How The Cosby Story Taught Me To Speak Up.
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No one believed them at first. It was inconceivable. How could the omnipotent Bill Cosby commit those heinous crimes? Even I doubted those women at first. That’s the lies we tell ourselves when the truth creates dissonance.
I too kept silent all those years abroad. I told great travel stories, but never what really happened during my time as a volunteer. How could I? It became something I chose to keep secret. People much preferred to hear the lighter travel stories. Not about sending a man to jail.
26 and living at home was not working for me. The small makeshift loft bed in my parents’ new apartment made me miss the house I’d lived in for two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Sri Lanka. I wasn’t sure where I belonged.
There were subtle cues that I had not yet readjusted to life in Brooklyn. While the rest of the city walked around in basic black, I sported bright-colored Punjabis and wide-legged tie-dyed pants purchased in India — looking like an iridescent lava lamp had exploded all over me. I adorned my outfits with a removable nose ring to accessorize. I could not get used the endless supply of water readily available, holding on to the same cup I sipped from morning till night.
I’d traveled thousands of miles for a new experience. I was determined to do good. Make the world better. I had no idea how hard that’d be.
Mage muna perehera yanawade? That’s the first full Sinhalese phrase I learned. Loosely translated, it means, “Does my face look like I have a parade leaving it?” Sort of the equivalent of — take a picture, it lasts longer.
My host sister taught it to me after the locals’ eyes popped out whenever they saw me. My olive skin allowed me to blend easily when traveling; this was not the case for my time in Asia.
Leaving my village meant being stared at, pointed at, or drunk men yelling lewd comments through their red betel-stained teeth. Once a group of young boys grabbed small rocks and threw them at me on my way to town. I was haunted by their laughter as I dodged the ripple of stones they had flung. These men were my obstacles.
I lived and worked in a small village where I served as an agricultural extension, community development facilitator. At the villager’s request, I taught English as well. The children in my village became my companions. I took a special liking to the outgoing tomboy Ruvini who lived two doors down. Due to the drought, I no longer had the luxury of filling my jug with water from my neighbor’s spigot. I had to gather water at the well like the other villagers. Ruvini and her brother surprised me with a large silver bucket filled with water. “Elana aka — water,” she grinned. Her white teeth pierced through her dark brown skin. I rubbed her head warmly, forgetting that she may have lice, and quickly snapped it back. I felt pressure to prepare English lessons now for the children in my village. This drought was debilitating.
Even though we had some electricity, the loss of hydroelectric power meant I only had use of my fan for two hours a day. I’d stick my face close to the plastic blades for a moment’s reprieve before walking to the well to bathe. Where were those monsoons I’d heard so much about?
“Where’s your bicycle?” a young villager wanted to know.
“Home today,” I said with a big smile.
“Where are you coming from?” an older woman asked, grinning through her toothless grin.
“The well,” I said
They wagged their head from side to side. I wagged mine. I was a master of Sinhalese small-talk. The villagers always stated the evident “You are fat,” “You have a pimple,” or “She likes chicken but doesn’t eat fish.” She doesn’t like fish — really? My friends who were vegetarians made no sense to anyone there.
The day the drought broke, rain came tumbling down on our thirsty dirt roads. The wind brutally blew the coconuts crashing to the ground. The weather kept everyone inside that day. I put on my lime-green frock and went out to explore on foot, excited to feel the cool breeze.
I had always felt safe in my village. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t notice the young man get close so quickly. Through the dusty road, I saw a shadow of a boy with short brown hair on a bicycle. I squinted to see who it was, thinking he was a teenager from my youth group. Within seconds he was next to me, his hand grabbing under my dress towards my crotch. He awkwardly began to reach his fingers further when I realized what was happening. I should have pushed his hand away. I should have screamed for help, but I did not know how. My Sinhala escaped me — I was numb.
Unable to conjure the words in Sinhala, I looked him straight in the eye and cursed in English. I finally took my right hand and pushed him away. He smiled devilishly and disappeared into the storm, his bicycle swerving along the dirt road.
I ran home and locked the door, when Ruvini and her brother came to visit.
“Water?” the brother asked smiling. Proud of his use of English. I managed a tight grimace.
“Class today, Elana aka?” Ruvini asked.
“No,” I said, “Not today, I’m sick.”
I suppressed tears, swallowing them down like the ubiquitous coconut water I was forced to drink.
The children returned later with a dal curry and cookies drowned in coconut oil. I threw them away once they left. All those New Yorkers paying top dollar for coconut water, all I wanted was a Diet Coke and a friend.
I lay in the fetal position on the edge of my dirty foam mattress, nestled under the poorly fitting mosquito net still in a knot above me. Gazing up at the spider’s nest, I rocked myself to sleep. I decided not to tell anyone about this, and went on as if nothing had happened.
Weeks later my life resumed to normal, the rain cooled things down, and I returned to my daily trips to the local orphanage. One day, after blowing kisses to my favorite group of toddlers, I began the walk back to my house.
There, across from the school, I saw a young dark-skinned man lurking in the bushes. I didn’t recognize him. He seemed older than the kids from my village, muscular, with thick long black hair greased back like that of a punk rocker.
“Sudu,” he called, a term meaning, “whitey.”
I looked up only to see his big brown phallus resting on top of his batik sarong. His right hand quickly rubbed it back and forth, while he smiled at me. In the two years I had lived in this country, I never saw a glimpse of male genitalia, making this display even more shocking.
This time I was not anesthetized. I screamed at the top of my lungs in English. Whatever curse words I knew, tumbled out, as I blushed profusely. Each word got louder, until my community, one by one, rushed out.
Half in English, half in Sinhala, I degradingly explained how he was playing with himself in front of me, using my own hand to demonstrate the gyrations, wishing I had paid more attention in language class.
Within five minutes, more than 100 villagers — women with tight hair buns, children in white school uniforms, men walking barefoot — and a policeman surrounded me, to see what was happening. It all happened so quickly that it was hard to think. I spoke privately with the Police Chief, who explained in perfect English that if I wanted, he would take the boy to jail, rough him up a little.
Prison seemed extreme. The offender was probably only 17.
The crowd started off laughing, but soon became vigilante, poking and prodding the young long-haired deviant. I knew this man would probably be beaten. I never caused someone physical pain. I came for peace, but I could no longer remain passive. These boys had gone too far. Regretting that I did not speak up when the younger boy had groped me earlier, I realized that this boy in front of me would pay for both crimes. In essence, he would pay for all the transgressions during my time as a volunteer.
I stood there in shock. Gazing at the toothless old ladies heckling, the men who seemed so kind, now screaming at this boy. I could not turn back now. I looked the officer directly in the eye and told him to take him away.
“Peace Corps, the toughest job you will ever love,” the tagline from the popular commercial echoed in my head.
I immediately felt guilty, a feeling that would stay with me a long time.
A few days later, a woman from my community came to me with fresh mangoes in a basket. She had a daughter. She was glad that the boy was gone. I smiled and thanked her. I did not sleep that night or many others thereafter. Yet I stopped being afraid. I was never bothered again.
We all have our secrets that we tuck away, ones that come out to haunt us when we least expect them to. The Cosby case has taught me that it’s better to release them and set them free. Now that justice has been served, I can finally put my own skeletons to rest.
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Elana Rabinowitz is an ESL teacher working and living in Brooklyn. She is currently working on her memoir.
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