"Letters Of Truth" & RLSS Catholic "Safeguarding"

It's exhausting to have to write this but I will push through it because people should know what tactics the Catholic Church and De La Salle use to avoid responsibility to survivors.

Fairly recently, I reluctantly approached the Religious Life Safeguarding Service, RLSS, after reading that they might hold some influence with De La Salle. I say reluctantly because I've had dealings in the past with the utterly useless Catholic organisation, Safe Spaces. Annoyingly, despite some initial promise, RLSS present themselves as equally useless and their "safeguarding" is so obviously all about ticking boxes for soothing the Catholic Church's conscience. 

I say that because although RLSS did manage to arrange some counselling sessions for me, funded by DLS (it seems, rather reluctantly), one would think any proper safeguarding agency worth its salt would surely follow up with the question, "How did it go?" or "How are you doing now?/Is there anything more we can do?" if not out of concern for the survivor, then surely, at least for their own self-evaluation to see if it was money well spent?  Are measurable outcomes/evaluations not a thing in the Catholic Church? 

After extracting as much personal information from me as possible, RLSS arranged funding for twelve sessions with (after my insistence) a counsellor I trusted. This actually did help me piece together a better understanding of the timeline of abuse at St Joseph's by _ (who I've now named online and will be blogging more about soon) and it enabled me to update my statement to police, giving a much more detailed account of events.  However, it was then tumbleweed from RLSS.  Zero follow up for several months and a basic lack of human decency rattled me a bit, I must confess, and I felt I still needed more therapy. 

So I emailed them asking if any further help was available.  They responded with "What do you need?" (Still no "how did it go/how are you?"). They offered to "help" me write a "Letter of Truth" to De La Salle. As you can see though, I can probably manage my own words. 

Accordingly, I fired off quite a long letter outlining just a few of the main consequences of Child Sexual Abuse at  St Joseph's. Ipswich and eventually I received, several weeks later, via RLSS, a carefully composed, presumably lawyer-checked, whining apology that included this stunning gem: "The betrayal of our mission by individuals within our ranks has caused (us) immense hurt...". Oh well done chaps, make it all about you then. My heart bleeds!  Breathtakingly ignorant, in my view, of how to speak to a survivor! This just sums up the level of slithery deceit and dishonesty I have come to associate with Catholicism.  And clearly, supposedly celibate men still have no idea how community is supposed to function. 

Anyway, the RLSS got me thinking. What DO I need?  I mean, I could keep getting therapy until the cows come home. What I really desperately need is closure. What does that look like? To me, it looks like a physical thing I can go to/ touch/ see every time I get a panic attack (most mornings). Something I can say of, "This represents an end to the trauma. This represents acknowledgement that I have been heard and that the matter is now closed." ....  So I told them a house by the sea, a grand piano and some recording equipment ought to do it.  

RLSS responded saying they don't get involved in compensation claims and 'here's the DLS solicitor's contact details'. DLS also said in their so-called apology, "We also recognise that words alone cannot repair the harm done..."

So, pull your fingers out De La Salle! DO MORE THAN WORDS! 

GIVE SURVIVORS THE CLOSURE WE'RE ASKING FOR!

It's not difficult, and will probably only cost you about the same as you spend on those navel-gazing global conferences trying to work out what your mission is!  THIS is your bloody mission! Put survivors of your abuse before 'outreach', before 'evangelism', before I have to write another blog.

Amen?

As for RLSS. I gave them a chance. They blew it big time.

Running Towards Adversity.

After a bit of therapy and 5 pages of a more detailed,  updated statement to police, it's good, at least, to have a much clearer understanding of what happened to me  (and obviously many others) at the hands / under the "care" of De la Salle abusers.  I make no apology for deliberately linking the word 'abusers' to their schools link there because they continue to abuse us by not coming out with a clear, very public statement on their past criminality. Until that happens, I owe it to myself and others to ignore their happy, shiny image projecting and show the world that NOTHING HAS CHANGED while they continue to try the patience of survivors. 

I am a pretty patient guy but the older I get, the thinner it wears.  All they have to do is engage. Why not put a page up on their web site about what they're doing to deal with the sins of the past? Pro tip: it makes you look authentic. Only an idiot is fooled by a flawless image. 

Meanwhile, so much new information comes to light recently, I am having to process plenty.

I go running to try and process stuff. Also to exorcise the demons that plague my body, my nights and my tired waking hours. I run, not only to try and shore up my mental health, but as a kind of prayer for all those who've either died without any justice or are so broken by the dreadful Catholic Church, they can't get anywhere.  But even running itself can be quite triggering as that was the one thing I adored at St Joseph's before I was forced to give it up to avoid contact with _.  

Now I can smell jam! I've just realised I'm slightly triggered by raspberry jam too!  Jam sandwiches were generally what was on offer in the canteen on the evenings I stayed behind at school to train.  I've some memory of running for St Joseph's at Royal Hospital School, Holbrook, somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer scale of an inter-schools event, not being sure which races I was in or which point to go to in its vast sports fields, crowded with competitors I'd never seen before, some looking like giants I was to run against.  I believe _ was there too, pretending to be a teacher, chivvying and not exactly helping me prepare. When it dawned on me that any success on the track was being held up as St Joseph's own triumph, I quit. I wasn't giving anyone that satisfaction, least of all Mr _.

It's beginning to feel as though my reluctance to name _ is at breaking point. I've only got so many years left and I don't have any particular reason to withhold his name except to allow police to do their thing, which I think they have now.  I'll hang on a little while longer in case anyone else does come forward.

Soon I will shout it from the rooftops. It's my call, luckily!

 

Child Rape at St Joseph's, Ipswich.

After a few sessions of therapy, I'm now much better able to make sense of what happened to me at St Joseph's and when I said to my therapist, I couldn't be 100% certain I've got my story straight, she replied that she knew me well enough now and could tell me what happened to me. Furthermore, she stated she'd be happy to testify in court, if necessary.  So, that said, I can confidently state that this happened:  I was in the toilet block opposite the gymnasium with a two or more friends towards the end of a lunch break. There was some shouting, some people were ordered out and the door was shut.  I was held down by an accomplice (probably an older prefect) over a toilet in one of the cubicles, a handkerchief was stuffed in my mouth and "soothing" words along the lines of orders not to struggle were spoken as I was buggered by _.  It was after that that I have the memory of standing by the noticeboard on the gym wall, desperately trying to process what had just taken place and taking the awful decision to just shut down my memory in order to carry on with my school day and appear as normal to my friends. 

Last week I was sharing this story with friends, one of whom is a secondary teacher.  For the first time in 50+ years I heard these words, "Your decision to shut down was absolutely the right decision".  Very validating words indeed coming all these years later from the first person I regard as being "in authority".

She then went on to say that she'd been a pupil at Chantry High School, just opposite St Joe's, and remarked that she and her friends were often in town and always used to wonder why "those privileged St Joe's kids all seemed so messed up".

It seems barely a week goes by now without some new tale of woe relating to St Joseph's reaches my ears.    I was working for a client and the conversation turned to her place of employment; a boarding school.  I said, "Oh, I went to one of those but thankfully just a day boy."  My heart sank to the floor when she responded with, " My brother went to St. Joseph's in Ipswich. He was an absolute little sh*t! My parents were constantly having to go in to sort something out." I bit my tongue because she'd just shared some other troubles and I didn't want to add to her distress.  But I'll say what I thought here: my money is on her brother having been abused.  We're talking 1990's here. The era when Francis Carolan was there, I believe.   I'm referring to the guy whose trial was last April but whose case was never heard because he killed himself while on remand,  just before the trial began. 

Pat Mills, has also shared on his blog that St Joseph's are currently engaged in trying to get old boys to sign up to their alumni.  For some not-very-strange reason, not many old boys seem very willing to sign up so they sought out the help of one former pupil, presumably more prominent than I. He slapped them down for trying to minimise the legacy of the abuses that De La Salle have covered up ever since. 

Beginning

I had left Oak Hill prep school a happy and inquisitive ‘A-stream’ child with a prize for one particular subject and a bit nippy in a race. I remember going to the open day at Birkfield, feeling a mixture of trepidation and excitement at this new chapter of my life. My older brother was there and he showed me round the place. In the gymnasium there was some kind of fête going on with a tombola, mouse racing, ‘bat the rat’ and bizarrely on the stage, I remember what appeared to be a competition to determine which of four or five boys could hold their breath for the longest in a bucket of water. 

What japes these ‘big boys’ get up to, egged on by a shouty and excitable De La Salle brother, sleeves rolled up and armed with a stopwatch while whipping up his audience. 

Cheeks bulge with drawn breaths. And go!... Heads splash into water. 

Fifteen seconds pass.  Great sport! After the crowd counts to twenty, the first boy comes up. An impressive thirty-eight seconds.  Now, "Jones" is up!...now "Mathieson!"... who will win ladies and gentlemen? 

One minute! Concern now. The contest is between "Jackson" and "DaSouza"

The crowd chants, "Jackson! Jackson!" 

One minute and fifteen...twenty now.... Jackson's hair flails water across the stage as he rises, red and gasping.

The De La Salle Brother, possibly Brother Peter who would years later take a swing for me, drunk on macho celebrity, plays the crowd whilst missing the mood. This is extraordinary! How long can DaSouza hold? Two minutes pass! Everyone knows something is wrong. I remember being hastily ushered out having caught sight of a blue-faced casualty on stage. This boy doesn't think he wants to come to this school really.

That was a portent of what was to come. I think it was either Brother Peter* or Brother Cuthman who, when I was introduced on my first day proper at St Joseph's, asked what my surname was. When I told him he snorted with disdain and said , "Oh really, well I hope you're going to work harder than your brother then".  

Now at the 'University of Life' I have learned a fair few things (I graduated long before being accepted simply by surviving five years at St. Joseph's). One of those things is to do with treating people kindly and not judging them immediately. Because that's the kind of thing that can piss off even the happiest-go-lucky of children. 

Was there a note in the De La Salle Handbook of Incompetent Teaching that stated, "Rule 1, Day 1: Seize every opportunity to insult the new boy's family, causing him to think, 'You bastard!' even though he doesn't yet know that word. For good measure, make him wonder for the first time ever what you'll do if he refuses to comply because of your rudeness. Well done. Have a whisky"?

Okay. So into the first year we head and (Credit where due) a decent 'brother' to ease us all into the rigours and expectations of secondary school. I must have elected to put the comment behind me and crack on with my academic efforts. These were measured by the regular dishing out of "testimonials". OMG, I'd forgotten those insane certificates until now! 

They were dished out with great gravitas. Gold (yellow) for the top achievers of the month or possibly fortnight I think it was. Then a tranche of white testimonials for your fair to middlings and for the underachieving 'dunces' in the room, the almost gleeful ritual humiliation of awarding the BLUE TESTIMONIAL to usually the same three of four kids presumably well on their way to a career in alcoholism. 

Thing is chaps, I was GOLD testimonial material but one of my best mates at the time was a blue boy. This, to my young mind, represented inequality and unjust treatment as prohibited by Jesus himself according to RE lessons. So what was a boy to make of, "If you don't work hard, you'll never get a good job" followed by, "God favours the poor over the rich". Wait! What?  

I may have been only eleven but I knew damn well that many of my friends had dads who hated their 'good jobs'. Still, crack on, work hard for that job in the army, air force, navy or banking, and hey, just ignore the fact we're all going to die at any minute when either the Russians or Americans nuke us all (unless we get under a kitchen table or the door we've hastily ripped from its hinges (makes 'Control the Virus' look a bit tame!)). 

So, welcome to St Joseph's.  Motto: Labore Et Tenacitate - "Work and stick to it". 

I notice that in more recent years they've tacked on Fides - fidelity.  This is something of a sick joke to me since St Joseph's, I know now, is accountable for its pedophile past. The school back then was without a shred of empathy for anyone with any creativity. I would say it's only my creative imagination that saved me by enabling me to invent and for years believe in a much rosier past, conveniently blanking out the traumatic.  

To those who peddle the 'false memory' narrative, insisting that sexual abuse survivors imagine their ordeals, I can testify any "embellishment" we add to our stories is that which lessens the ordeal to make it easier to cope, not that which adds to it.  What possible benefit to a survivor of sexual abuse (which, by the way, isn't solely physical touch) would exaggerating a trauma bring exactly?  

We are daily witnessing a worldwide uncovering of abuses committed. Survivors aren't staying silent any more. 

Many of us are simply about setting the record straight. Revenge is not in my playbook otherwise I would have called in the vigilantes and destroyed __'s house several times over. The longer the perpetrators remain covered, the more damage is done so if you were involved in crimes or are still covering for abuses committed at St. Joseph's, now is your opportunity to speak up. Seriously. Begin that process. 

*Few of these "Brothers" ever had surnames. Interesting that; as a layer of protective anonymity. At Oak Hill there was Bro. John Fisher so obviously it was an option.

My Story

Here we go then. I was a pupil at St Joseph's College, Birkfield, Ipswich. This blog is part of my attempt to work through what, in recent years, has become painfully obvious; that I was subjected to some serious abuse at that school by a teacher, abuse I had to blank out in order to survive. I shall refer to him as __ . I can show you the exact spot I stood on, shaking with shock and remember having to decide there and then that in order to get back to my friends and appear "normal" I was going to have to do something I instinctively felt was wrong. There was no option,  no place for what had just happened to be filed. I had to decide to try and shut down the area of my brain that dealt with memory.  It was "wrong", I knew that in my young Roman Catholic head, but not as wrong as the trauma that needed to not be true as urgently as possible and by any means possible.

My contemporaries will likely recognise the individual responsible for causing such a reaction and if any happen upon this blog and care to comment, by all means do.  I have been reading an excellent blog by Pat Mills (another former St Joseph's pupil) on Wordpress in which several similar stories have been related so I now know there was a culture of abuse; mental, emotional, physical and sexual. 

Doubtless there are many former pupils who experienced no problems whatsoever during their time at St Joseph's and I thank God that's so! In fact, one of the many contributing factors to my slowly becoming aware that something in my past was seriously awry was the fact that when comparing notes re. schooldays with the few friends I have stayed in touch with, it was always blindingly obvious that I was carrying a huge burden of grief when conversation turned to our experiences. 

Mention of __ always made me angry and I didn't know why, as I laughed along to tales of our antics. Why was I laughing when I spent every day there wanting to be somewhere else? I'd tried to remain as invisible as possible, watching the clock and desperate to get back to the safety of home. Safe, that was, until __ made it his business to "pal" up with my Dad. I recognise this now as the classic controlling tactic of the abuser. At the time, it did exactly what __ intended; it kept the fear and control level ramped up to the max so that not only in school could I be intimidated into silence but also at home.

My silence ended a year or two ago when enough memory had returned to convince me to report firstly to a rape crisis centre and then to the police.  I noticed that this guy was still around ( I'm in my 60's now but __ was just a young teacher back then) and it bothered me that he might still be abusing now. I couldn't bear the thought of some other case coming to light a few years hence with me having kept quiet now.  

I'll leave it there for today but there is so much more to tell. If you were at St. Joseph's and struggle today because of that, you have my sincere sympathies.