“Boys will be boys”, she sat there in disbelief as the judge pronounced the words, “Boys will be boys”. It was a hot July 23 1965, but the air conditioner blew cold. Its incessant hum taunted her now. The black robes on the judge were the only things in the room that seemed appropriate now. She could hear the jubilation of the boys’ friends and family but she felt none. She only remembered the smell of liquor, the terrible taste of the unwanted kisses. A ray of sun shone into the window, but she could not see it now. As she walked from the court the words echoed in her fourteen-year-old mind. The words that would influence her for the rest of her life, “Boys will be boys”.

Friends, I ask you today to return to that courtroom, and, with the benefit of hindsight, re-judge the case. I will relate the facts to you in a manner as simple and straightforward as I can. The facts are simple, but the questions are complex and far-reaching. Do we face the results of our actions; are we responsible today for the results of things done in our youth. Or is the final word, “Boys will be boys”.

I met her in May 1995, I was a reporter, muck raking, researching the skeletons in the closet of a politician. The facts were apparent, even though the record had been sealed. Five boys, juveniles, had gang raped a fourteen year old girl. They were the progeny of the elite. Their futures assured save this one episode. She was the daughter of the town tramp, had been abused by her father. “Like mother like daughter.” Everybody knew that. So with the stroke of a pen, probation, and some community service, the records were expunged. After all, “Boys will be boys.”

No one cared what affect the decision would have on a fourteen-year-old girl, who learned that day what her purpose on earth was. I was troubled as I read her description of the events.

I’ve heard accounts of the honeymoon or other such first times—a sharp shriek in pain followed by waves of pleasure. The accounts of rape relate the pain being followed by more pain as the act progresses. I felt little or nothing—no fear as they pulled my jeans and panties down—no pain as the first one entered me—no pleasure as his breathing became short. I remember no bleeding. I wondered what this was about. Then he was done. Nothing was said as he pulled his jeans back up. They had been around his knees. He hadn’t even taken them off. I think I would have given in voluntarily. I thought I loved him. I probably would never have called it rape had it ended there. I heard a belt buckle and zipper and felt another between my legs. This one reached up under my shirt to fumble at one of my breasts. An quickly he was don. Then another and another and one more—and I was alone again.
You see, “Boys will be boys”.

The slap on the wrist had sent a message to the town that she was available. She learned that it was easier to acquiesce. She learned to take advantage the encounters, to get what she needed. She even begrudgingly learned to enjoy them. As her father had told her so many times that was all she was good for anyway. And the words of the judge on July 23, 1965 more than anything else shaped the life of the fourteen-year-old girl. She learned to survive with the only weapons she knew. She did well with her life she survived and she raised her children. But the pattern was entrenched, her lifestyle unalterable. She learned to live in a world where “Boys will be boys.”

By the time I met her she was totally afflicted by AIDS. Years of promiscuity had taken her future. I was surprised at the total lack of bitterness she showed as she recounted the story to me. I was impressed by the resilience the ability to show joy in the face of pain. I was astounded by the ability to see the good in what seemed a horrible existence—to face death with dignity. I learned to love the woman though we could never make love. I learned to see beauty where others saw just pity. I learned to see strength where others saw only weakness. I learned to see dignity where others saw plainly a slut. I learned to judge her by who and what she was, not by what she did. Had it not been for July 23, 1965 she may have been renowned. Yes she was destined for greatness, except, “Boys will be boys.”

She also taught me that the fact that we die does not make death the victor. She showed me the virtue in controlling the moment of death. In cheating it of its most prized possession—surprise. I knew in my heart that she would die when she decided. That in itself made her a heroine of the highest order to me. I deplored the fact that “Boys will be boys”.

I stayed with her over a year we enjoyed life we learned to love without physical expression. We went to plays we went to symphonies. We saw Casablanca five times, Modern Times seven. I showed her the life she had only dreamed. She showed me love and devotion that I never deemed possible. Alas the disease progressed. I watched her waste away, solely because “boys will be boys.”

The fateful day had arrived. I picked up the bottle of sleeping pills. The doctors are really careful not to prescribe enough to kill a person. But she took them all anyway. She pulled me down and gave me a light kiss on the cheek. I returned the kiss and watched as her head lay on the pillow. I waited for the full effect of the pills to come to pass. I looked at her and knew it was my turn. We had discussed this moment so many times in the past. I was time to win the ultimate battle. I knew what I had to do.

I picked up a pillow and I placed it firmly over her face. I thought that, even though she was going voluntarily, the natural survival instinct would take over and there would be a battle. I don’t know if it was the pills, or the total acquiescence to her fate, but she lay motionless no struggle. It took a minute, an hour, a day, a year. Time meant nothing; it seemed an eternity. Then finally the body trembled briefly; I felt a vaporous kiss; and then I recognised that awful, acrid smell, as all the muscles in the body relaxed. My task was complete.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury I place myself in front of you now. My deed I acknowledge. The facts are simple, but the question complex. I offer in my defence merely these humble words, if boys will be boys, then men must be men!

Email Abe, this stories author.