I’ve had occasion lately to reflect a lot on my childhood, and no one had my back. I honestly can’t remember anyone sticking up for me, ever. My brother could do anything to me; pin me down on the ground for a half hour, call me any name, intentionally break my toys, threaten to hide my viola to get me kicked out of the junior symphony. It was never anything as major as molestation, but my mother’s answer was always “you’re old enough to settle these things between yourselves”, or “he’s only doing that because he knows it bothers you”. The lesson of my childhood is that I’m not worth standing up for.
There’s always going to be someone saying ‘Well why didn’t you just tell someone?’ or ‘Why didn’t you phone the police straight away?’ ‘Why didn’t you go to HR?’ ‘Why didn’t you report it when it happened?’ It’s usually a pretty good indication that they either grew up in a supportive environment, or that they’ve lived a pretty trouble-free life. (I don’t want to complicate this further, but sometimes the reaction is also split down lines of gender, ethnicity and class.) Malcom Gladwell touches on it, a bit, in his books, these kids raised believing they have a right to ask for help, to question authority, and that the world is theirs to navigate. I feel like, lately, we hear a lot about spoiled, bratty kids and overly protective parents, but not so much from the alternative.