The me too Movement started in the deepest, darkest place in my soul.As a youth worker, dealing predominately with children of color, I had seen and heard my share of heartbreaking stories, from broken homes to abusive or neglectful parents, when I met Angel. Ten years ago during an all girl bonding session at our youth camp, several of the girls in the room shared stories of sexual abuse at the hands of family members, acquaintances and even strangers. Just as I had done so many times before I sat and listened to the stories and comforted the girls as needed. When it was over the adults advised the young women to reach out to us in the event that they needed to talk some more or needed something else and then we went our separate ways.The next day a little girl who had been in the previous night's session asked to speak to me privately. Angel was a sweet-faced little girl who kind of clung to me throughout the camp. Her light, high-pitched voice betrayed her high-strung, hyperactive behavior and I was frequently pulling her out of some type of situation. However, as she attempted to talk to me something about the look in her eyes sent me in the other direction. She had a deep sadness and a yearning for confession that I read immediately and wanted no part of. Finally, later in the day, the baby caught up with me and almost begged me to listen and I reluctantly conceded. For the next several minutes this child, Angel, struggled to tell me about her stepdaddy or rather her mother's boyfriend who was doing all sorts of monstrous things to her developing body. I was horrified by her words, the emotions welling inside of me ran the gamut, and I listened until I literally could not take it anymore which turned out to be less than 5 minutes. Then, right in the middle of her sharing her pain with me, I cut her off and abruptly directed her to another female counselor who could help her better.I will never forget the look on her face.I will never forget the look because I think about her all of the time. The shock of being rejected, the pain of opening a wound only to have it abruptly forced closed again - it was all on her face. And as much as I love children; and as much as I cared about that child, I could not find the courage that she had found. I could not muster the energy to tell her that I understood, that I connected, that I could feel her pain. I could not validate her sense of self worth and find the strength to say out loud the words that were ringing in my head over and over again as she tried to tell me what she had endured. I watched her walk away from me and I couldn't even bring myself to whisper...me too.
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