Thursday, March 8, 2012
For those joining now......this post is a continuation of my story . Check it out on the navigation bar.
6:03 am est
Reporting the abuse. Seeking help.
Subpoenaed for the court
Suffering still. Seeking
records. Seeing records.
Seeing in disbelief the March 16th form—the form about which I was
brutalized-- filled out the very next day. March 17th. Neat and
tidy lie after lie. My name, prominent on the March 17th form. My name.
Over and over as evidence. My name and my work used as evidence for things that DID NOT HAPPEN.
Me. Sick at heart.
ME. Outrage growing.
me. In disbelief that my district’s investigation held neither him nor his followers accountable for
submitting in writing on official documents that we/I had presented to students, parents, and faculty on Sundays.
“Of course that’s a lie!” I
said to myself. “Of course he will have to explain that!” He did. My school district, one of the largest in the nation, allowed this man and his team to say--and
these are my words-- “Oops! We didn’t really mean Sundays! We meant--oh what the hell-- Wednesdays!”
Stunning. Awful. A first slap in the face for me; a “sit straight up” moment of
So this is how it is. So this is what I am up against.
Ah. Pull out the sling shot.
Goliath is coming.
This then is me fitting the rock into the sling; pulling it back; letting
the rock fly. This is me keeping things straight. This is my best shot. This is the
sling shot of truth.
Here is the shot. It was
a lie. Almost everything on the March 17th form was a lie. I, in detail, gave hard evidence.
Work claimed to have been done on Sundays—work that in truth was not done at all on any day—was just a
piece of the solid evidence of the audacious “I-can-do-anything-I-want-and-get-away-with-it’ attitude and common
practice of my former school.
Here is more truth. There
has been so much protection wrapped around this man that many at many levels are culpable.
Oh! I am laughing now! As I read the “next layer boss’” testimony; as my eyes
take in his written words....as I see him in my mind’s eye, standing right outside my abuser’s office, alone.
He watched me enter. He heard the screams. How pathetic he writes that he visited my
former school five times in two months and cannot remember me entering that day: cannot remember my brute’s words.
Cannot remember me being there. Period.
Throw me to the lion, “next layer boss.” Join the cheering blood thirsty others. Oh, but you dear “next layer boss” and your presence that day, are seared on my brain like a cattle brand.
I thought you and I had a rapport! I thought, with your surprising question to me months
before, “Ms. Werner, are you happy here?” that there was a chance of honor. I thought with
my answer, “No, I am not,” then that inner voices might speak to you now.
happening again,” the voice of the kindergarten teacher of 2008 might admonish.
“Do something! Help her!” the voice of another former victim and cancer survivor
“YOU COWARDLY PIG!” might boom the voice of the targeted
former detention supervisor.
I thought your own voice might
cut through. I thought your own voice might have you say simply, “Enough.”
You, at least, admit my brute’s voice was raised. Thank you for that.
Your words, however, are cowardly. “I do not know with whom he was speaking or the content
of the conversation,” you write.
oh dear “next-layer- boss", you know it was me. Of that I am certain.