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Introduction and
Background:
I sent this manuscript to my editor at Routledge Publishers in September 2004.
Unfortunately, I was very late in meeting my deadline for many reasons,
especially my intense involvement in initiating a campaign against the richest
landlord in Berkeley (after UC Berkeley) for his 15-year exploitation of minor
sexual slaves imported from India -- among other crimes.
My editor had just quit her position at Routledge to accept a job at the New York
University Press, so my manuscript remained unread while Routledge searched for a new
editor. By January of 2005, a new editor had still not been hired, so I
wrote to Mary McGinnis, the Vice President of Routledge to ask her what I
should do about this. I feared if I revised the manuscript before I had
an editor, she might well request that I revise it yet again. Ms.
McGinnis told me to go ahead and revise it. Meanwhile, she
said she would also like to see my manuscript.
Less than a week later, she called me and declared
that, "There is no way that Routledge will be associated with a book of this nature." "Why
not?" I asked her. "It's
the branding issue," she replied.
"What
do you mean?" I asked her, but she didn't explain. I interpreted her statement to mean that she didn't want Routledge to become
known for publishing such a shocking book. It included many sexually
explicit child pornography stories written for pedophiles, as well as
descriptions
of child pornography, including gross cartoons, all of which were legal.
I told Ms. McGinnis that I was willing to remove the material that bothered her,
but she insisted that she had discussed the issue with members of the staff,
and she wasn't willing to reconsider. She resolutely held to her
position despite my continued pleas. Since my manuscript was late, I had
broken our contract, so I knew she would have this excuse to disregard it.
Of course, this wasn't a genuine concern for her, since she had told me that I
should go ahead and revise my manuscript. She said that she would
help me find another publisher for this book. However, she did not
follow through on this promise.
I contacted my previous editor at New York University Press to ask if she and this
publishing house would be interested in publishing Stolen Innocence. It so happened
that New York University Press had published the major social scientific book on child pornography in
recently. So she said that there would be no interest in publishing a book
that would be in competition with this volume.
I considered suing Routledge for breach of contract, since the lateness issue
was obviously not the real reason for refusing to give me a chance to revise
my manuscript. A respected colleague advised me not to, because she
believed this would make it next to impossible to find another publisher, as
well as jeopardizing publishers' interest in future projects of mine.
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Preface:
Child Pornography and Molestation: My Personal Experience
I was 11 years old when I saw my first piece of child pornography.
I was living in Cape Town, South Africa, where I was born, and traveling by train to my Saturday morning ballet class (I believe the year
was 1950). The train was very empty that day. I was sitting alone next to a window in an empty compartment when a stocky, white
middle-aged man entered it at a station along the way. He sat at the window seat opposite me.
It wasn't long before he initiated a conversation by asking me about where I
was going, where I lived, whether I had any brothers and sisters, and so on.
I answered his questions politely, until he stumped me with one I
didn't understand:
"Do you ever practice with your brothers?" he asked.
"Excuse me, what did you say?" I asked, embarrassed.
"Do you ever practice with your brothers?" he asked again.
I queried him once or twice more, only to get the same incomprehensible
question. My embarrassment increased with each repetition. I felt at fault for not understanding him; after all, he obviously expected me
to. I couldn't bear to ask him another time.
"Yes," I answered, hoping this would end the matter.
"I practice with my niece," the man volunteered.
"Would you like to see a picture of her?"
"Yes," I replied politely.
The
man took an enlarged picture out of his briefcase of a nude young girl, her
nipples tinted pink, looking sweetly at the viewer.
Horrors! At last I
understood that he had been asking me if I "practiced" intercourse
with my brothers. I inwardly
cringed with shock and mortification, but fancied that I managed to keep a
stiff upper lip. How strange that
I didn't want him to know how I was feeling -- as if I had to respond to his
normalization of what he was doing to his niece by colluding with it.
Once
I understood what the man was talking about, I was distressed that I had
finally answered his question about "practicing" with my brothers in
the affirmative. Being sexual with anyone was totally forbidden outside of marriage in the Victorian-like
society in which I lived. Incest
was infinitely more wicked. Furthermore,
I was unaware of having any sexual feelings at all -- which made his questions
to me all the more strange. It
didn't occur to me to say: "Well, if that's what you meant by practicing,
I assure you I would never do such a thing!!"
Instead, I felt trapped in the situation.
Trapped by the norm of politeness and submissiveness to adults. I don't believe I had ever defied my parents or any other
adults at that time. And needless
to say, I had never been warned about the need to watch out for nasty
strangers who might want to do bad things to me.
At
last another man entered the train and sat down in our compartment.
What a relief! The man was
sure to stop talking about sex now. Then
the most amazing thing happened. The
man suggested we move to another compartment, and I demurely followed him
there! Once again, I was alone
with him. Although I didn't want
to follow him, I didn't know how to refuse.
Defying him was out of the question.
Making a scene in front of the other man was even more unthinkable. Isolated with him once more, the man proceeded to the next
step.
"Can
I feel your breasts?" he asked me. I
was wearing a dress with a little peterpan collar that hugged my neck.
I can still remember it vividly today -- as I fancy I can also remember
the incident -- the first experience of sexual abuse that I can remember. It had a pattern of small green flowers with pale yellow
centers on a white background, and sported an all green collar.
My skirt was short -- as was typical for young girls' dresses in those
days.
"Yes,"
was the answer to the man that came out of me.
He cupped his hands over my tiny mounds covered by my dress.
It would have been a difficult feat for him to get at my bare breasts
if he chose to remain in a seductive mode of progressing a little step at a
time. Little, for him,
that is. For me, each step was a
gigantic leap into further violation. I
think he complimented me on my fine little breasts.
I seem to remember the man once more seeking my permission to look at
my privates -- although I can't remember what word he used to describe them.
If so, I consented again. The
man then raised my skirt with one hand, and with the other, he pulled my
panties to one side at the crotch to gaze at my little hairless pubis (mons?).
"How beautiful," he said, or some such thing.
Oh! The awful discomfort!
The embarrassment! The
shame! The longing for it to be
over. I felt completely helpless,
as if I had no way out. I was
imprisoned by my inability to rebel; to defy him; to be rude.
It simply never occurred to me that I didn't have to tolerate his
behavior -- let alone give him permission to violate me.
Despite
my very submissive behavior toward the man's sexual abuse, I didn't lose
awareness of the train's progress toward my destination.
After what seemed an eternity, it arrived.
What an incredible relief! At
last, I had no difficulty telling the man I had to leave, and disembarking the
train. He did nothing to stop me.
I still wonder today, how far he would have proceeded in his sexual
violation had the train's arrival at my station not rescued me from my
behavioral paralysis. At what
point would I have finally become defiant?
And -- assuming I would have -- how would he have reacted?
There's no way of knowing.
From
the station, I embarked on the walk to the ballet school.
During my walk, I was in turmoil and shock about what had happened.
I felt violated yet guilty. I
felt responsible, yet not responsible. I felt terrible confusion, and lots of
shame! I felt sullied.
My most private parts had been touched by this man.
It was so different to the time when my twin brother and I and two
neighbor boys exposed our genitals to each other out of curiosity.
My twin and I were still bathing together, so our curiosity was totally
focused on the neighbor boys, and theirs on me.
This was a fun experience. It
was an equal exchange that we all wanted to engage in.
When
I arrived at ballet school, it didn't occur to me to tell my kind and
wonderful ballet teacher what had happened.
Nor did I spend a moment contemplating whether or not I would tell my
mother. Telling anyone was out of
the question, so no decision was required.
A
few things were absolutely clear and unambiguous for me, and always have been:
I didn't like the look of the nasty, ugly man who sat opposite me in the
train; I hated seeing the photo of his niece and realizing for the first time
that some family members have sex together, but I hated the sexual violation
much, much more.
My
body participated in the ballet class -- but my mind was preoccupied with what
had happened on the train. I went
through the dance movements as if in a trance.
When the class ended, I had to retrace my steps: walk, train ride, walk
to my home. I could think of
nothing besides my violation on my journey home and for many days thereafter.
But I stopped thinking about it as time went by.
Some
might wonder why I didn't get out of the train before my ballet school station
in order to escape from the man sooner. The
answer is that the "good girl" that I was, didn't consider missing
my class or arriving late. How
would I have explained either of these circumstances to my mother or my
teacher? Nor did it occur to me
to lie to them that I had missed the train because lying wasn't something that
I did then.
Years
later, I and my sister, who is three years older than me, shared our
experiences of sexual abuse on the train.
She had many more than I did, but none of them were as traumatic for
her as mine was for me. I felt no anxiety that she might blame me for my passivity
toward my perpetrator, and I'm sure she was equally confident that I wouldn't
blame her. After talking to
my sister, I began talking about my experience easily and openly with others.
I was by this time completely devoid of shame or self-blame.
I no longer expected to be blamed for what had happened, and I never
have been. I arrived at this
place on my own. I don't remember
anything about the psychological work that I must have done to free myself of
the negative attitudes I had harbored about my role in my own sexual abuse.
I can only vouch for the radical and healthy understanding about it
that I had achieved. Had I been
blamed, I believe I would have been very angry.
I feel sure that I wouldn't have reacted by doubting myself -- only
doubting the blamer.
I'm
not aware of any lasting negative effects of my abuse by the man in the train.
Since my life's work is about understanding the prevalence and harm of
all kinds of sexual violence against women and girls, my first experience of
sexual abuse gave me many valuable insights into many children's inability to
defy their perpetrators. For
example, it is imperative to understand that just because many children react
submissively toward their perpetrators, this doesn't indicate that they wanted
the experience, enjoyed it, consented to it, or that they weren't traumatized
by it.
Many
psychiatrists and other members of the mental health profession who have
worked with survivors of child sexual abuse -- particularly in the past --
have made the same error as pedophiles in mislabeling such children as
"seductive" or "colluding" or "consenting" to
the sexual abuse imposed upon them. It
is easy to see how many adults who do not understand sexual abuse from a
victim's perspective, could draw the wrong conclusion.
Had I not had my distressing experience at the age of 11 or so, I would
probably have made the very same errors.
My experience taught me that children who are accustomed to obeying
"grown ups" and behaving politely toward them will also manifest
this behavior when subjected to sexual abuse by adults.
At least, this is the case when there is no education at school or at
home about how to handle such experiences assertively.
I
didn't know the word pornography or that any such phenomenon existed when the
man in the train showed me the picture of his niece. It was a picture of a
lovely young girl, not a crude crotch shot in Larry Flynt style. I have
sometimes wondered if this early exposure had anything to do with my
passionate aversion to pornography that started when I was exposed to
mainstream pornographic movies in the late sixties that were considered
fashionably avant guarde (like Sweden's "I am Curious Yellow").
I have been working to combat pornography from 1974 until today.
This
book is a critical step forward in my campaign and is particularly meaningful
to me because it speaks on behalf of those who cannot speak for themselves.
Through this work, I will examine child pornography as a media form, a
business, a cultural phenomenon, and a gender-based pathology, and I will
demonstrate its clear and indisputable links to the traumatizing sexual abuse
of countless children.
Stolen Innocence is a companion volume to Dangerous Relationships. However, instead of focusing on the relationship between adult
pornography and rape, Stolen Innocence will focus on the relationship
between child pornography and child sexual abuse. In both of these books, large sections are devoted to descriptions of
pornographic pictures followed by analytical comments on each of them. In an earlier publication -- Against
Pornography: The Evidence of Harm (1994) -- I instead reprinted over 100
examples of pornographic pictures. There
is no question that viewing the pictures has a much greater impact, and is
therefore vastly preferable, than reading descriptions of them. However the catch was that no publishers were willing to risk being
sued for my failure to obtain permission from the pornographers to reprint
their pictures. Paying for them was out of the question for many reasons: it
would have been prohibitively expensive; it would have contributed to the
profits of pornographers -- which I had no desire to do; neither Hustler
nor Playboy were willing to grant me permission; my information on
publication sources was sometimes completely missing, sometimes partially
missing (e.g. the date of publication), making it impossible for even the
pornography magazines to locate the picture.