By Jay Sefton
Published
Monday, September 20, 2021
My slacks are too big. They’re the nicest pair I own that don’t belong to a suit that is rapidly going out of style. They are definitely slacks too. Not pants, or jeans, not even trousers, but slacks. The pullover collared shirt is in between sizes and heading in the direction of a tent. I put on weight during Covid and now I tug awkwardly at my shirt to try and keep it from hugging my sweating stomach folds, reminding me of the extra luggage I am carrying. I feel like a thirteen-year-old kid dressed up for school pictures. Eight-by-ten glossy discomfort and insecurity in slacks and a tent. Fuck, why did I put so much weight on? The line in my head is stuck on repeat, I don’t belong. I don’t belong in these clothes. I don’t belong in my body. I certainly don’t belong in Harrisburg on a Monday afternoon in September when the General Assembly isn’t even in session. The town is vacant, like the eyes of a rottweiler when you’re not sure if it will sink its teeth into you or shower you with dumb, unearned loyalty.
I got here yesterday, just in time to watch the Eagles lose to the 49ers and get into an argument with the guy from the hotel who was sent to my room because the TV, phone, and coffee maker didn’t work. It is shockingly hot for late September and as I walk the sun-tortured empty streets of the capital city, looking for the steps of the Capitol building, I become hyper-aware of the exposed skin where hair used to exist at the site of the quickly developing bald spot atop my head. I’m not someone who sweats a lot but today there are two watery lines under each newly formed breast and sweat rolling down my right temple, mixing with hair gel to leave a trace of sweet-smelling goop on my cheek. It’s an unseasonably anxious day.
The green dome of the Capitol guides me, and soon I can see the entirety of the intimidating, soulless monstrosity that has been home to the statute of limitations gridlock in Pennsylvania I have been following for almost two decades. I know the ways in which the Catholic Church and the Pennsylvania General Assembly have teamed up to deny a ‘look-back’ window to survivors of childhood sexual abuse. I understand that a bunch of other states have passed this legislation, and that Pennsylvania refuses to bring the same bill to the Senate floor for a vote.
I’m a therapist living in Massachusetts. It would seem I have no reason to be so invested in the passing of a Pennsylvania law. But I am also a survivor who grew up just outside of Philadelphia. I was abused by a parish priest who cast me to play Jesus in an eighth-grade Passion Play and then victimized me, which was his perennial pattern. I’ve been paying attention to Harrisburg politics since 2007 when the priest was defrocked and I first placed a call to the district attorney in Delaware County, Pennsylvania. This is the first time I have ever shown up to a public event as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
How long will this rally be? How many people will be here? Will I do my usual quiet thing of walking from one area of space to another, pretending to have a purpose so I don’t seem out of place? I wish I still smoked cigarettes. These days I just take a bunch of trips to the bathroom with a relaxed urgency that I hope reads as confidence.
Dude, you are a fifty-year-old man with a thriving private therapy practice. People pay money to come talk with you, or at least their insurance companies do. Pull it together! Intellectually, I know there is no reason to be this nervous. Physically, however, I can’t stop picturing my ankle twisting as I make my way down the pristine white marble steps. Tumbling faster as gravity works its magic and the steps turn crimson from the scorched crown of my head effortlessly peeling open to release its own coppery smelling goop down the left side of my face. Hi everyone, I’m Jeff. I mean Jay.
The Facebook flyer said the rally would be on the steps of the Capitol. I decided to come. I’m not sure what I am supposed to do once I get there, and now that I am here I still don’t know what to do. I’ve climbed the steps, but I don’t see any people. Are these the wrong steps? Maybe it’s cancelled. I hope it’s cancelled. I’d love to go back to the hotel room, get out of these bland, shapeless clothes, jerk off, and take a nap.
On a small side street, I see a theater marquee: Gamut Theatre — Telling classic stories in new and exciting ways — and decide to stop to check it out. What kind of theater gets made in a town as bland as my slacks? Actually, I am desperately trying to ground myself in a past life, where I was thinner, had hair on my head, and regularly landed a lead in a play. Anything to remind myself of who I was before that included opening up about childhood sexual abuse.
I take a photo of the theater and text it to my wife, Melenie. “Check it out. Looks like a nice theater. I think they only do Shakespeare here.” Another attempt to root myself in a less awkward version of me. I pull on the doors hoping I can drop in during off hours, like visiting a church on a Monday. The energies are the same — quiet and reverent, built for whispering, suggesting something important, maybe even forbidden, happens here. But I am not trespassing. I belong in a theater. I am of this tribe. I know what a ghost light is, a flat, fly space, and how to reverse the curse of mentioning the Scottish play. I can find my way around a strange theater like a mechanic working on a new engine, curious but sure-handed.
I’m deep in a fantasy of getting sidetracked in a lengthy discussion with this theater’s artistic director that will inevitably lead to her asking if I have two contrasting monologues prepared that I could do for her right now.
“Of course. I’ll do Cassius from Julius Caesar and Jackie from a little-known play called Only Kidding.”
She’ll turn on the lights as I do a quick refresher of the words and walk the stage, getting comfortable in the new space. Not having the time to overthink it, there is no pressure. It goes better than I ever imagined—alive and fresh. Afterwards, we settle into the front row and talk about their upcoming season. Could I commit to an eight-week contract? Absolutely. And yes, an apartment in town would work just fine. By the time we shake hands to go our separate ways, I suddenly realize I missed the rally. Oh, well. I need to get back to the hotel, order a copy of the play and start mapping out my rehearsal schedule.
Back in reality, however, today is a Monday in Harrisburg and the doors to the theater are locked tight. There will be no instant audition and on-the-spot job offer.
I check my phone. It is almost noon. I must go to the rally. The steps I couldn’t find earlier are on the opposite side of the building and, as I turn the corner, I see an unmistakable phalanx of cameras aimed at the top stairs of the Capitol. Everyone looks serious. I have no idea how to be here, how to just be. I’ve gotten familiar with some of the names and faces of the major players in statutes of limitations reform: Mark Rozzi, Marci Hamilton, Kathryn Robb, Kim Ward, Josh Shapiro, Governor Tom Wolf. But seeing them in person gives me the same throat lump and tight ear-ringing feeling I got the first time I said, “My name is Jay and I’m an alcoholic.” A creepy blend of the chills, a yawn, and lockjaw that makes me wish I’d never said anything in the first place.
I make my way toward the constitutional lawyer Marci Hamilton, whose straightforward fire and passion I have come to appreciate. I have absolutely no plan, happy just to see a face I recognize. She is busy unpacking her car, reviewing her notes, checking in with other people who look as though they have a purpose, too. Me? I am hovering. Lurking like an eighth-grade schoolboy who is trying to ask a girl to slow dance but can’t summon the courage. What the fuck am I doing?
“You’re Marci Hamilton, right?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Jay Sefton.” Did I say that right? I think I added and extra ‘h’ and said Shefton like I had been drinking all morning. Fuck!
“I wrote an op-ed about the constitutional amendment in TribLive and…”
“Oh yeah. I read that. Good piece. Let me introduce you to some people. They will have read it too. You know Shaun Dougherty?”
“No.”
“He’s from SNAP. Let’s start with him.”
Thursday, April 23, 2026
Harrisburg again. Melenie and I have nowhere in particular to be. We just wrapped up seven shows in three cities of Unreconciled, a solo play that I have been performing — with Melenie stage managing — for almost three years. The play is an eighty-minute story of growing up in an Irish-Catholic suburb of Philadelphia, clergy abuse, and navigating a victims’ compensation fund that was set up by the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. Our final show was at the Gamut Theater—the same venue I found myself locked out of five years earlier. The entire day opens in front of us after one quick stop at the theater to pick up something we forgot. I cringe at the idea of saying goodbyes a second time. I see I have a text message from a survivor friend. He is apologizing for not being able to make it to the Harrisburg show the night before. I totally get it. I have come to learn in the last three years that saying no and taking care of oneself are the most important things.
Marcus, the theater’s manager who I have been emailing with for the last year, meets us at the door of the Gamut with a huge smile and a handshake. Melenie and I return it with our own and reiterate how much we enjoyed the last two days working with everyone at the Gamut. Our communication leading up to yesterdays’ performance of Unreconciled was cordial and supportive, very kind but businesslike. We were a visiting company, an outside rental. Today’s exchange is different, less formal. Marcus hands us the plastic eleven-by-seventeen poster holder that we had forgotten the day before and he introduces us to the artistic director of the theatre. She thanks us for being there and says she has heard good things about our show. Marcus and Hannah, who programmed and ran the lights, walk us to the door. We say our enthusiastic but awkward goodbyes, and at the last moment Marcus says:
“Maybe you can audition for our season next year.”
Hannah chimes in, “I was thinking the same thing.”
“I would love to!” And I would.
I have become friends over the last year with a man whose family has been profoundly impacted by the issue of clergy abuse. They aren’t even Catholic. He has seen my show three times in the last week, and after our performance last night at the Gamut, he burst into tears and thanked me. I started to cry, too, and we hugged each other. How can something that was the source of so much shame and pain become this moment? My rage has turned into joy through the process of telling my story of abuse. Who is this version of me? Sometimes I see my hands out of the corner of my eyes during a post-show discussion, and I think — Who do those hands belong to? Who is talking? I feel gratitude and purpose like I never have before. I decide not to question it.
Jay Sefton is a Licensed Mental Health Counselor living and working in Easthampton, Massachusetts with his wife Melenie and cat Louie. He is also the co-author and performer of the play Unreconciled and executive director of The Unreconciled Project. For more information visit unreconciledtheplay.com