Chuck Gorman, Evansville, IL

 Today I’m going to tell you about my Uncle Chuck.

He married my aunt when I was an infant. He fathered two of my cousins so well that there is not a single family group picture—father, mother, daughters— in which they smile.

He taught my young cousin and equally young self how to use Vaseline to lessen the pain of him penetrating us more than 40 years ago. He scratched our bodies with his mustache and fell asleep with his leg thrown over us so that we couldn’t get our pink frilled nightgowns printed with cartoon characters back on.

He’s the reason I don’t like stand-alone mustaches to this day. That I had a gag reflex to body musk or got claustrophobic when a leg was across me for any reason for years. That I cannot stand the word ‘panties.’ He’s the reason I had to work through decades of deep self loathing.

His 17 year old daughter has run away. I was today years old when I found out that he has a 17 year old daughter. Or that he has had unfettered access to your daughters, your nieces, your grandchildren and neighbors for decades and continues to enjoy your respect, your validation, your esteem.

The last I knew, he was deemed unfit and my beautiful, inspiring younger cousin was taken away from him. That was more than 30 years ago, and my own family unit had moved away before then.

I caught a snippet here and there, how when children reached the age at which he no longer found their bodies attractive, he farmed at least one of them out to his equally despicable friends for their pleasure. How he preys upon mentally or developmentally disabled or deeply damaged women with young children, becoming their hero while he preys. Moving on when the pool of children dries up. Moving out of jurisdiction when things get too hot.

So he still wears the same tired, threadbare mask of devoted and devout father, do-gooder, church-goer and volunteer firefighter. Carrying such weight on his shoulders. His wife was ill; was addicted; was declared incompetent. (How many wives have there been?) His daughter was a runaway. Worthless. Is a runaway. Drugs. (How many daughters are there now?) Horrible. Let’s mollycoddle him some more, this victim. This man who preys upon vulnerable women. This child raper.

Language is a funny thing. Molestation indicates unwanted brief touching of one’s person; in essence, to cop a feel. Rape is more forthright. Everyone knows that to penetrate without uncoerced consent is to rape. Why, then, is the rape of a child deemed ‘molestation?’ Rape is rape.

To Katie, I say YOU ARE NOT ALONE. We stand with you, by you, and even before you if you’ll let us. I can’t speak for all, but I know I speak for at least three of us survivors.

To everyone who knows or has known my Uncle Chuck Gorman, this is the man you call neighbor, colleague, acquaintance, friend. We, the human wreckage he’s created, have tried to get justice but it’s clear no-one listened as he is currently at large in Evansville, Indiana, still grooming, still swooping in on human prey.

Perhaps society will care more than officialdom has. If you must judge, judge him. It’s about time someone other than the legion of those he’s harmed does.

Who knows? Maybe you’ll actually be listened to.