s reaction confirmed what my gut already knew: this was a Big Deal.

My mom didn’t respond to Big Deals well. She was likely going to blame me. I couldn’t have vocalized that back then, but I knew.

But the police officer had said to tell an adult.

“Adults will help you. That’s what our jobs are.”

So I knew I was going to tell her. I picked a dressing room to do it.

Were we both trying on clothes? Was just she trying on clothes and I was in the room next to her? I don’t remember.

But that’s when I said, “Mom, Mrs. Robinson’s son is touching us and not the son in the sky. [Insert whatever his name is here.]”

I wanted to be perfectly clear this time since from my other attempt it appeared I didn’t know how to pronounce “son” vs. “sun” properly.

She didn’t say anything. Nerves made me continue:

“He’s doing stuff to us he shouldn’t. That’s what the police officer said. And we should tell an adult. But Mrs. Robinson wouldn’t listen.”

The air grew thick like it had when I’d confronted Mrs. Robinson.

Silence. There was nothing but silence.

I’m fairly sure other people were in the dressing room of whatever store we were in. I’d heard the noises that accompany trying on clothes coming from other parts of the room before I’d spoken.

Now? Nothing. Just that pure silence that follows the crash of a major bomb having been dropped.

What would you have done in this situation? Or maybe you’ve been in such a situation. For the love of God I hope not. 

If you haven’t, perhaps you’re imagining how you would’ve reacted, what you would’ve said.

Ignored

Here. Right here. This is when I would swoop in and steal little me to the future.

Because my mom said nothing.

Well, nothing you might hope a parent would say.

Shopping time was immediately over. She told me to shut up. We’d discuss this later. “We’re leaving.”

I assumed that meant we’d talk about it in the car. I had gotten her attention. That I knew.

She was furious. Which wasn’t unusual or unexpected. I’d anticipated that. She was always mad it seemed. 

Now some might read that as, “Of course she was furious. Her five-year-old daughter just told her she was being sexually molested.”

No. That’s not why she was mad. I’d inconvenienced her.

She hustled me out of the store berating me, “I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life. Honestly, Courtney, you will be the death of me. You’re going to have to learn what you can say in public and what you can’t.”

And that was it. 

No Justice

I never saw any confrontation. I never saw my mom –or dad, who honestly I don’t even know if he ever knew about the babysitter’s son– take up for me.

I was not immediately pulled from the daycare. My mom waited for school to end when she could get me in a YMCA summer camp. The next school year I was enrolled in a private school with in-school after school daycare. (In which I also saw molestation, but was not the victim of it that time.)

The babysitter limited her interaction with me to the bare basics.

Gigi and Christine were never the same with me either. And I never saw them again once I left that daycare.

I actually had forgotten all about of this until years later. Almost two decades later, in fact, when I was sexually harassed at a job, once again spoke up, and was once again ignored. My claims minimized. It was even suggested I was too blame for being “too friendly and nice.”

So I get it. I understand why women don’t speak up more. 

Even when we do, we’re often not heard. Or telling our stories is made so difficult, or to look so trivial (like what’s happening with the Brett Kavanaugh claims) as to discourage us.

The Accused are Not the Victims

I didn’t care to share my story when Cosby was accused. Or Weinstein. Or Nassar. Or any accused Catholic Priests. Or any of the others that have since become “victims” of the #MeToo Movement.

Victims. There’s a disgusting concept for you.

Their lawyers, other men, people shocked and unwilling to believe the accused could be capable of the foulness they’re accused of like to portray these men as having had something taken from them.

Which was what? Their right to abuse their positions and power to prey on women to satisfy their perversity?

More power to the women who first started speaking up and saying, “No more. Wrong is wrong and you will listen to me.”

That’s why I’m sharing my story now. I watched the way those “for” Brett Kavanuagh, Cosby, Weinstein, Nassar, the Priests, et al. have attacked and wanted to silence those who finally remembered (in the cases where they’d suppressed it) and finally spoke up.

Who finally said, “Oh my God. This was wrong. Do you not see that?”

Because make no mistake. The act is wrong, but ignoring it, covering it up, and otherwise not addressing it is, too.