Phil Bonadies, like all of us, has nuance. He raises his kids playing soccer along yours, spins at Los Gatos Swim and Racquet Club, cares pridefully for his roses and family cars, cooks organic food with ingredients from Whole Foods. He says, "Hi," hires neighborhood kids to do IT projects, waves as you drive by, gives recommendations for wines. The backyard here has hosted birthday parties and wedding receptions and “fellowships,” what Phil and his wife, Karen, call the church services they ran and that many of you old timers were invited to.
He’s also raped women inside that front room. The one with the plain rectangular window; if you peer inside, you may still see the gun safe, the framed coins representing a Biblical woman’s faith hanging beside it, closet door open. If you listen closely, you may still hear the whir of the fax machine right below you, the sobs of young women sitting in the “crying chair”- manipulated into sharing their heartaches and pains with a predatory man. I was lured here that way, too. I called Phil, at my parents’ suggestion, to ask him what he knew about San Francisco and Seattle. The Vermonter in me knew little about the West Coast, and I was taught that he’d know the spiritual stability of those cities. “Come here,” he said, “and get your feet underneath you.” I contemplated. I had very little money to make this cross country move, and he was offering friends my age who had moved nearby to start expanding the fellowship’s reach. Not a fan of suburban life, I hesitated, but the grooming I had received in a lifetime of cultic religion had set me up for my life changing “yes.” I grew up visiting this home, sharing mine with them, too. Karen introduced Phil and my dad in college; they became truest heart friends over basketball and the Bible. When I landed here in 2003, Phil and Karen learned my tastes in food and taught me they cared for me through cheese. Phil loved to overpour the wine, and I learned that it would blunt the discomfort of our interactions. They had me share a bedroom with their youngest daughter, Katie, as Phil showed us he had a say in where we lived, how we cleaned the house, how we walked up the staircase, the daily ins and outs of our lives. They slowly sowed doubt about my familial relationships, my natural body shape, my ability to pray, my intimate relationships, my skills to build a career, my finances. The list is endless, honestly. In that room with the plain rectangular window, Phil sexually assaulted me at least twice. The first time, I ate cheese at the peninsula in the kitchen and was attacked from behind in the office closet. He shoved me into the shelves, forced me to my knees, stood above me; when he was done with his violence, he stepped back toward his desk. “You can go home now,” he said, looking down at me as I crawled out from the tiny space. “No one will believe you,” he mentioned. I looked at him. He was right. My community believes Phil, and other men trained as ministers in The Way International, are righteous, knowledgeable authorities and that the beautiful women they surrounded themselves with are lucky to be in their presence. This organization, a recognized cult, has significant claims of sexual and spiritual abuse, dating back to the 1970s. In this community, these are swept under the rug and brushed aside as “how men behave.” Is that how your community behaves? Where a man “teaches” sexually starved young women, who believe him to be a friend and mentor, by forcing his fingers inside their vaginas while asking, “Do you like it?” “Let me show you something,” he commanded right before the second assault, as he bent me over his desk and shoved his hand up my skirt. I had arrived intending to rebuild the church database; this was not the way I wanted to volunteer. For years, these events swirled in my brain as I dissociated from the abuse. I was not safe to speak about this shame; I knew I would be called a slut, accused of an affair, humiliated and called out. Worse though, I was embarrassed that part of me liked this, in some strange way. There was an ego built in by years of living in this structure. Being close to Phil gave me power and access. I liked that he, powerful Phil surrounded by gorgeous women, had chosen me for this horrible demonstration. When he asked me that question, forever echoing in my mind, I froze. In some way, my mind told me I liked the touch of his fingers but it also knew I didn’t like him, so why were his fingers in me? I didn't know that this is common predatory behavior, because it tricks the victim into submission. I’ve been frozen, parts of my mind and body and soul, ever since. It is not my job to protect you from Phil Bonadies, Karen Bonadies, or the predatory and willfully ignorant people who they surround themselves with under the guise of Christianity, love, prosperity, fitness, etc... It was Phil’s job not to sexually assault me or my friends, at least eight of us; his job to keep his hands and other parts to himself. It was the local church’s job to address this when a woman came forward in 2013 with similar accusations and stories of significant spiritual abuse or when I did in 2019. It was Bayside Fellowship past board members Randall Micek and Lee Patch and recent board members Erin Armstrong Micek and Jessica Bader Boyd's jobs to address this matter instead of covering it up and victim blaming. It was the national church’s job to address this when I came forward publicly in 2019. It was Los Gatos Police Department and Wayne Boom and Felicia and the Santa Clara County District Attorney’s office to investigate this and protect the community. It was the media’s job to run the story when I reached out to say, “We are being hurt and silenced.” It is the Town of Los Gatos' and our society’s jobs to say, “Our culture’s acceptance of rape must change.” These have not happened, and the systems’ blatant disregard for victims, women, anyone not white, rich, male is too much to bear alone. So here I am. The last way I know how to tell you that your neighbor is a rapist. That you are not safe in this home or around the people called Bayside Fellowship. The last way I know to take back the power I was stripped of in this home all those years ago, not knowing how dangerous Phil Bonadies is. I know now and stand here today, informed, making one last attempt toward justice. My rapist, Phil Bonadies, lives here: Benedict Lane, Los Gatos, CA 95032. |
Emily StewartEmily (she/her) is an educator, artist, and activist. She lives on Ohlone land in California. ArchivesCategories |