She wrote it all down, and my pediatrician's office saved this report beyond the usual threshold of a patient's reaching the age of 27. Dad then had a difficult conversation with the rector. "Basically," my father said, his voice rasping, "they're promising to destroy you." You can clear the board with that combination. When she sent me there, Mom sent me into her new world. "Try again," she instructed. All of that. From Notes on a Silencing. "The lawyer for the school says that you are not welcome to return to campus. But I was the fool. I was welcomed back. I have been recorded telling it to detectives. She came at me with the tongue depressor. I did not want to give up one thing more. He set up his pad of quadrille paper, clicked out a few millimeters of lead, and told Reverend Clark that we weren't making progress. Yes, they did warn me not to leave before they assaulted me, and said I would get caught if I tried. Anne, who is 27 and educated at Princeton and the University of Chicago, appears stoic and calm to her clients, yet flails about in her personal life. The boys had graduated and were no longer under the school's supervision. But I knew none of this then. I could pretend that having been permitted to keep my jeans on while being choked by cocks was something like agency. My eyes were pressed shut. My father turned and took her into his arms. "Five, Lacy is not welcome as a student at St. Paul's School.". Then you could say whatever you wanted. Because now I was up against an institution that subsumes human beings and presents a slick wall of rhetoric and ice where there should be thought and feeling. THE REVEREND ALICIA CRAWFORD she wrote in all caps, showing them who she was, who we were, and above all, who she imagined me to be. Had he done so, I'd have been floored. Crawford entered the prestigious St. Paul’s School when she was 14. Tears escaped the corners of my eyes and ran along my hairline, into my ears. I have files a few inches thick, each off-center page reproduced from the scanned originals, that record my passage from place to place, each time opening my mouth in the hope that someone would see. Necessary Errors, a coming-of-age novel by Caleb Crain. Drawing on her 15 years of experience counseling high school students with their college applications, she satirizes one six-month push for five high school seniors. He was not impulsive or hotheaded or easily swayed. If I could find it, I could deal with it. My dad sounded so old. Follow-up as needed. I did not want to let them hurt my parents, which meant not telling my parents. But she was viciously assaulted by two senior students, and then, she writes, her family learned hard truths about the citadels of privilege. They stole my health, my privacy, my sense of safety, my self-esteem. I'd never lost a pill, never given one away. But Mom had new authority now. "Call returned," noted someone else. He talked about God and the church without irony or ambivalence. It is an effort of accompaniment as much as it is of witness: to go back to that girl leaving the boys' room on an October night, sneakers landing on the sandy path, and walk with her all the way home. It is a statutory claim and there seems to be little dispute about what, um...went on. Moments later, back on the path, I'd made a new bargain: I'd leave school altogether, as long as I never had to say what had just happened to me. They contacted the school, which had an obligation to inform the police. I took a taxi from the infirmary into town and back again, with a referral page clutched in my hand and a scarf tight around my neck. Certainly not at the infirmary. ... We're all living the family dynamic, as parents, as children, as siblings, uncles and aunts. It was to threaten me. Perhaps the adults might acknowledge, with deep regret, that there really was nothing to discuss. "Three, Lacy regularly abuses privileges and circumvents rules on campus. A few days after I saw the nurse who saw nothing, I woke up tasting blood. She repeated, "The district attorney, Lacy." I sat up in bed, back to the frozen windows, and forced myself to swallow. But everywhere else, I was waiting for it to be revealed. I don't know yet. When Lacy Crawford was 14, her parents sent her to St. Paul’s, hoping for the best education money could buy. They chose not to inform the police. They just stood there, opaque, like a WASP update of that exhausted hardscrabble couple in American Gothic—graph paper instead of pitchfork clutched in Dad's hand. To which I'd reply: You'd be surprised what a kid can find it unimaginable to say. The idea that I sold that or any other drug was insane. Author of NOTES ON A SILENCING. He did not ask me if anything had entered or wounded my throat. I didn't hear these words the moment they were spoken, but I saw my dad hearing them. I was assaulted in privilege; I have survived in privilege. I imagined everything I had suppressed coming at this small woman. Discourse was now impossible. I was not on campus. School officials had known about the sexual contact—Crawford was given herpes by one of her rapists—and had known that legally this was statutory rape. His mouth funneled down into jowls previously invisible, and his eyes shrank not by narrowing but by deepening into his skull. The authorities were not notified. When she told her mother about it months later, at the end of her junior year, her parents sprung into action, spending hours on the phone with school representatives. I'd never told anybody I'd taken the drug for a short while. To introduce the virus only there would have required an aggressive act, and maybe that was unimaginable? It also includes successes. The assault took place just before Halloween of what was—using the English terms—my fifth-form year at St. Paul's School in Concord, New Hampshire. They did, however, apparently find reason to enlighten my schoolmates about one thing. Crain is “willing to be a romantic and takes his time on the page. Beneath how many streetlights did I linger? The daughter of socially ambitious upper-middle-class parents who believed in “the value of education,” she immediately felt out of place among her privileged, preternaturally sophisticated classmates. It would have been hopeless to try to support their investigation without my parents supporting me. [CDATA[//>