Tears of the Silenced

  TEARS OF THE SILENCED

  An Amish True Crime Memoir of

  Childhood Sexual Abuse, Brutal

  Betrayal and Ultimate Survival

  Misty Griffin

  Mango Publishing

  Coral Gables

  Copyright © 2018 by Misty E. Griffin

  Published by Mango Publishing Group, a division of Mango Media Inc.

  Cover & Layout Design: Jermaine Lau

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  Tears of The Silenced: An Amish True Crime Memoir of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Brutal Betrayal and Ultimate Survival

  Library of Congress Cataloging

  ISBN: (print) 978-1-63353-908-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018952302

  BISAC category code: SEL016000—SELF-HELP / Personal Growth / Happiness

  Printed in the United States of America

  Important Note

  Given the severity of the author’s life story, she was cautioned and advised to disguise the identity of all persons, events and communities involved. It is not her intent to put anyone in harm’s way, or cause any form of vigilante justice, but rather to tell her life’s story in an attempt to prevent such tragedies from happening in the future.

  Disclaimer

  The following account is based on the real true life story of Misty Griffin. Names, locations, identifying characteristics and some details have been partially altered, added and or withheld. Any supposed likeness to any persons, communities, or specific locations should be reconsidered since some details have been modified. Story and dialogue have been reconstructed based on true events. Some incidents were too traumatic and have been blocked from the author’s memory. These have been reconstructed based on conversations, letters, phone calls, a police report and outcomes of the incidents.

  To anyone who is reading this memoir, the author would like to stress that her real life story is much worse than presented in this manuscript. The author did not feel that all of those details were needed to get her story and message across to the reader.

  This book has been edited from its original content for length and some of the most graphic and triggering passages. Some incidents were removed to save certain innocent people embarrassment. The author genuinely hopes that individuals will learn from this written work and go on to make the world a better and safer place.

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book first and foremost to my husband who has shown me what it feels like to be loved. I would also like to dedicate this book to all the silenced Amish victims. May they someday find a voice and be heard.

  When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it—always.

  —Mahatma Gandhi

  If you have a dream, don’t just sit there. Gather courage to believe that you can succeed and leave no stone unturned to make it a reality.

  —Roopleen

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Prologue

  The Beginning of a Nightmare

  Engulfed by a Shadow

  Forgotten by the World

  Seasons of Sorrow

  Tortured

  A New Victim

  Face of Evil

  The Community

  Uniformity: The Loss of Identity

  The Ordnung

  Silenced

  Personal Convictions

  Freedom from Prosecution

  Ancient Traditions

  Forced to Forgive

  The Baptism

  An Amish Wedding

  Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing

  A Visit from the FBI

  The Bishop’s Maid

  Poisoned

  Silenced No Longer

  Leaving The Amish

  Shunned

  A Modern World

  The Bishop Escapes

  A Voice from the Past

  Revisiting a Childhood Nightmare

  Going Back for My Sister

  The Sting of Being Shunned

  Acres of Heartache

  Christmas In Seattle

  The Last Thirteen Years

  Preface

  Foremost, I would like to stress that not every Amish community is like the one I lived in. My community was one of the strictest sects within the stricter half of the Amish.

  While the fundamentals in all Amish communities are consistent, it can be said that the level of abuse becomes greater depending upon the stringency of the particular group. Some of the most progressive Amish have taken pains to raise awareness about the issue of sexual assault and child abuse. In more modern churches, there is greater likelihood of action, usually some form of counseling for the victim and rapist. (In rare cases the authorities have been contacted.) While this may not be much, it is, at least, some form of acknowledgment for the victim.

  But the reality remains: most Amish rape or child abuse victims have no resources. It is a scary reality: a place where the Amish rules outweigh any form of crime. Sexual violence and animal abuse run rampant, and the worldly outside authorities may not be called. Shunning is the only punishment, but a few weeks is such a light sentence for a rapist and, from what I have seen, it never works.

  In light of these facts, there are many Amish who actually wish to enact change but are afraid to break church rules for fear they will go to hell or be shunned. Thus, the cycle continues. The good people are forced to suffer in silence or leave; those are the only two options.

  In conclusion: I did not write my story to point the finger at certain individuals or only at the Amish. Rather it is an attempt to raise awareness about child abuse and sexual assault. I hope child abuse and sexual assault survivors will take heart from my story and move past their pain to embrace their dreams. I encourage everyone: Never turn a blind eye towards child abuse. Please be a hero and report; you may be that child’s last chance.

  Prologue

  There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of hell.

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  I trembled as I walked into the small police station. It seemed to have only two or three rooms in it. The town had less than two thousand residents, so I figured its size was due to a low crime rate. I walked through the front door and went over to a heavy wooden counter where a middle-aged policewoman sat at a computer. She looked up and her expression turned to surprise as she took in my appearance.

  I imagined I was very different from most of the people that normally walked up to her desk. I was a young Amis
h woman, just a little over five feet tall, wearing an ankle-length, plain, teal-colored dress and apron. I had on knee-length black socks and black shoes, and my coat was of homemade denim with a high collar and hooks and eyes to hold the front closed. On my head, a stiff, white Amish Kapp covered nearly all my hair; it was tied in a small bow under my chin. I was shaking as I stood there, trying to get up enough courage to say something, but my mouth was so dry I could not form any words.

  “Can I help you with something, honey?” the woman asked as she took off her reading glasses.

  Her bright blue eyes crinkled up on the sides when she smiled. She seems like a nice lady, I thought, and I felt a little better.

  “Um,” I swallowed hard. I tried to block out the mental image of being put in the Bann—shunned. “Um,” I repeated. I placed my trembling hands on the counter top.

  “Yes, dear. What is it?” the woman asked.

  “Um … I would like to talk to the police, please,” I said, pressing my hands down on the counter to stop them from shaking.

  “Okay, in regard to what?”

  I hesitated. “I need to talk to someone because the bishop of my church attacked me and is threatening to kill me, and I think he is also poisoning his wife and molesting his daughters.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows in shock. After looking at me for another moment, she got up and came around the counter.

  “Are you okay, honey?” she asked as she reached out to put an arm around my shoulders.

  I backed up, not wanting her to touch me. I saw her nod as if she had seen this reaction before.

  I was not sure I was doing the right thing. I had witnessed so much abuse and pain in my life, and I just felt I could no longer keep silent.

  If an Amish man in my church confessed to rape or molestation, he would only be shunned for six weeks. Going to the police was strictly frowned on and anyone who did so was risking being placed in the Bann or would at least be permanently stigmatized as untrustworthy.

  I trembled; the Bann never worked for these sort of crimes. The offenders would usually continue to offend after the dust settled or sometimes while still in the Bann. If I did not report the bishop to the authorities, I knew there would be many more victims.

  The Beginning of a Nightmare

  A belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.

  —Sir William Neil

  My story starts early on a cold desert morning in Phoenix, Arizona. I was born to an unusual couple; my mother was the seventeen-year-old girlfriend of her former stepfather, who was only twenty-eight years old himself. I was not their first child; in fact, I was the brand new sister to a two-year-old boy. Surprisingly, my grandmother was there to witness my birth, standing next to my parents: her former husband and the daughter she accused of stealing him away.

  On that day in 1982, I became the newest member of this dysfunctional family. It included my grandmother, who was the head of the household. She was a crafty and vicious woman, disliked by all. She was also a mastermind at cheating the system for money so she would never have to work. While she was nearly illiterate, she was most certainly not stupid. She believed in taking advantage of people whenever possible. My mother, who was seventeen, was quickly learning her mother’s trade. Lastly, there was my father, of whom I have a few vague memories.

  My mother had only been fifteen when she and my stepfather had their first child. When my brother was about a year-and-a-half, my grandmother obtained full custody of him on grounds that my mother was abusing him. He was living with my grandmother when I was born and my mother was living with her stepfather as his girlfriend. My grandmother had since divorced him. A few months after my birth, my father kidnapped my brother from my grandmother’s backyard. For the next two years, there was an arrest warrant out for my parents. My mom and dad traveled around to avoid law enforcement and we finally settled in Topeka, Kansas. Here, my younger sister Samantha came along and my parents officially got married.

  Back in Arizona, my grandmother was still searching for my brother. Sometime between 1984 and 1985, my brother became one of the first missing kids to have his picture on the back of milk cartons. A few months later, a neighbor lady thought my brother looked like the boy she had seen on the back of her milk carton and called it in. Not long after, the FBI stormed our apartment and took my brother out kicking and screaming. Thirty one years later, my brother would tell me what I could not remember at such a young age: that he was being badly abused. The stories he would tell me of our time in Topeka would cause my eyes to well up with tears; the severity of the abuse was heartbreaking.

  On that day, this terrified little boy was sent back to live with our grandmother, a woman who would convince him she was his real mother. He would end up leading a life apart from us, but his supposed rescue from an abusive home would have its own path littered with fear and sorrow.

  Soon after this incident, my parents divorced. My mother took my sister and me back to northern Arizona to live with our grandmother, so she could be near my brother. My father was sent to prison for a few months for kidnapping my brother, and he then moved to Phoenix. My parents shared custody of my sister and me, although we ended up living with my father most of the time.

  Even though I would later learn that my father had been abusive to my brother, for the most part, I felt safe living with him. I can recall his small, yellow house that sat on a busy street. The smallest bedroom had two twin-size beds with matching bedspreads—one for me and one for my little sister, Samantha. I can remember my father taking us to the local swimming pool and letting us float around with floaters on our arms. Those days were fun for us. My sister and I would laugh and splash each other in the warm Arizona sunshine. Little did I know that happy days such as these would soon disappear like the leaves falling from a tree in autumn. I would always remember those days with tears in my eyes. If I could have talked to my four-year-old self, I would have whispered,

  “Run! Run like hell and don’t look back!”

  But of course, this is only wishful thinking. No one can turn back the hands of time—no matter how much one may wish to.

  One afternoon, when I was nearly four, I was sitting on the sidewalk in front of my dad’s house. My two-year-old sister was sitting nearby, tearing up grass by the roots and eating the dirt. I had a headache and was holding my pounding head, watching her. A few weeks earlier, I had been attacked by a dog at my aunt’s house. The giant Great Dane had taken my entire head in its mouth and had clamped down on it. One eye tooth had narrowly missed my right eye by less than half an inch.

  As a result, I had stayed sometime in the hospital and, after my release, I can vaguely remember looking in the mirror and being startled when I saw the wounds that would eventually heal into scars. There was one under my right eye, one long scar that went down my left cheekbone and a few other small ones.

  On that particular morning, as I sat there, I watched a yellow Jeep pull up into the driveway. My mother was in the passenger’s seat, and in the driver’s seat was a man with long, gray hair. I smiled and waved a tired wave; their radio was blasting rock music and I remember how much it hurt my head. My father yelled for my sister and me to go into the house. I grabbed my little sister and started walking to the house. The man in the Jeep frightened me with his intense gaze. I hated how he was staring at me—it was very unsettling, so I ran toward the house with my sister, but the man jumped out of the Jeep and grabbed my arm.

  “Where are you going, gorgeous?” he asked with a grin.

  “My dad is calling me,” I stuttered.

  “That’s okay,” the man said. “My name is Brian, and you are going to be my daughter now.”

  I looked at him in confusion. Why would I be his daughter?

  My dad was yelling at my mother and pushing past her toward us. She was holding papers that I assume were c
ustody papers. Brian pulled me and my sister over to the Jeep and pushed us inside. My mom got into the front seat and Brian started the engine. I watched in confusion as my father went over to Brian’s window and yelled at him to let us out, but Brian drove past him into the street. I waved to my father and he waved back. That would be the last time I saw my father.

  I was frightened and confused, but there is no way that I could have known at that time how bad my life was going to get. There was no way that I could have known that my mother’s new forty-seven-year-old boyfriend had been wanted for child molestation back in the seventies. There was no way to know that he had escaped by fleeing to Alaska and working on fishing boats before circling down to Arizona and becoming a gold miner in the hills. I could not have known this then as I clung to my frightened sister.

  For the next three hours, we drove north into the Bradshaw Mountains of northern Arizona. When we arrived at the mine where Brian lived, Mamma got out and opened a heavy metal gate. We crossed a creek and then drove about a half-mile up a hill to a small flat place in the road. There I saw a tiny thirteen-foot trailer sitting next to a tall mine shaft. I woke Samantha and apprehensively followed Mamma and Brian inside the trailer. It was so small, there was barely enough room to stand. After a minute of everyone just standing in the middle of the room, Brian picked Samantha and me up and set us on the top bunk.

  “Okay girls, go to sleep,” he said.

  Still in my day clothes, I fixed my sister a place and then lay down myself. My stomach was all knotted up, and I had an uneasy feeling about what was happening to us. I could hear Mamma and Brian talking outside as I drifted off to sleep. My life was about to become a living nightmare—one from which I would not be able to awaken for many years.

  Life with Brian was a rude awakening for me and my sister. He believed in the strictest discipline and held to the notion that children were to be seen and not heard. He was very confusing at times. At night, he would read us stories. Samantha and I loved stories, but we always listened tensely, knowing the slightest thing could send him into a wild rage. Sometimes we would all go on mining excursions or hike to the lake behind the mine, but all of this was laced with an undercurrent of fear as Brian began laying out one rule after another. One of the worst of his rules was that my sister and I were not allowed to talk to each other, or to strangers. The only time we were allowed to talk was when we raised our hands and were given permission. We were also not allowed to play with other children who might accompany their parents on the mining expeditions that we sometimes went on.