Who We Are by McKenna Valdez
Madi and I were sitting in the chapel awaiting excitedly like we did every year,
wondering who our new teacher would be. Would it be the pretty blonde? The grandpa and his
wife who always brought treats? Madi and I sat there, whisper-giggling about who we wanted,
and the one couple we knew we did not want. “She looks like Dracula’s wife, Kenna! Look at her
lips!” We shrieked with laughter that was far too inappropriate for a chapel. We joked about
the Mrs. Dracula, avoiding the obvious topic: Her husband. “He’s literally green Madi… Don’t
you think he looks… dead?”I asked. “Maybe she killed him! Sucked his blood and then brought
him back to life!!” And there we were again, laughing way too inappropriately. Madi and I
shared everything in life, from our Barbies, to our clothes and even our birthday. We looked it
and acted it, but Madi and I were nowhere near twins. We just happened to be sisters, maybe
in one life meant to be twins, but someone messed up on the roll call in heaven or Madi just
missed it. Either way, we ended up with the same birthday, same month, same day, different
year. NOT twins. Who could’ve known at such a young age that our connection would be far
deeper rooted than just a shared birth date?
She went first because of the two year difference. She got the cute blonde. I got
the Dead Man & Mrs. Dracula.
It didn’t take long before I told my mother how uncomfortable the dead man made me
feel. We were at church, but that didn’t change anything – I knew what inappropriate was. I
had wished so badly that someone, anyone was by my side. His wife was in the room, the other Sunday school children were there as well, but nobody was paying close enough attention,
nobody was truly there. Nobody saw as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder, as he
questioned me, “Do you like salty or sweet food, McKenna?” a question that I to this day
cannot get out of my head.
……….
“McKenna?” It was like when the nurse comes out to get you for your doctors
appointment. But I had a feeling this man and his mustache was not the nurse. “McKenna, I’m
Detective Jones, do you mind coming with me?” I looked at my mom. She was upset and I
wasn’t sure why. After my confession of The Guy and how weird I thought he was, I knew
immediately that what I told her was not something she had expected to or ever wanted to
hear from anyone, let alone her young daughter.
A few weeks after my meeting with the-detective-mustache man, mom and I sat across
from Bishop Johnson. He was a good man, a nice man. But like quite a few of them, he was a
clueless man. Good intentions, but quite the lack of proper judgment. “I have spoken with him,
and he is very sorry and confused. He would like to write you a letter to apologize. How does
that sound?” I didn’t want a letter. I didn’t want anything. How could the Bishop let him off so
lightly? Wasn’t stuff like this supposed to make it so the bad guy had to leave? “He has been
released from his calling and will no longer be allowed to teach primary. You know McKenna, I
could take him out back by the dumpster and just beat him up…” I gave a sympathy laugh. I
wish I wouldn’t have done that. I wish I would have stood up, told him to fuck off, and left. Madi’s story didn’t come out for years. My story was brushed under the rug because
after all, there was no evidence, just a lying bastard who wouldn’t fess up.
I recall the times I have heard people disregard abuse, that it was ‘the victims fault’. I
have felt the shame, the embarrassment, the hurt of not feeling like a worthy human. But I am
not alone. I know this now – I didn’t then, but I had had someone all along. I just needed to look
to my side and see her standing there, going through the same struggle, feeling the same hurt,
but standing strong and valiant – because we have a connection and it is not out anguish, our
hurt, or even our abuse; our connection runs far deeper than that, it has made us who we are.
She is a survivor. I am a survivor. WE are survivors, and WE are not ashamed of who we are.
