My earliest memories of my childhood begin around the age of five. At this time I was living in El Salvador where I was born. My parents had moved to the U.S. because finding work with decent pay was hard to come by. I stayed with my aunt, my father's sister, and her family from ages three to six. I would later join my parents in Long Island, New York in 1989, the year my brother was born. My aunt turned part of her home into a small convenience store. This is what she had to rely on in order to make a living. I slept in the same bedroom with a male cousin who was only a few years older than I was. My aunt's friend also owned and operated a convenience store from her home, and I was taken there one day while my aunt helped her friend out on a busy day. I was left in a bedroom with two older boys and watched television on the floor while they laid on their bunk beds. My aunt checked on me once throughout the time I was there. It was only a couple of minutes later after I had arrived that I felt someone grab me from behind and cover my mouth with his hand. He placed me on the top bed while I struggled and tried to scream. I laid on my stomach while the other one forced himself inside me, and all I remember was suffering unbearable pain. At one point I heard footsteps getting closer to the door, and that's when they immediately stopped raping me. They placed me back where I was originally sitting before my aunt left me in the room, which was back on the floor in front of the television set. I tried to act normal as much as I could. My aunt opened the door and took a quick look inside but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. She left, and as soon as she did, they continued to rape me. It's now been twenty-two years later, and I still haven't been able to recover the entire memory of the gang rape. I don't remember how it ended. What I am certain, though, is that these boys were total strangers to me. I never saw them again.

Later that same year, I went to the doctor's office for a regular physical check up. He revealed to my aunt that I had been sexually abused. She questioned me several times and demanded to know the identity of the person who had done this to me. I didn't know what exactly had been done to me. I didn't understand it, but I felt deep inside that it was wrong. I didn't feel comfortable or safe enough to talk about it, so I simply remained quiet. She misinterpreted this and thought I was trying to protect someone from getting in trouble. She thought it was her son, the cousin I shared a bedroom with. I would sleep with my other male cousin in his bedroom for a short time until she was entirely convinced that it was safe for me to go back. The next event that took place wasn't specifically responsible for the cause of another abuse that would last for several years, but it's what gave someone an opportunity to take advantage of me. I begged my aunt not write the letter to my parents telling them about the sexual abuse, but she did anyway. I arrived in New York in 1989, only a few weeks after my brother was born. I clearly remember confronting my mother for leaving me behind in Central America but never mentioned the gang rape. One winter night, a month or so after my arrival, my father insisted on taking me to the pharmacy store to pick up a medicine for my brother since he had a high temperature at the time. My mother agreed, so I went. I was a bit confused when my father parked the car on the side of the street. He took out a letter from his jacket and told me that he knew everything that had happened to me in El Salvador. He promised that he would show it to my mother if I did not allow him to touch my private area. Different emotions ran through me. I felt confused, shocked, and scared simultaneously. “Okay,” he said, “I guess I will show it to her.” And at this, I hesitated for a while but then finally gave in. “Okay,” I responded back to him. It was bad enough that he knew about the sexual abuse, even though...

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