PRIVACY VIOLATED
I don't remember this incident too well: perhaps it has been too many years since it took place, or perhaps I have tried to block it from conscious memory. Tried, but never succeeded. For while I have never really "thought about It,” I have certainly never forgotten it, either.
Neither have I been successful in understanding it. Why did it happen? What impact has it had on my life? Can I directly attribute any of my future actions to this incident? Many questions; no answers. After forty or more years, no answers.
My childhood and youth spent in Anchorage were nearly idyllic. As a child I loved life there: The snow, the cold, the beautiful "Northern Lights", the warm southern "Chinook" winds in mid-winter, the constant daylight in summer, the constant darkness in winter. This was an unusual locale that fired the childish imagination and gave birth to personal and intellectual freedom. Certainly we children growing up in Anchorage were less
constrained by custom than children growing up in similar sized cities in the "South 48".
Adults in Anchorage - or Alaska in general - were certainly spoilt by the friendly clannishness of our neighbors: It seemed that together we faced hardship in the weather and natural surroundings and as a consequence we were more compassionate with others. Perhaps compassionate is not the right word for this: Locking cars was unheard of; locking your house was only done if you were going away for an extended period of time; you always picked up hitchhikers because they were your neighbors; you never minded hitching a ride because these were your neighbors. The level of trust amongst friends and strangers alike was incredible. And was the topic of conversation by every visitor.
My several trips, as a child, to visit relatives in other states afforded me the opportunity to see what life was supposed to be like in the more "civilized" world. It certainly wasn't like what I was accustomed to in our "frontier" environment. And in my childish innocence I wouldn't have traded our way of living for any of my relatives' lifestyles.
But for me the compassion lost its comfort on a very dark, very cold, snowy winter night when I was eight or nine. I was a Cub Scout whose Den meeting was held at the home of my best friend, Darrell Bergt. The Bergts lived at that time very close to the elementary school perhaps a mile from our house. I walked the streets to and from school daily and knew the route well. In Anchorage in 1950 there were few street lights, so my daily trek to school was done in total darkness in the morning, and in semi-light each afternoon.
Sunrise in the winter happened just before noon, and we children would look forward to the pleasant interruption of our school day by the gradual lightening of the sky which heralded lunch. Sunset would occur before we left school for home in early afternoon.
So for me to attend Den meetings meant that I walked to Darrell's house after dinner and walked home again when the meeting was done. I rarely met anyone else walking the streets on those nights, and although moose frequently entered town and roamed the streets, they never made it to our neighborhood and I never met up with one when walking home from a Den meeting.
This particular night, when walking home, I was perhaps midway between Darrell's house and my own when a car pulled up beside me and a familiar-sounding male voice asked if I'd like a lift home. The night seemed especially cold and although I usually enjoyed the walk home in the snow and darkness I said "Sure" and got in the car.
I remember how very warm it felt; the heater fan was turned on high and was blowing nice hot air up into my face. I scrunched down a little bit to get as close to the heater as possible, so I wasn't watching where we were driving. As I try to recollect this event I cannot picture the face of the driver, but my sense of the moment is that I knew this person and knew that he knew where I lived. So I had no need to pay attention; I just enjoyed the heater.
It wasn't many minutes until he stopped the car, left the engine running, leaned over to me and said "Why don't I unzip your jacket and let the warm air in. You must be very cold." His hands worked the zipper and my overcoat came open. He opened the front of my coat and said, "Are you getting warm now?" One of his hands was on my leg, resting on my trouser.
Then it moved up my leg to my crotch and grabbed at me. I was petrified and sat still, hardly breathing. His own breathing was becoming more audible and I could see nothing but black outside and could hear nothing but his loud breathing. His hand slipped down inside the front of my trousers and touched my penis. I was too scared to move or say anything and didn't know what he was going to do.
Now I could hear him moving something with his other hand; moving something and breathing even more loudly. What was he doing? Why was he breathing so hard: Was he scared too? His hand in my pants was moving and squeezing me and his breathing was more like moaning.
Suddenly it stopped. His hand wasn't moving. His breathing was quiet.
And he put the car in gear and began driving again. It was only minutes, I'm sure, and he stopped the car again and told me to get out: He's taken me as far as he can. I opened the door, got out and ran down the street. He had brought me within several blocks of home and I didn't zip up my coat or anything; I just ran to home. I never told my parents what happened that night; maybe I was afraid I'd get into trouble, I don't know. And I never accepted another ride until I was a teenager. It was not too long after that incident that the Bergts moved to a new house many miles out of town and I quit Cub Scouts.
© 4/2/98 Gene Brown
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