In my defense, I could talk about how I was abused by a De La Salle Brother when I was nine. How I’d felt the whole row of desks shaking as he played with his star pupil in the back. How I had to put a safety pin through the fly of my short pants to prevent this young Brother’s religious fervor. He’d go up the leg instead, and so I begged my mother to let me wear long trousers. I wasn’t old enough, she said, and anyway it was summer and Brother Ollie was only being friendly. It wasn’t serious abuse.
