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Go ahead, Call me a Rat

I remember several years ago I told someone I was gang raped, and I was going to the cops to deal with it. In my neighbourhood this is a huge no no. You never go to the cops, not just because their fucking useless, but more to the point, because it’s crossing the line.

Cops are the enemy in my neighbourhood. Several months ago they put out a story about a man whose life was in danger…a man I know, or at least have met a couple of times. They were warning the public that he was a safety hazard because people were openly shooting at him.

He didn’t talk to the cops then, and I doubt he’s talking now. The point is, we do not go to the cops.

Last year I wrote a post called “To My Family,” at the time I was still busy recovering memories, and I had forgotten that the same men I spent most of my time with, were the same men that used to rape me when we were kids. I had forgotten because my brain was trying to protect me from the massive mind fuck that was coming when I realized why they always seemed so fucking framiller.

I feel this sense of loyalty, because I as a woman, am the only one who can come out. It’s a lot less shameful for a woman to admit to being raped, than it is for men. Or at least that is the constant fucking perception.

What I am doing in my life, trying to heal, trying to grow, writing about being raped, it’s not fucking easy. It’s the hardest thing I have ever done, but I do it because I don’t ever want any girl to go through what I went through. Or boy for that matter.

No one should grow up being groomed to be the kind of men who think that rape is no big deal. No one should grow up being the woman who gets gang raped in some twisted anti Christ ritual. This isn’t what childhood is supposed to be about.

And I stand the fuck alone in my city. Or that’s what I used to think.

When I first started writing this blog I wrote a lot about Krisya Ohana, or what I referred to as my family. The group of boys along with myself who were forced against our will to have sex with each other.

There is a part of me that is so fucking angry they didn’t break the cycle before they raped me again. There is another part of me that feels a sense of loyalty to those children, who were again, forced to have sex with each other against their will.

These two sides of myself are constantly at war with each other, but I know that going to the cops is the right thing. Even if nothing comes out of it, at least I know I crossed the line that prevents me from ever going back to those men again.

There were several years in between seeing each other, so I understand why it took me so long to remember who they were to me, but now that I know, I can’t bring myself to go back.

Several years ago I told a friend of mine that I was going to call Child Social Services on her for being a bad parent – and believe me she was fucking terrible – but I only said that because I needed to end our friendship in a way that was absolutely final. I never made the call, but thankfully someone else did shortly after. It was what needed to happen so I could break the toxic cycle of abuse that I was suffering due to that person being in my life.

It’s the same as going to the cops, I went to report what happened to me, because I needed to break the fucking cycle, and it was one of the scariest most terrifying things that I have ever done it, but on three separate occasions I told a Fireman, and two Police officers what happened to me. On THREE SEPARATE OCCASIONS I made a report about what happened to me in order to break the fucking cycle.

I was drowning back then, and while I am barely treading water now at this moment in my life, it’s still a million miles from where I used to be and I’ll fucking take it. Maybe I’ll survive this maybe I won’t, but what I know without a doubt is that everywhere I go I see people who recognize me from my writing on this blog.

I see it in the people who were Camouflage to remind the world that they are fighting a war we don’t see.

I see it in the women of colour who bow their heads when they see me coming down the street and look up to make sure I noticed, that they bowed their heads. I see this as a sign of recognition and respect, and I am forever grateful for it.

I see it in the eyes of the women who gaze at their daughter, before looking at me and make sure I notice that their daughters are brown and vulnerable too.

I see it in the eyes of the men who step out of my way when they see me coming, and smile when they think I don’t notice. I see it in the way I hold my head a little higher knowing I did everything I could, not to combat gang violence, but gang rape, and if they want to hate me for that then it says a lot more about them than me.

I want to make this very clear. When you call me a rat when you see me in the streets, what you are saying is that you’re actually okay with men who PRETENDED to be Hell’s Angel’s and used that fear to rape children for more than twenty years.

That’s what you’re really saying when you tell me that I shouldn’t talk about what happened to me. And that makes you a fucking goof.

Sending all my love to the Soldiers still fighting, I fucking love you,

Devon J Hall

 

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