I was in second grade when a detective called me out of class and interviewed me for fourteen minutes in a room next to my principal’s office. Before clicking the “record” button, he handed me crayons and paper and told me I could color while he asked me questions.
The week prior, a classmate had asked if she could come over for a playdate. I told her she was welcome, but my live-in babysitter had a non-negotiable rule: like me, my friend would need to take off her clothes when she arrived at our house.
It was a “rule” I didn’t question.
This classmate told her parents, who immediately called the police.
In hindsight, it’s horrifying this was a routine for me. But unlike my friend, I grew up in a home where daily sexual abuse was normalized and expected.
When my parents and babysitter learned a criminal investigation was underway, they repeatedly told me and my siblings we were not being abused in any way, and they urged us to lie to anyone who asked.
I believed my caregivers and followed their clear instructions, even with the police detective and social services. Consequently, our “babysitter” continued to live in our home and continued to sexually abuse me and my siblings.
At school I learned many times how to crawl under my desk in case of an earthquake or “stop, drop and roll” if I caught on fire. I even signed a document promising I would “say no to drugs.” But never once did I learn — at school, church or anywhere — that what was happening to me was illegal and immoral or where I could go for help.
Abuse casts a long shadow. As the years went by, I wondered if the pain of childhood sexual abuse would ever be fully resolved or if I would have to cultivate endless coping mechanisms to respond to frequent triggers.
I tried to make sense of what happened to me and tried to learn how to prevent it from happening to others. I studied education policy in graduate school at Harvard University. I learned that a well-designed policy solution can make a significant difference in the lives of vulnerable children upstream, stopping abuse in its tracks and it can reduce the need for costly interventions and public services in the aftermath of abuse.
I believe if I had been taught about sexual abuse prevention in elementary school, my siblings and I, as well as many other victims after us, would have been spared irreparable harm. In researching the impact of sexual abuse prevention education, here are the most important things I’ve learned:
In an ideal world, this type of prevention could be effectively taught in every home, and abuse would never happen. But given how pervasive sexual abuse is and the fact that in 9 out of 10 incidences, the child knows and “trusts” the perpetrator, relying on parents to teach this is insufficient. It’s particularly insufficient for children like me and my siblings who just didn’t know better and whose caregivers were unwilling or unable to protect us.
The costs of sexual abuse are staggering and far-reaching for victims, for their families and for society. But we can change that.
The Utah Legislature is considering a bill to ensure all elementary students have access to abuse prevention education in schools across the state. As a survivor, as a mother of four young children and as a believer in the ability of policy to concretely change lives, I urge the passage of SB205, “Child Sexual Abuse Prevention Amendments.”
Alex Peterson
Alex Peterson serves on the board of Prevent Child Abuse Utah and is the Director of Strategic Development & Impact for The Policy Project — a nonprofit that creates movements in order to forward healthy, equitable policy. Formerly, Alex worked for a United States congressman and for Mitt Romney’s 2012 presidential campaign. She and her husband live in Lehi with their four children.
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