EMILY PRATT SLATIN

About

Press Kit

Notebook

Music Playlist

She/Her/Hers Lesbian

Retired Career Fire and EMS Lieutenant-Specialist, Writer, and Master Photographer, living in Vermont.

A Second Homecoming

October 28, 2026—Buffalo, New York (Amelia's House)

I'm back in Western New York, visiting Amelia at her new house for the first time. She needs some help with her washing machine and plumbing, so naturally, I brought my tools.

Amelia has moved to the same region where Mom was born and raised, and where nearly everyone on her side of the family spent their entire lives. With the exception of my two cousins, everyone is gone, and I never hear from anyone in my family anymore.

Mom left me last year. Amelia left me this year. Now I've found myself back in Western New York, visiting Amelia in the place where generations of my mother's family lived and died.

My grandparents owned a farm at 8750 Hebdon Road in West Valley, New York, where they built a brick ranch-style house. When I was a little girl, I spent my summers there, and some of my happiest childhood memories are associated with the place. Sadly, I haven't been back in many years.

We would stay up in the living room gathered around a television set the size of a laptop computer monitor watching Unsolved Mysteries, which meant remembering which direction the antenna on the roof needed to be pointed.

At the end of the hallway, the very last bedroom on the right was where my cousin James and I slept. We had bunk beds. I slept on the bottom, and James slept on the top. We spent countless evenings laughing ourselves silly over things we read in Mad magazine, which my grandmother was convinced would rot our young minds.

James and I discovered that scratching the popcorn ceiling produced little white flakes that resembled snow. Naturally, we thought this was hilarious, so we spent a considerable amount of time making it snow inside our bedroom, leaving quite a mess on the rug.

The best part about those summers was the complete absence of structure. There were no scheduled activities or organized entertainment. James and I were perfectly capable of finding our own amusement, and we rarely had trouble coming up with something interesting.

We would take the boat out in the pond on the property for no reason. My dog Emma would jump in the pond then get stuck in the mud trying to get back out.

One summer, we somehow managed to make our way to the county fair. I have absolutely no idea how we got there or how we managed to return to my grandparents' farm, but we figured it out. We returned with a large brown paper bag full of firecrackers.

My grandparents, aunt, and uncle allowed us to light them off in the backyard, where James and I proceeded to recreate scenes we'd watched on television during the 1980s. We used our toys as props, and thought that blowing them up was an entirely reasonable form of entertainment.

Unfortunately, as the years went by, my summers at the farm were replaced by summer camp. My father insisted that I attend camp and take tennis lessons, neither of which interested me in the slightest. I would much rather have been at the farm with James, riding motocross bikes, driving tractors, and finding increasingly ridiculous ways to entertain ourselves.

I've often felt that my father was deliberately trying to separate me from Mom's side of the family in an attempt to mold me into the person he wanted me to become. I resented being taken away from a place where I was happy and sent somewhere I didn't particularly want to be.

Western New York would eventually become the setting for another part of my childhood. From 1994 through 1998, I attended boarding school in the same region where I'd once spent so much time with Mom's family.

During those years, I was raped and sexually abused at boarding school. I reported the abuse to both of my parents, telling them exactly what had been done to me, when it had happened, and who was responsible. Neither parent could claim that I hadn't told them what was happening. They contacted the school, and meetings were held to address my allegations.

The person at the school who sexually abused me denied what had happened. Rather than accepting my account or taking steps to remove me from the situation, the school accused me of "making up stories again." I was disciplined for reporting the abuse.

Both of my parents knew that I had reported being raped and sexually abused. Both participated in addressing the allegations with the school. And both ultimately decided that I would remain enrolled at the same institution.

And this was not an isolated incident. It began shortly after I arrived and didn’t stop until I ultimately left. I remember one time in grade nine when I came home for Christmas vacation and had a fantastic Christmas, and then as the days grew closer to the day when I would be returning to boarding school, for the first time ever, I seriously considered taking my own life simply to avoid going back.

This was something I carried with me for the remainder of Mom's life. We had an extraordinary friendship, and in many ways, she was the greatest mother I could have ever asked for. But there was one decision she made that I could never reconcile with the love and friendship we shared.

On her deathbed, I told her exactly how I felt. I told her that although she had been the greatest mom I could have asked for, particularly because of the friendship we'd shared throughout my life, I would never, ever forgive her for keeping me enrolled at boarding school when she knew full well that I was being raped and sexually abused.

The school felt more like punishment than education, It was designed to break children. My first night was spent alone in the dormitory. Then the next morning, I was told to take a shower in the gymnasium locker room. Then I realized that the school had locked me and the rest of the students out. We were instructed to go to the dining hall, and take all of the supplies, food, and camping equipment to the top of the ski hill behind the school. There was a lot to move, and we ended up making two trips. Once camp was setup, the teachers handed out all of our “allowed food” for the night.

A teacher yelled at me because I ended up accidentally taking two slices of American cheese for my cheeseburger instead of one. He ended up becoming my senior year English teacher, and became my favorite teacher at the school, and someone I genuinely respected. One of the requirements to graduate from the school was to take a three-day weekend camping trip.

The same teacher loaded twelve of us into a van. We drive to somewhere in Canada, where we are told to unload all of the canoes, and equipment into the water while the teachers supervise. Oh and there was a catch. We were not allowed to eat until we reached our destination, which was an island nearly 4 miles away, where we were to hike to the top and then we would be allowed to eat lunch.

It was at that moment that I lost all respect for my English teacher and from that moment on, regarded him as my enemy for the way in which he treated us. We finally get our lunch which was nothing more than a loaf of white bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of grape jelly. I got the last two pieces of bread, because the boys had all taken three slices each. I got yelled at again for taking what was perceived as being more peanut butter and jelly than everyone else.

I haven’t been back to Buffalo since Amelia and I went out to see my friend from boarding school who lived in Buffalo. Him and I had been friends for many years, and used to spend a lot of time at his mom’s house in Tonawanda. He ended up having an out of control daughter who verbally threatened Amelia in my presence. And I of course, took Amelia’s side. My friend and I haven’t spoken since.

I’ve asked Amelia to take me back to some of the places I remember from back then. I don't think closure always has to mean constantly dwelling on the past. Sometimes it means finally reaching a point where you can stop searching, stop revisiting the same disappointments, and simply enjoy what remains meaningful.

And in this case, this is the place where Amelia wants to live, and I respect her decision—I still love her. I consider her one of my best friends, and miss her.