He Ain't Heavy. He's a Child Molester. - OZY | A Modern Media Company

He Ain't Heavy. He's a Child Molester.

He Ain't Heavy. He's a Child Molester.

By David Derby



Because life is never as easy as it seems, and it never really seemed easy anyway.

By David Derby

As if the current climate of the world wasn’t confrontational enough … I kind of tapped into an issue that used to be clear to me, but now simply has me confused. And today the consequences of being confused and making the wrong choice can get you deleted, or labeled, fast. Not wanting to be misconstrued, I almost used a pseudonym for this article but finally chose not to, so please give me a break as I try to sort this.

First off, I am no angel. I’ve been arrested probably 40 times in my life, though nothing since 2003. But I went to prison when I was 18.

I was very small. However, I’d just placed second at the state boxing championships at 125 pounds and I had wrestled at 118 pounds in college until I flunked out.

…[G]oing to visit him, I really wanted to hear him tell me it was a lie. That he was framed. It wasn’t him on videotape.

But a guy warned me that a fella had said he was going to rape me.

Later he asked me to give him my shoes. I wore size 8.5. He was 6 feet tall and over 200 pounds. Safe to say: He didn’t just want my shoes.

Back then when you went to prison, you wore your street shoes. I didn’t play basketball, I wrestled, so I had wrestling shoes. Lime green bottoms. “Split Seconds” they were called. “Train hard, win in Split Seconds!” And the soles were split on bottom.

If I were younger, I probably would tell this differently, but I will be honest: I was scared to death. The other inmate was actually incarcerated for rape so I knew he was good for it. He wasn’t bluffing.

Eventually, the moment came and I defended myself. Nervously.

I used a double leg takedown and took my larger opponent down with ease. I had one of his arms behind his back in a “chicken wing” for what seemed like forever. I punched him in the side of face and head.

I really couldn’t do much damage back then, but I controlled him until the guard moseyed on down. I almost got in trouble. I can’t tell you why, but I guess I was too embarrassed to admit why we were fighting, even though I clearly won our “bout.” But I kind of got religion in prison.

Which is to say, when I got out I really changed up my lifestyle. Heck, I probably would have gotten into the ministry, but I like big butts, I cannot lie. Anyway, a few years later, I was winning competitive fights and being “good,” so a local pastor would have me go with him to visit other inmates. I guess because I could relate. One week I went to visit I heard a friend of mine was locked up.

For molesting children. Babies. In the church nursery.

The leaders of the church, at one point, noticed the deacon nod for his son to come back into the nursery. Thinking this was strange, they later put in a video camera and then caught the father and the 19-year-old schoolmate of mine going from crib to crib fondling babies.

It’s hard for me to even say he was my friend. But he had been. At one time I liked him. So going to visit him, I really wanted to hear him tell me it was a lie. That he was framed. It wasn’t him on videotape.

It didn’t go that way at all.


David Derby preaching to the prisoners.

We had the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had in my life. He told me how his dad, the deacon, jailed in another cell, used to have sex with him.

He was crying as he told me about the torment in his mind, the nightmares he had at 7 or 8 years old. And, he told me, he couldn’t quit. Which he hated himself for. But he said the need to fondle was as strong as needing food or water.

I’m a young man, and faced with this I am clueless about what to say or do. In boxing, you find a way to win, though, so I asked, “Can we castrate you?” He replied he would use his hands or his mouth.

I began to cry. I tried not to. I’m a fighter and tough, but I had zero training for this. He said he just wanted to die. I didn’t know what to say. I told him I heard if you kill yourself, you go to hell.

He replied, “I am in hell!”

He did years. I had kids.

It’s hard to tell you that I felt empathy for … for a damned child molester. But I did. And I am still not sure where I stand on this. Part of me feels the pain of some damaged soul who had horrible demons placed upon his soul. But part of me also remembers him telling me he couldn’t stop, even if he was castrated.

I wonder which way Democrats and Republicans would go on the issue? Or Baptists and Catholics?

I saw him years later. After he got out. He seemed hurt, embarrassed. I remember it was at a Hooters showing of a UFC fight. I was with a woman and I was a pro fighter then.

“Let’s leave.” But the main event hasn’t started?

He and I made eye contact. I walked over and put my hand on him. Was I being sympathetic? Or was the father in me letting him know “I’ll hurt you”?

On the ride home, my date asked me, “David? Derby? Are you … crying? Are you … mad? Or … sad?” I still don’t know.

But last I heard he had committed suicide. July 30, 2020.

Is the world a better place? Was it ever?

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