While the victim’s lower torso was naked, the group again restrained him and removed his shirt. The girl began recording a video using her handphone. The group hung the victim’s pants on a sheltered walkway and hid his underwear in the bushes, ignoring his plea for them to stop. The other 16-year-old friend undid the victim’s belt and pulled down his pants and underwear. The 16-year-old boy then held the victim’s arms while the 20-year-old pinned his legs. He shouted, “faster come and pull his pants”. The 16-year-old accused then came up with the idea to pull down the victim’s pants, and his two male friends agreed to join in.Īt about 12.45am the next day, the 20-year-old man restrained the victim, pulling him to the ground. The court documents did not state if the victim was acquainted with anyone in the group. The victim, who passed by the pit on his e-scooter, approached the group to say hello. On 3 March last year, at about 11pm, the trio, a 14-year-old girl, and a male known as “Ninja”, were celebrating one of their birthdays at a barbecue pit in Yishun. None of the parties can be named to protect the identity of the victim.
The 16-year-old accused pleaded guilty to a charge of molest on Tuesday (23 November) and a probation suitability report was called for him. The trio then recorded two videos, one of which was circulated on social media.
They then hid his underwear and hung his pants along a walkway. The 16-year-old Singaporean boy restrained the victim, also 16, with two male friends, 20 and 16, while one of them undid the victim's belt and pulled down his pants.
SINGAPORE - A teenager hatched a plan to pull down another boy’s pants and got his friends to join in the bullying. Their Kickstarter campaign to build will remain live until Wednesday, April 16.A boy hugging himself on a bed. Along with Alysia Abbott, author of Fairyland: A Memoir of My Father, she is launching The Recollectors, a storytelling forum and digital community for people who have lost parents to AIDS. Whitney Joiner is a senior editor at Marie Claire magazine. And all he would’ve had to say in return was: I am. “I asked Mom once if you were gay,” I would have said. I wish I could have known that some part of him accepted-and was proud of-who he was. I’m not angry about it I just wish it had gone differently. It was probably one of the hardest conversations he’d had in his 38 years. He sent me a starstruck postcard from London exclaiming, “Guess what? You know Jimmy Somerville from Erasure? I met him at a club here!!” (Never mind that Somerville was actually in Bronski Beat, another of Dad’s favorites.) But to actually let me in-to sit on that blue blanket, look me in the eye and tell me he was gay-was something he couldn’t do. When he went to see Truth or Dare with his hairdresser, Mickey, he told me about it. In some ways I think Dad was on the verge of coming out to me back then. “Something like that,” he answered.Įvery once in a while, my brother and I talk about the what-ifs: What if Dad had held out a little longer, if the drugs had been approved a little earlier, if time and the eventual softening of our culture would have softened him? Would he be meeting me for dinner in New York? Would I be flying to visit him in Louisville or Lexington with his middle-aged partner? “Like leukemia?” I once asked, as we drove away from the doctor’s office, thinking of the hokey Lurlene McDaniels books scattered around my middle school classrooms, in which innocent cheerleaders bravely fought some sort of cancer or another, hoping to get one kiss before they died. I knew he’d had some kind of “blood problem” for a while he’d explained that much when we accompanied him to get his blood drawn during our summers together. Since my brother and I spent most of our time with my mother and stepfather, two hours from Dad in a small town south of Louisville, his life seemed far away when we weren’t with him. Dad taught business law at Eastern Kentucky University and served as a deacon at our church. I didn’t want to know.įor the previous four months, my father had been in and out of the hospital in Lexington, Ky., half an hour from this rented duplex in Richmond, where he’d lived since he and my mother divorced three years earlier. I didn’t know what he was going to tell me. We sat on the itchy baby-blue blanket on my bed in the room I shared with my 8-year-old brother. On a Saturday afternoon in April 1992, when I was 13, my father told me we needed to talk.