NEW YORK
The New York Times
By FABIO COTZA
JUNE 12, 2017
I was only 9 years old when my landlord’s teenage son led me into the basement with the promise of new toys. Instead, he forced me to touch him. He made me do things my young body and mind weren’t prepared to do. I distinctly remember how the damp floor and walls smelled of mildew, and how cold it was. I begged him to stop.
He said he would call me a “faggot,” and warned that his father could kick my immigrant family out of our apartment if I ever told anyone. Terrified, I kept silent.
But the memories tormented me every single day into adulthood. One night, I wrote my goodbye letter to the world and swallowed a bottle of pills.
My suicide attempt failed — luckily. But I decided that after 20 years of silence and fear I had to face what happened to me. I was 28 when I finally told someone that I had been sexually abused. But the law told me that I was five years too late to seek justice.
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