Shielded Eyes

When I was about 11, my older sister had a baby. Suddenly her boyfriend and his family kind of became extended family to me and my family. It wasn't uncommon to see my nephew's father and his father's brother hanging out at our home, and his brother even began dating my babysitter. He was always kinda flashy. I'll call him Tobey. Tobey drove a sweet, small red convertible. He had a cute little puppy. He was dark-skinned and handsome. He reminded me of Eddie Murphy is Boomerang. The handsome fellow with the attractive, pressed clothing. He was also wickedly funny.

Around that time, I was also insanely interested in the news. Rapes, robberies, car accidents, politics, I wanted to see and know about it all. Probably kind of strange for a child that age to be so deeply into watching the news, but even then, I was always extremely interested in the human condition. Anyway, one day, I recall people saying they'd seen Tobey on the news, as I came to understand that he'd been arrested. Naturally curious, I'd ask the adults around me what he'd done, but they always brushed it off. I never got a full answer, and like most kids, at some point I got sick of asking, and eventually forgot about it.

Some point, years later, after Tobey came up in conversation, I asked someone and they told me- he had been arrested for a string of rapes and robberies in Atlanta. There are other identifying things to his crime, but I'm intentionally leaving it out, as I don't want people looking it up and retraumatizing my family. Regardless, I clearly remember those crimes. It was pretty distinctive, and I remember how paralyzing it had been and how terrified women were. The reminders to stay vigilant and lock doors. And the person responsible for those horrible crimes had been the same guy who'd cut my lawn and slid me and my little friends a dollar bill on occasion.

While in grad school, one my assignments was to do an analysis on an individual. We had to assess the person, based on the individual, and they had to be real. I'd been warned for many years not to attempt to do therapy on the people you know, and I'd never fully understood why. Anyway, around this time, I decided that this would be a the perfect time to do an assessment on Tobey. I took the identifying details about the case and Googled him. I saw that he'd filed an appeal, and I read the details of the original case. Even though I was aware of the nature of his crimes, I did not anticipate the difficulty of reading the crimes of a man who I'd come to love and know. Even reading about the streets he'd driven those poor women on, streets less than a mile from my house, which he'd often visit. 

One particular detail was so deeply disturbing that I had I had to put the case down and pick it up in another day or two. It was simply too graphic for me to read. I couldn't help but to envision how terrified that poor woman must have felt, with two men assaulting her. How soul crushing it must have been to have them touching on her genitals and the fear that she'd likely be killed after the experience (none of the victims were killed). My stomach turned. And while I completely center that those women were the ultimate victims, I still felt hurt, betrayed, and heartbroken, knowing what he'd done.

And while that was clearly devastating enough, I couldn't help but feeling a small degree of sympathy for him. I knew a bit about his family dynamic, and I can only imagine what he'd experienced to make him have that kind of hatred in his heart for women. Knowing that he had a mother and sister in his life, but he still did it. I'd read in the documents that they'd almost assaulted one woman, but she began talking about her faith in God and talking about gospel songs and he let her go. 

Some years later, I again decided to visit reading the details of the case. And when I got to the particularly disturbing part, I had to steady and steal myself. I didn't have to walk away for days this time, but I definitely had to stop reading for a moment and take a breather. That man was my family. And he was a monster.

((deep, sad sigh))

I'm mildly keeping up with the Puffy Combs case. While it isn't the first thing I wake up and look at every day, like many people my age, Bad Boy Records music played in the background for much of my development. Puffy and Mase, in those suits, running around. Biggie's murder. Tupac's murder. Total. Carl Thomas. Faith Evans. 112. Black Rob. The list goes on. So I can't say that it's not at least mildly interesting. Plus the only gossip blog that I follow keeps me with the updates.

I woke yesterday and saw that as the testimony from one man stating that he was often paid to have sex with Cassie and that Puff would be in the corner, masturbating. And then his 3 daughters, 18 and 19 year old twins, all got up and walked out. And while I hope that Puffy spends the rest of his eternity burning in hell for his crimes, my heart breaks for those little girls. I'm aware of the duality that his stealing from artists allowed him to fund the lifestyles that those young women will continue to enjoy, an extravagant lifestyle I could only imagine.

But my heart still breaks for what those girls went through. I'm a grown woman, with several years experience, and I still struggled to learn about the details of sexual abuse at the hands of a loved one. It has to be gut-wrenching to watch the world publicly disclose the sexual details of your father's life. Their dad is a monster too. But it doesn't make it any easier.