Origin Story

What unique, but flawed inner- framework would drive a teenager to willfully allow her reputation to be stained in the name of justice? I honestly can’t tell you what made my path so clear, but for better or for worse, there was never one moment where I considered doing anything differently.

If I turned out to be a super-villain, this is what everyone would look to as my origin story. But luckily, I’ve decided, every day since, to use this chain of events for good only.

The devotion I had to my local city’s parks and rec theatre program was right out of the plot of Waiting for Guffman. But no fancy Broadway producer needed to see the shows the Park Players put on to give us credibility— I mean, we signed a professionalism contract before every workshop. And we did manage to make it into the LA Times on several occasions, which isn’t an everyday thing.

My last year in the program, my photo was actually on the front page of the Calendar section, though they thought I was someone else and used her name instead. It would have been funny if they had quoted me though, and I’d come through with some scathing remark. There was so much I could have said if anyone had bothered to ask what it was really like to be part of that program… But as I was about to learn, no one really wants to understand what teens are dealing with. They want to pretend they’re immune to “real life” until they’re 18.

I remember the first day that things were out of the ordinary. I remember every texture of the room; the way the dim fluorescent lights looked, the flat carpet and the stack of mats we weren’t supposed to sit on, but did anyways. I was a newer member of the “teen” company, even though I was only twelve. It was spring semester and I loved the feeling of independence of being dropped off at an “evening” rehearsal- I had found my happy place.

Someone else probably would have stopped loving rehearsals after the night it all started, but it’s not rehearsal’s fault. This could have happened to me anywhere. Only difference is, if I didn’t have theatre as a safety net every minute of learning how to navigate the world through the lens of trauma, I assure you I would not be here today.

I remember those first moments in snapshots; like the movie of my life slowed from 60 frames per second to only five or six. There’s missing time; I have a hard time piecing some of the frames together- especially when I try to understand how I allowed this to happen. I don't mean this in the context of "fault" which I obviously do not claim... I mean it in the context of watching this movie from the outside and seeing how there are so many things that made it impossible to deal with in any other way.

I remember being cognizant of the fact that my teacher would have yelled at me if I interrupted the scene going on onstage.

I remember that I literally lacked any effective language to complain. I had a sneaking suspicion it would be difficult to explain that I did not want anything to happen; I didn’t know the word non-consensual. I had never received any instruction on this subject of consent— not even that cliche speech kids are supposed to get- no one is allowed to touch you in any private place, and go tell an adult immediately. I could not imagine any adult in my life caring or listening to me.

I had no frame of reference for how any teenager in my life would react. I had no context for whether this was an actual punishable crime that any police officer or leader could do anything about.

Every time I had expressed fear or discomfort in my life, I had been told that I simply wasn’t a brave person, and what can I say, I picked a helluva time to try to prove otherwise.

I was literal years from getting my first kiss, and a long time from wanting one. This wasn’t a consensual experience or a milestone, it was a 5 frame per second assault that has lived rent-free in my mind since 1994. The first of many.

It didn’t even cross my mind to tell anyone and I didn’t think about leaving my theatre program.

In fact, I remember signing up for the summer program after that session ended. I don’t know how I showed up each day pretending nothing was wrong.

Maybe it was something like how I lived in a house where I got slapped in the face if I upset my parents and went to a school where I got beaten up several times without a single child being held responsible.

I just remember handling things like a dormant volcano. The feelings were there, but they were shoved down far enough that I wasn't going to be the one to blow up. That is, until I found out I wasn’t the only one.

Prompted by who even knows what, Lucy, a close friend in the program confided about what he’d done to her as well. I had my first #metoo moment - but we didn’t hold hands and vow to get justice. We didn’t tell our teacher or anyone else. This was one quiet conversation that we never revisited.

Weeks later, I lost it backstage. I just started crying. I didn’t say anything, I just started crying and couldn't stop. I tried to step away to calm what was probably my first panic attack, but moments later, our director, Alice Carlin, was standing in front of me.

“Is Joel bothering you again?” she asked simply, as if this was something we had talked about. I was shocked that she knew. She may as well have told me that she had walked on the moon. The world slowed to five frames per second again, long enough for me to question everything I had ever known for sure. If she knew, why had nothing been done? The world came back into full speed and Alice continued talking. “Don’t worry. He’ll be apologizing to you and everything will be just fine.”

I cleaned myself up and went on for act two like a champ— the show must go on, after all.


Joel cornered me after curtain call, “I’m sorry if I did something to hurt you. I’ll try not to do it again,” he said dutifully From a few feet away, Alice Carlin nodded as if our playground squabble could be considered history.

I was appalled at the forced apology and how that was supposed to make things better, but at least it was out there. At least I would get my after-school and summer program back, because obviously Joel was history.

I almost flunked out of school that year. Gained 30 pounds. Thought about ways to kill myself. And somehow thought the remedy was more time at my favorite summer program.

The first week was exactly what the doctor ordered. There was no Joel in sight. But it turned out he had not left the program. He was away at Boy Scout Camp. Seriously, why bother with fiction, because you can’t even make this stuff up…

I wasn’t going to be the one to leave, but I also had zero shock when Joel had not changed. The minute he crossed a line, I maturely and responsibly stood up. No one mentioned the fact that Lucy had left the program after being in every session for more than four years. But that didn’t matter- he was obviously going to get kicked out now. What an idiot, to try to pull something after being caught.

“Joel is touching me again,” I explained, lacking any better terms. The words harassment, abuse, and assault did not exist in my vocabulary.

Alice looked at me like nothing had happened the previous summer. Well, what do you do when this happens? Have you asked him to stop? And then things went from bad to worse.

I pulled Alice aside over and over and she acted like I was complaining about someone stealing my pencil, and did less than someone would in that situation. She encouraged me to deal with it or work it out. We simply did not have time to interrupt our very important production of Meet Me In St Louis to handle this “fiasco”.

Finally, she called a meeting. With our folding chairs in a circle, Alice explained the situation to the cast, only the explanation was muddled. It was more of a lecture - a warning that childish behavior would not be accepted and that we were to behave like professionals. The entire cast knew I was the reason for the talk.

The next week I pulled Alice aside again. This time the cast was assembled for a “skit.” Alice and the admin lady from the rec center did a skit where Alice grabbed her by the shoulders. “Alice. Quit it.” The lady demonstrated calmly, looking at me like an idiot.

Another lecture was given to the cast and an ultimatum that there would be consequences if this childish charade continued.

“I can get someone else to do your part if I need to, Bonnie,” Alice announced. She did not make the same threat to Joel. The cast left, one by one, except Paul, who hung back. He was three or four years older- which was a lot in those days. We weren’t friends and I had no expectation of even the slightest amount of empathy from him, but he gave me a big hug and told me that nothing that was happening was my fault. It was a tiny moment of compassion that I leaned on for years, especially since it was one of the biggest, and only shows of support I received through the whole ordeal.

A final meeting was called the next week. Alice went around the circle asking each cast member, ages 10-18, if they had seen me being “molested” by Joel. 14/15 said no. Then one girl said she saw something, but Alice scoffed, saying that one witness wasn’t enough.

“Slander is a serious crime,” she said, looking me dead in the eye. I didn’t even understand it in context- I had never heard the word. But I knew it was bad and so did the cast. Everyone walked away, seemingly satisfied that I was completely crazy and potentially acting out.

Alice suspended me from rehearsal one day the next week, wanting to be able to get through scenes without disruption. She suggested that my older sisters should come babysit me backstage, but ultimately Joel’s mother was called to serve as a backstage monitor… She clutched Joel to her like he was about to have a car accident every time I passed by. It was a charade of vaudevillian proportions and no one batted an eyelash.

“Are you coming back next year” several people asked me at the cast party. And while I wasn’t dumb enough to return to the program, I did visit the following summer. Sat through three performances in a row of “You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown” in order to watch my “friends” in multiple casts. We exchanged awkward hugs after the show- we weren’t really friends anymore. I hadn’t realized until that moment.

I hugged Alice- I don’t think I blamed her until a few years later. It was more of a feeling of shock- a lack of understanding how a grown-up could be so inept.


“You know, I handled that situation the best I could. I asked a lot of professionals what to do.” She said. I think out of all of my 39 years, this is the moment I’d return to if I had a time machine, if only for a chance to properly respond instead of offering a nod and a smile. Or maybe just so I could punch her in the face.

Nothing ever came of the police “incident” report I filed at the police station across the street from the rec center. Joel received a phone call that likely did not do much. I heard from one of his classmates a year later that he was allegedly suspended from high school one time for masturbating in a school bathroom, but I can’t prove whether he ever inappropriately laid a hand on a woman again.

I had panic attacks and PTSD symptoms for 25 years and finally regained a desire and willingness to date sometime in my mid 30s.

And I did, eventually, confront Joel- having accidentally come across his myspace. Okay fine, I specifically searched for him.

See, I had written one of those letters- the kind they assign in therapy to someone who hurt you. You’re not supposed to send them, but why the fuck not? Why shouldn’t I send it? So I did, not expecting a response.

Joel wrote back a few weeks later- it was a five part response. He said, in capital letters “I BLAME ALICE CARLIN and explained that he had come from an abusive home, dodging any real accountability. He ended his response with a poem he’d obviously pasted in from google. It was some repetitive toxic positivity cliche about choosing happiness in life. If I was a person who broke things in anger, my laptop would not have survived that day.

I wrote back one more time basically telling him the least he could do was take a modicum of responsibility. His final response was slightly better, though not much. The main thing was that I had said what I needed to after speaking out for so long without being heard.

Even in the wake of the #metoo movement, this type of story remains taboo; abuse is already something people insist survivors speak quietly about, but this involved minors, so it’s extra uncomfortable.

How much damage could have been avoided if I had left after that first day? What if I had chalked it up as one traumatic experience? What if I had felt comfortable enough to tell my mother and she had told me it wasn’t my fault, instead of what she did finally react with: "Are you sure this is happening?"

Among other grown-up feelings not normally associated with 13 year olds, I remember discovering the feeling of true outrage.

There was never a universe where I was going to walk out. And I paid a price by staying. But somewhere deep in all the trauma, I have this inner peace of knowing I didn’t let an abusive piece of shit scare me away.

I was scared through this whole experience.

I was scared and hurt and traumatized and I stayed. But by all means, please talk to me about how I lack bravery because I was (and still am) scared of scary things like needles and roller coasters.

I will never fully be able to explain the bravery that it took to survive the summer of 1996 at my local recreation center. And in spite of what it cost me, I wouldn’t leave now either, but I guarantee you, I would have had the abuser out of the program much faster.

This is not my supervillain origin story; This is my activist origin story; My “it’s worth the fight” origin story. I wish it came from something that wasn’t terrible, but that’s not usually how it works, is it?