If you’re wondering how someone grows up to be the kind of person who would take an intoxicated woman behind a dumpster, put her down in the dirt, strip her clothes off, take cellphone pictures of her for his pals LOL, and then sexually assault her, you might try reading the ‘character’ letters sent to Judge Persky from Brock Turner’s family and friends. You’ll get a pretty good picture of the punkass environment the teen has been stewing in all his life. Years from now I imagine anthropologists will unearth the Turner clan’s heartfelt missives and marvel at the people who apparently, like the Pirahas of the Amazon, who neither draw nor understand pictures, have no concept of the word ‘rape.’
Our lives now exist in 2 phases-prior to the weekend of Jan. 17/18, 2015 and after that weekend. The weekend started out pretty exciting for Dan and I-we sold the home we raised the kids in after Brock graduated. We need to downsize not only the size of the house but our payment. Having Brock in school across the country meant added expenses so we needed some extra money. We moved into our new home on Jan. 17, 2015. Then we got that fateful call from Brock on Sunday the 18th and our world was been spinning apart ever since. This house now reminds me of the horror of that moment. I have not decorated the house nor have I hung anything on the walls. I am a mom who loves family pictures but I haven’t had the heart to put photos around of our family being happy. How can I?
How can Brock’s Mom? Hmm Judge? Now that her son has been charged with, well, whatever this thing is? And she loves family pictures, but there’s isn’t one currently hanging on the walls. Hard to believe she could write such a letter and never once speak of the victim or the crime, but there it is. Ma Turner isn’t courageous enough to try taking a broader view. As in, you know, one outside herself. This is as close to the real world as she gets:
We will never be happy again. Those happy family times are gone forever, replaced by despair, fear, depression, anxiety, doubt, and dread. I don’t think I have been able to take a deep breath since this happened.
Dear me. This would probably be a good time to wonder how the victim has been doing, incidentally. Right?
The isolation at times was unbearable. You cannot give me back the life I had before that night either. While you worry about your shattered reputation, I refrigerated spoons every night so when I woke up, and my eyes were puffy from crying, I would hold the spoons to my eyes to lessen the swelling so that I could see.
Yeah whatever, back to gloomy Mom.
Then that awful, horrible, terrible, gut-wrenching, life-changing verdict was read. I know what a broken heart feels like. It is a physical pain that starts just below the collar bone and extends to below the rib cage, it is a crushing and heavy ache that feels like I am being squeezed. This feeling has not left my body since the verdict. This verdict has destroyed us. Brock is a shattered and broken shell of the person he used to be… My first thought upon wakening every morning is “this isn’t real, this can’t be real. Why him? Why HIM? WHY? WHY?”
WHY oh WHY my Special Guy? Li’l Brock? Poor distraught confused and hope-less Mrs. Turner, living out her colorless days in a picture-free home. I mean of all the people in the world, the police went and chose HIM? Oh the pain, you can only imagine. As for the WHY, I’m really only spitballing here, running around in circles in left field, but here goes: Because Brock is a turd? Because society has standards, and laws? Because putting people down in the dirt and violating them should have consequences? Might I mention that if you, Carleen Turner, were 20 years old again, and had gotten too drunk at a party, Li’l Brock could easily have done it to you?