WORKING GROUP Updates
SURVIVOR COMMUNITY NEWS
Our Children, Our Call
In the past few months, allegations of the recent abuse by clergy of two
more children in Chicago are drawing nation-wide attention; the following excerpt
from the February 28th Boston Globe gives cold comfort to parishioners
in the RCAB.
Four years after the clergy sexual abuse crisis exploded, the Catholic Archdiocese
of Boston has yet to put in place some key parts of its plan to detect and prevent
abuse of children by church personnel, according to a top aide to state Attorney
General Thomas F. Reilly.
The archdiocese, like most dioceses around the country, has yet to come up
with a method for overseeing or tracking the whereabouts of allegedly abusive
priests, and has not completed sexual-abuse prevention programs for all children,
according to a letter from Alice E. Moore, chief of the Public Protection Bureau
at the attorney general's office.
Protecting our children is part of the VOTF
Campaign for Accountability.
It couldn’t be better timed, as ads begin to appear in NCR and are being made
available to affiliates for their use in local publications.
One priest’s resume
A story in the Rockford River Times (Illinois) notes a lawsuit
against the Rockford, IL diocese and the Conventual Franciscans. The article
detailed the accused priest’s parish history and, consequently, the many
access routes to children that might be available in an abuser’s work.
1958—Ordained; 1959-1961—St. Thomas Church, Arlington, Calif.; 1962—St. Paul
the Apostle, Pismo Beach, Calif.; 1963—St. Bronislava, Chicago; 1964-1968—Queen
of Angels, Riverside, Calif.; 1969-1973—St. Anthony’s of Padua Church, Rockford;
1974-1975—Our Lady of Guadalupe, Riverside, Calif.; 1976—St. Thomas, Riverside,
Calif.; 1977-1978—Queen of Angels, Riverside, Calif.; 1979-1980—St. John of
God, Norwalk, Calif.; 1982—St. George, Stockton, Calif.; 1983-1988—Queen of
Angels, Riverside, Calif.; and 1989-1991—St. Thomas Aquinas Cathedral, Reno,
Nevada.
Bless me father, for you have sinned
by Tim Placher
JOLIET (IL), Daily Southtown, March 5, 2006 – excerpted
The sentence was buried deep within the 247 pages of the recently released
deposition given by Joliet Bishop Joseph Imesch as part of a priest-abuse lawsuit
pending against him and the Joliet Roman Catholic Diocese. In the glare of
the deposition's sensational revelations about priests hot-tubbing and playing "games''
in the nude with young boys, the five simple words on page 201 went unnoticed
by nearly everyone.
Everyone but me.
At one point in his deposition, Imesch was asked by the victim's counsel
to list the Joliet priests he believed had been credibly accused of sexual
abuse. After the bishop rattled off 17 names, the attorney inquired about a
priest he hadn't mentioned. "Ruffalo,'' he said. "What about Ruffalo?'' "I'm
not sure of that,'' Imesch answered.
"Not sure,'' Imesch said, despite the fact the Joliet Diocese previously
had paid a settlement to a man who claimed he'd been abused by the Rev. Richard
Ruffalo when the priest was pastor at St. Mary's Parish in Park Forest in the
late 1970s and early 1980s. Perhaps I can clear up Imesch's uncertainty about
Father Ruffalo.
Far too attentive
I hadn't wanted to go to Las Vegas with Ruffalo during the summer of 1979.
I was 17 years old and had grown increasingly uncomfortable with the priest's
advances toward me. He had been far too attentive to me for years, ever since
he'd first met me as a fifth-grade choirboy and altar server at the Cathedral
of St. Raymond in Joliet.
He was an obese man with dark hair shaved into a crew cut. He said masses
at my parish and taught religion in my grade school. He first introduced himself
to me after hearing my boy soprano voice belting out a solo from the church
choir. Soon after, he started talking to me at length whenever I'd serve at
mass.
Within a few months, he began to put his hands on me. He would touch me,
rubbing my back and giving me hugs in the sacristy when no one else was around.
He'd invite me to the parish rectory, where he'd take me to his private room
and ask me to massage his neck and back. He'd buy me gifts, write me cards
and give me money. He'd assign me to prominent roles in the diocesan church
services at the cathedral. Later, when he taught my eighth-grade class, he
made sure I had the seat right in front of his desk. He even had a special
term of endearment for me: "My Tim.''
When I got a little older, he'd take me to fancy Chicago restaurants where
waiters would serve me drinks. He'd let me drive his car before I was old enough
to have a license, rubbing my leg while I was behind the wheel. He gave me
a couple of his credit cards and told me to use them whenever I wanted.
He'd tell me my parents didn't understand me. He, of course, assured me he
understood me better than anyone.
There's far more I could tell you, but you get the insidious drift. In retrospect,
it all seems so painfully obvious. The man was courting me for sex. But I was
too young to know it.
My entire being would recoil
At 17, I was still naive about sexuality. When that Las Vegas invitation
was extended, I couldn't conceptualize the leap from Ruffalo's unwelcome touching
to sexual activity. And I was clueless about the existence of homosexuality
or pedophilia in the world.
I did know one thing: Ruffalo's attention to me always made me feel a little
nervous and uncomfortable. Now that I'd gotten older, that discomfort had greatly
intensified. Whenever he put his hands on me in any way, my entire being would
recoil. When he called my mom to ask her permission for me to travel with him,
I prayed she would say no. But when the priest told her a couple of other boys
my family knew also were going, she decided it would be a good experience for
me. My mother trusted priests implicitly.
I tried to work up the nerve to tell her how uncomfortable Ruffalo made me
feel, but I never found the words. Priests were respected in my family. I didn't
know how to express the tension and turmoil I was feeling. I was embarrassed
and confused and, ultimately, said nothing.
So off to Vegas I went. But, I reasoned, at least two friends were going
along for the trip. I figured there'd be safety in numbers. Ruffalo had a vacation
house in Las Vegas. Among the Joliet priests and bishops, it was common knowledge
he traveled there several times a year, often with boys in his company. I knew
several of them. And while I'd heard tales of drinking and parties, no one
had ever mentioned any sexual advances.
When we arrived at Ruffalo's house in Las Vegas that June, he was quick to
organize the sleeping arrangements. The other two boys would bunk down in the
front bedroom. Ruffalo, however, had other plans for me. He took my bags and
put them on one of the beds in the back bedroom -- his room.
That first night was filled with lots of drinking. Ruffalo -- a most accommodating
host -- made sure his teenage guests had an ample supply of Coors in the refrigerator.
Ruffalo, though, had too many drinks and wound up going to bed before the rest
of us.
The second night, however, he didn't make the same mistake.
After we boys spent the afternoon at the complex's pool, Ruffalo rounded
us up for a night on the town. Early in the evening, the four of us -- three
teenagers and a priest in a Roman collar -- arrived at the Las Vegas Hilton.
We walked into the casino and sat down at the bar. As underage kids, we had
no business being on the casino floor, let alone pulling up a barstool and
ordering drinks. But we were with a priest, and nobody seemed to mind.
In fact, everybody on the hotel staff seemed to know Ruffalo from his frequent
trips to the city. The concierge called him by name as we walked by. Waitresses
said hello. The bartender knew his favorite drink -- Bombay gin -- without
asking. The hotel manager came to the lounge to greet us and set us up with
a free meal and tickets to that night's floor show.
The liquor flowed freely all evening. Every time my glass was empty, Ruffalo
made sure I got a refill. And the more I drank, the more he touched me. He
rubbed my back and massaged my neck. He called me "My Tim.''
After the show, even though we'd been drinking for several hours already,
our group went back to the hotel lounge. A new bartender had come on duty since
our earlier visit. He knew Ruffalo, too. He took one look at me, smiled and
said, "Father, he looks just like your young friend John who comes with you
sometimes. I remember how John likes to drink boilermakers. Shall we give your
new friend the same, Father?''
I'd never even heard of such a drink. The next thing I knew, a shot glass
of Southern Comfort bobbing in a glass of beer was pushed in front of me. I
remember downing that drink and two more.
After that, the lights went out.
I remember
I don't remember the next few hours. I don't remember how long we stayed
at the bar. I don't remember how we got back to Ruffalo's house. I don't remember
getting undressed. I don't remember going to bed.
But at some point during the night, I woke up from my drunken fog. And I
remember exactly what happened. Ruffalo was sitting on the bed next to me.
He was stripped down to a T-shirt and a pair of jockey shorts. He was gazing
at me and caressing my face. I remember the overpowering smell of his stale
cologne.
"I love you, My Tim," he said. Then he reached out and stuck his hand into
my underwear and began rubbing my penis. I remember feeling utter despair.
I was 17 years old, 2,000 miles from home, and a fat, smelly priest had his
hand down my pants.
I didn't know what to do. I wanted to cry. I wanted to haul off and punch
the life out of the pervert's face. But I did nothing.
The truth was out
I didn't want to cause a commotion and wake up the other guys. I was too
embarrassed to risk them finding out what he was doing to me. So, I tried to
pretend I was asleep. But it didn't work. His hand wouldn't stop.
But then, I was overcome with sickness. Whether it was due to Ruffalo's probing
hand or the parade of boilermakers, I'll never know. But I bolted up and ran
to the bathroom, where I emptied my stomach over and over into the toilet.
Ruffalo, always the helpful one, was there to "comfort" me by rubbing my back
as I wretched.
Finally, he left me alone in the bathroom. I stayed there for what seemed
hours. I didn't sleep the rest of the night. I feared closing my eyes on the
priest. In the morning, I confronted him in the kitchen and told him to arrange
an immediate flight home for me. He reached out to try to hug me. I backed
away. We didn't speak of what he had done during the night, but my message
was clear.
At some level, I was relieved. Finally, I knew all the discomfort I had felt
was not my imagination. The truth was out: Ruffalo was a disgusting freak who
had courted me relentlessly for years, waiting for his big opportunity to try
to have sex with me.
When I got home, I didn't tell anyone what had happened. I was too ashamed.
I didn't tell my mother. My faith in the church was already shot to hell. I
didn't want to ruin her faith, too. Also, I didn't want her to bear the burden
of knowing her permission to go on the trip had put me in harm's way. Besides,
I had survived the ordeal. And after all, it was only one priest, right? One
isolated incident?
Iwish I hadn't been so wrong about that.
Over these last few years, I've seen and read about the seemingly endless
procession of men who've had experiences like -- and far worse -- than mine.
The thing is, in nearly all those cases, the actions of the priests are generically
characterized in media reports as "abuse" or "molestation." Seldom are specifics
mentioned.
Well, for me that "abuse" isn't nonspecific. It's as plain as this: Some
of my first sexual contact in life was at the hands of a priest who courted
me for several years, purposely isolated me from my home and family by half
a continent, got me blind drunk, and groped my genitals against my will hoping
to have relations with me. Is that specific enough?
But the repercussions of that abuse are far more involved than that. Father
Ruffalo carried out a great deal of his manipulation and courtship of me at
St. Raymond's. Many other boys weren't as lucky….
But in the end, I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I was a smart kid.
I was strong. I was able to finally extricate myself from Ruffalo's advances
and get on with my life. So many other boys were not as lucky.
Ruffalo died in 1997. But he served in active ministry for 18 more years
after that Vegas trip. And all that time, I kept my mouth shut, telling no
one other than a few very close friends in recent years. And not even they
were told the specifics. I remained too embarrassed to tell them the truth.
But when I read Imesch's deposition and learned of his supposed uncertainty
about Father Ruffalo, I wasn't embarrassed anymore. I was just mad.
Ruffalo was notorious around the diocese for his Vegas trips. He was also
well-known for having "special" friends. In fact, the lawsuit filed by the
man from St. Mary's in Park Forest involved stories of Las Vegas trips depressingly
similar to mine. For Imesch to claim he's "not sure" about Ruffalo is laughable.
Perhaps the leader of the Joliet diocese is not a bad man, as many angry
members of the faithful would like to believe. Maybe, he's just truly that
naive. Either way, his handling of Joliet's priest abuse problem has done damage
to the local church that might not be healed until the sixth generation of
my family is carrying schoolbooks into St. Ray's.
In the meantime, I'm fully aware of the Joliet Diocese's process for reporting
claims of abuse. Well, be assured, I won't be partaking in it. I don't want
them to offer me counseling. I don't want to file a lawsuit. I don't want their
money. I don't want an apology from anyone.
I simply want the guy who's been running the Joliet Diocese for the last
25 years to admit the problems that occurred under his leadership are so extensive,
they won't begin to go away until he goes away -- by resignation, revolt, or
most likely, retirement.
And until the day you do, Bishop, perhaps you ought to move Father Ruffalo
over to the "Yes" column on your list.
Tim Placher is a music teacher and a weekly columnist for the Daily
Southtown.
This essay first appeared in the Southtown, a member of the Sun-Times
News Group. This article was reprinted with permission from Tim Placher
for one-time use in this e-newsletter |