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“How Could He Just Stand There?”

I was a 14-year-old on the edge of rebellion when I fell for Juan. I thought it was love. But then one night two of his friends raped me, and he did nothing to stop them.

By Amanda Pagliarini Published Tuesday, October 20, 2009

>> Pagliarini will chat live about her story on Wednesday, October 28, at 11 AM. You can submit questions in advance here.

>> As part of this article, we are offering articles on help for rape victims and resources for parents of troubled children.

I’m in bed replaying the dream in my mind. I hadn’t thought about Juan in years, but there he was, apologizing to me and my father.

I reached for my laptop and typed his name into Facebook. I didn’t expect to find him—he has a common last name, and I had no idea where he lived. But because we have a mutual friend, he appeared at the top of my search.

My stomach flipped as I looked at his profile picture. I could see in his eyes the 14-year-old I remembered. I’d always wondered what had happened to him. Though I didn’t know him very long, he’d had a lasting impact on my life. And I still had questions for him.

Without pausing to think about what I was doing, I clicked on “Add as Friend” to submit a request to communicate through Facebook. Hours ticked by, then days. Maybe he was a sporadic Facebook user. Perhaps he was afraid to face me. Maybe he’d forgotten me.

We had met in eighth grade, during first-period science class at Lake Braddock Secondary School in Burke. Juan was your typical bad boy—reckless, combative, dismissive of authority. He was good-looking, wore baggy jeans, and walked with a swagger—all of which made him irresistible to girls teetering on the edge of rebellion. Girls like me.

We began our courtship as most eighth-graders do, talking on the phone after school. Usually I wore his necklace, a symbol that I was his. But when we fought or weren’t speaking, other girls would flaunt his necklace and I would seethe with jealousy.

I found him in every song on the radio, saw the two of us in every love story in the movies. During the day, we talked about teenage things, but in whispered phone calls in the middle of the night he’d tell me how lost he felt in his chaotic home.

I had been adopted as an infant and handed a life of comfort and opportunity. I grew up in a nice house in a nice Burke neighborhood and had taken part in the standard suburban activities—dance, swim team, Girl Scouts.

I had always been told that I was full of potential. But as I entered my teenage years, that blessing began to feel like a burden. My parents, and occasionally my teachers, didn’t seem satisfied with me unless I was one of the best students, one of the best dancers. When I got a B on my report card, my father reacted as though I’d come home in the back of a police car.

Juan didn’t like to talk about his father, who had left the family when Juan was young. His mother was remarried to a man who drank and who silenced her with the back of his hand. He and Juan had a distant relationship, but you could feel Juan’s anger bubbling beneath the surface.

Each time I called his house, a different person seemed to answer, another person appeared to have moved in. Whether Juan went to school or not was of little concern to his family. When he did go, most teachers considered him unreachable.

He talked casually about drinking, smoking pot, and sneaking out in the middle of the night. I was intimidated at first, but I wanted to be part of his world.

My parents discouraged my relationship with Juan. When I defied them, our small battle grew into an all-out war.

My straight A’s became C’s and D’s. I complained about having to go to dance class. I snapped over what we were having for dinner. Irritated by my mother’s never-ending questions, I once grabbed a knife off the counter, demanding to be left alone. Looking back, it’s as if I had temporarily morphed into another person.

I lived with opposing thoughts: They want too much from me; they don’t want enough from me. I want them to be proud of me; I want them not to pay so much attention to me. “They” were my parents, teachers, dance instructors, sometimes my friends. Everyone except Juan.

My parents blocked his home phone number so he couldn’t call. Every time he called me from a pay phone, my parents had that number blocked—until the phone company told them they’d reached their limit of ten blocked numbers.

One day I decided I wasn’t going home after school. I called a cab from a friend’s house, and when it arrived I yelled out to my friends that my mom was there to pick me up.

Juan met me where the cab dropped me off. As we walked back to his house, he offered me a piece of gum. I remember feeling moved by the offer.

We played Nintendo, ate Fruity Pebbles, and cuddled under a blanket. While I delighted in playing house, my parents began a frantic search.

They knew I was with Juan but didn’t know where he lived. After some pleading phone calls to Juan from my father, my mother’s best friend called his house pretending to be someone from the gas company. Whoever answered gave her a street name but not the address. My father went door to door asking for Juan. When he finally reached the house, they looked at each other for the first and only time. Juan returned to the basement after denying he knew where I was. When the cops came and retrieved me an hour later, I was crushed.

I pulled up my sleeves, exposing bruises on my arms, and pointed to more on my legs. I told the police: “My dad did this to me, and that’s why I ran away from home.” In truth, those bruises were from Juan. He didn’t beat me—it was more like playful roughhousing. He treated me like one of the boys, and I laughed through things that made me uncomfortable and sometimes even scared me.

I wrapped my arms around myself, stroking the bruises as one of the two police officers backed my father up against the car. The cop told my dad he would be filing a report of suspected child abuse. I begged the other officer to let me stay at Juan’s house, but they put me in a car with my father and sent me home.

It was a warm night in late May 1996, near the end of eighth grade, when I tiptoed down the stairs, out the back door, and through a wooded area to the next street over, where Juan and two of his older friends were waiting for me in a beat-up red Honda. Juan opened the back door, and I jumped in.

I had met the driver at Juan’s house. He was about 19 and dated a girl who was a year ahead of me at school. The first time I met him, he took his girlfriend by the arm into the laundry room in the basement. He returned with her about 20 minutes later; she was quietly crying.

I drank from the oversize beer bottle handed to me as we drove around Burke, pausing to pick up my friend Brandy and then continuing on to the house of another girl from school. We all sat in her living room and got high, passing around two blunts of marijuana.

The girl’s mother yelled from her bedroom about the smoke, and we went back to the car. Brandy hugged me goodbye and walked home. As we continued driving around, I noticed it was quieter. An odd feeling washed over me, sending a prickly flush over my body.

“Is this where I get raped or something?” I joked.

Posted at Tuesday, October 20, 2009 | By Amanda Pagliarini

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Comments

Wow, what an amazing and brave story. I started in the Dentist office and had to come home and look it up to finish. Thank you for sharing. Your point of view is very insightful.

Posted by: Heather, Jan 28, 2010 11:08:38 AM

Amanda, I am so glad that I read your article, I went through some of the same thing when I was younger. I have gone through counseling (even though not complete), but I didn’t cry once (which is a good thing). You and I use to work together in Tysons and I use to always think that you had everything together, but you never know about people until you sit down and talk to them or in your case read the article. Thank you so much for the courage to right such a wonderful article.

Posted by: Blossoming Flower, Dec 26, 2009 04:25:54 PM

The first thought that came to my mind when reading this article was, “thank you, Amanda”. Parts of the article made me twinge with being uncomfortable, and even thinking self-righteously. In the back of my mind, I too, questioned some of the decisions made by the author, but then I remembered. I was once in her shoes, years older, but still as insecure and naïve. I am a survivor of being raped on my college campus during my freshman year. I used to have so many pre-conceived stereotypes of which girls got raped – they had to be petite, pretty, but provocatively dressed, and walking down a dark alley by themselves. Wow, did learn that there are absolutely no stereotypes when it comes to rape, first, I was totally opposite of all those, and secondly, the first “victim” I assisted (when volunteering as an advocate at the local Crisis Center) was a young male. I also knew those involved in my rape, they were “friends” of my boyfriend and I trusted them. During the rape, I remember crying out to one that I could identify, “please, help me!”, and his comment was, “I’m not doing anything to you”. Just standing there watching, is what he considered doing nothing to me. I described it as being killed, yet still breathing. It may only make sense to those who have been hurt this way, but I was no longer the person that lived prior to that night. Twenty-one years later, it is still with me; however, it is something I don’t let control me. I was fortunate enough to have a wonderful support group of friends and a Crisis Center who helped me to gain strength from it versus letting it defeat me.
On the issue of reporting it, I was already in such a bad place that I couldn’t even imagine standing up for myself. I did go to the Dean of Students about a week later, at the encouragement of my roommate, and I told them what happened and who was involved. Unfortunately, I was quickly told that it really wouldn’t matter if I decided to press charges because I should keep in mind that “those who I was accusing were school athletes, and not only would it come down to their story versus mine”, the school would probably “fund their legal defense”. I was kicked in the gut again, they brought in more revenue to the school then I did, I suppose. I was sent to the campus doctor, given some antibiotics and told to wait and see if I ended up pregnant. I walked around numb for the next month and a half left before summer break. I was ready to go home and put it all behind me, I would be safe from it at home. No one would know. It didn’t go away though, and I had to go back for my sophomore year. I went back angry and guarded, but finally was able to speak about it to people who understood. I regained my control and my strength. Obviously, I have shortened so much to my story, but I will close with how I started – “thank you, Amanda”.

Posted by: JM, Dec 05, 2009 10:47:36 AM

Judge not, lest you be judged. Everyone handles situations differently. It’s easy to second guess someone when you aren’t in the situation. If this article helps one person, if it saves one person from being raped, if it teaches one person that they are worthy and don’t deserve to be mistreated, then the writer’s painful sharing would not have been in vain. I believe that the author has matured, but still has years of living and growing ahead of her. This is a first big step. Her parents are kind, gracious and loving people. They have experienced a great deal of pain in their lives, but their faith and love has strengthened and kept them. Bravo to you all.

Posted by: Vangie, Nov 03, 2009 01:12:23 PM

I have to agree with the comments made by the woman who is angered by the judgement of some who believe that the victim of rape has an obligation to report the crime to protect others. While that is obviously the "perfect scenario" I think laying the guilt at the feet of the victim who chooses not to report the crime ignores the more important fact - that many women don’t report these crimes because of the fact that in our current justice system THEY are often held up as the criminal. Especially in a situation such as this one where a defense attorney would clearly go after the victim as having somehow "asked for it" because of her previous behavior. Until we fix our judicial system to where NO MEANS NO and the victim is protected we will have a situation like this one where criminal rapists go scott free.

Posted by: anne, Nov 02, 2009 10:09:51 AM

I have read this article several times and I am left both troubled and frustrated. Some might find my comments off base but please allow me to express my feelings.

I can only imagine that putting pen to paper was a cathartic experience for the writer and in turn, I hope she is further along in her healing process by doing so. She wasn’t the first and certainly will not be the last sheltered, privileged young girl from the DC suburbs who is intrigued by a handsome, not-so-privileged bad boy. This area is quite diverse in a myriad of ways. Unlike the vast majority of rape victims, the writer had a window of opportunity. She had options and she did not exercise them. Just like the drunk college coed who found herself in a compromising situation, does the writer, deep down, question herself and the role she played in this terrible scenario? Is that why she won’t name names? On the stand, testimony by the driver, passenger, and "Juan" describing her actions that evening would certainly not present her as a helpless victim and this nightmare that has plagued her life would continue.

I have gone from wondering why The Washingtonian would print this article to thinking it is "must-read" for middle and high school students. This is a lesson in making good choices and how some wrong choices can have life-long effects. My heart goes out to the writer. While she states otherwise, I am not convinced that she hasn’t thought of "Juan", that ill-fated night, and her poor choices that led up it everyday of her life. I hope she is truly "happy and free" as she states as she concludes her article.

Posted by: GRW, Oct 31, 2009 11:10:38 AM

While I understand Amanda’s choice to not name her rapists, it frustrates me to think that this man is out there possibly raping other women. Clearly Amanda went through a terrible time after being raped, and I’m happy to hear that she seems to be doing well now. Hoever, I’m sure that she doesn’t wish the pain and suffering that she endured on another girl or woman.
There’s a HUGE difference between naming and prosecuting one’s attacker. Naming him might make the police think about him as a suspect in other cases where he might match a description of another woman’s rapist.
While it is a survivor’s choice to talk about a rape, not doing so is at least to some extent a selfish decision.

Posted by: M, Oct 28, 2009 01:48:01 PM

To the commenters before me: As a woman who was raped and has chosen not to come forward and name the person who raped me -- in part because of the impossibility of proving what happened due to the situation, and in part because I want no part in the public shaming that results when any woman makes that accusation -- one of the most difficult parts of my recovery was the expectation that I name and prosecute my attacker. I still feel guilty that I have not, as if naming him even when it would be impossible to convict him would somehow save other women. And this guilt comes not from the act itself, but from the condemnation of others who think they know better.

It is not my fault it the guy who raped me rapes other women, any more than it is Amanda’s fault that the driver in her story went on to rape others. Adding this extra burden of guilt to her, me, or any other rape victim contributes to the already difficult process of healing. It is the survivor’s choice, and you should respect it.

Posted by: C, Oct 28, 2009 10:30:53 AM

I know how hard it is to tell a story from your youth that may be negative or embarassing or life-changing. I applaud Amanda for being able to write about it here.
What I don’t applaud is that nowhere in this article does she suggest that other women who have been raped should report it. Perhaps the woman you saw on TV did not have a similar experience as you, and fully believed that the person who raped her should be in jail, as should every rapist out there. Your incident was rare, most rapes don’t really happen as a bunch of teenagers hanging out with the wrong crowd -- they are much more violent and serious, and perhaps you found it easier to get over because it happened to you in 8th grade. Women need to know that they can feel confident in reporting rape and seeking help. Not hiding from it and then trying to get over it with therapy and ignoring the people who caused the pain.
Another important part is the fact that you were sent to essentially a mental institution and put on drugs. I faced a similar situation when I feel into a pattern of reckless behavior as a kid. Parents need to understand that this isn’t necessarily the answer. Therapy, hanging out with the right people, and full family support can sometimes make a big big difference.

Posted by: W, Oct 28, 2009 08:16:12 AM

While I applaud the author for sharing her story, I’m sort of disgusted she hasn’t reported the men who raped her, knowing that they have since done it to other women. It has nothing to do with forgiving them, she should just do the right thing to ensure that the cycle does not continue.

Posted by: Dani, Oct 28, 2009 06:15:13 AM

Could the "driver" still be out there doing the same thing to other women? Does Amanda have the power to help protect someone else who may go through what she did? Reporting it could be the right thing to do; maybe not for peace for yourself, but to protect someone else.

Posted by: MC, Oct 28, 2009 04:49:17 AM

Wow. This is a moving and intimate account, and I applaud Amanda for writing it! I can’t imagine what it must feel like to know that people think you should feel or act a certain way when something like this happens. As Amanda proves, it’s not ever simple.

Posted by: Rachel, Oct 27, 2009 11:00:11 AM