All children should be conscious of strangers, and be discriminating and wary of them. This won’t make them grow up suspicious as long as they have adults around whom they know and can trust: relatives, friends of their parents, parents of friends. – Newsweek magazine, January 10th, 1994
96% of all “abducted children” are “kidnapped” by family members (nearly always with the “victim’s” consent) and 3% by family friends; furthermore, 80% of sexual assaults of children and 90% of those of adolescent girls are committed by someone the victim knows. The neofeminist model of “rape as hate crime” is totally unable to explain this without resorting to bizarre “rape culture” rhetoric of the sort discussed in my column of one year ago today, but those who recognize that human sexuality is dark and chthonian and animalistic understand it quite well. I’ve been thinking about my teen years a great deal lately, and recalled the time I escaped what might have been a sexual assault; as you will see, the episode turns the hysterical “child predator” narrative on its ear, because it was a relative and some acquaintances of my own age who threatened me, and a strange adult man who rescued me.
As I’ve mentioned before, my paternal grandmother (Maman) used to pay me a generous twenty dollars to mow her lawn once per week; after I was done and had cooled off a bit, I always walked to the convenience store about a kilometer away to buy comic books (there were no comic book stores in small-town Louisiana back then). I have always been a creature of habit, and did this the same way every single week; it never occurred to me that someone might use that predictable schedule to set up an ambush. Upon leaving Maman’s house, I would pass through the gate connecting her backyard with that of her younger sister; the house next to my aunt’s was owned by one of her cousins, whose son (a sullen boy with the rather odd nickname “Chicken”) was thus my third cousin. He was a year older than me, and though we had never been particularly close he had never hurt me in any way, and used to be part of the mixed-sex group of kids that had always played together in that neighborhood when we were younger. Another boy I’ll call “Stan” was the same age as Chicken, but we were classmates because I had skipped a grade; he lived with his grandparents next door to Maman, and Chicken’s father was his maternal uncle. Another boy called “Skip” lived two doors down on the other side, and I had always considered he and Stan my friends.
One mowing day in the summer of 1979, I had cut through my aunt’s yard to the back street as usual; it was late afternoon, perhaps an hour before sunset, and as I walked my usual route I saw Chicken, Stan, Skip and two other boys on the side of the street ahead of me. I didn’t really think much about it; though both of the other boys (whom I’ll call John and Tony) had unsavory reputations and I did not like the way Tony stared at me whenever he was nearby, I assumed the presence of the first three counteracted any possibility of danger. It’s strange to think I was ever that naïve, but I was too young to understand pack behavior and the effect a nubile young virgin in cutoffs and a halter top might have on such a pack; my initial reaction when Chicken and Tony stepped out in front of me was therefore annoyance rather than fear. I tried to pass to Chicken’s right, and was blocked by John (a pipsqueak who was shorter than I was); I realized Stan and Skip had closed in behind me. And then Chicken reached out to touch my neck, apparently in an attempt to untie my halter top. I pushed his hand away, and he slapped my face so hard it knocked me to the ground.
Now I was afraid; clearly Chicken was not going to let blood kinship come between him and what he wanted, and considering the rather nasty rumors I had heard about John and his twin sister I could guess where he got the idea. Tony was obviously in on the plan as well, but I still couldn’t understand why Skip and Stan weren’t helping me. I tried to get up, and Chicken pushed me back down with his foot; the others seemed content to watch for the time being, except for Tony stopping me when I tried to move in his direction. I’m not sure if I said anything, but Chicken slapped me again and then I started crying…which is undoubtedly what saved me. I think they were all too young to have become hardened sadists yet, and the sight of a girl sobbing due to their actions seemed to disarm them; Stan started saying “Come on, y’all, leave her alone”, and Skip backed away and gave me room to pass. None of them pursued me as I quickly walked away, and I didn’t look back to see what they were doing.
I had stopped crying by the time I got to the store, but as I stood at the rack picking my comics I started worrying; what if the three really bad ones ditched Stan and Skip and were waiting for me? It would be dark soon, and even if I went back by a different route they might be waiting outside to follow me. My father coached Little League in the summer, so the whole family would be at the ball park until quite late, and cell phones were still almost two decades in the future; Maman had never learned to drive. There were probably a dozen other people I could have called, but I was upset and frightened and not thinking clearly, and I hadn’t even realized that both my lip and one knee were bleeding. The clerk had been busy with another customer when I came in, but as I approached the register he asked, “What happened? Are you OK?” and I instantly started crying again.
There was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, approaching the counter; I could see the concern in his face as he asked me, “Aren’t you P____ McNeill’s little girl?” I nodded my head. He told me he worked with my father, and that he recognized me from a meeting a few years before that I didn’t remember. He asked what had happened, and I told him between sobs; I also explained as coherently as I could that I was afraid to walk back to Maman’s. Then he asked, “Why don’t you let me give you a ride back?”
Even in those less-paranoid days kids knew better than to get into cars with strangers, and I told him so. “I understand, and I don’t blame you for being afraid,” he replied; “if you prefer I’ll wait here with you while you call someone to come and get you.” He had very gentle eyes, and my instinct was to trust him; it was also getting dark and I just wanted to get back to Maman’s as soon as possible. The clerk (who was a local boy I knew in passing) also assured me that the gentleman was in the store quite frequently, and that he knew his family; I decided to take the risk. The drive was short and direct, and he chit-chatted about my father to help calm me; in just a couple of minutes we were pulling into Maman’s driveway, and when I thanked him he assured me that he was glad to help.
Needless to say, Maman was livid; she was on the phone with Chicken’s mother as soon as she had cleaned me up, and though I don’t know what punishment he received I do know he always gave me a wide berth thereafter. I decided it was best to say nothing about Stan and Skip, since they had reconsidered in time to save me, and from then on I rode my bicycle to the store via the main street rather than walking via the back. By springtime I was so busy with high school Maman decided to let a younger grandchild have a turn at the lucrative mowing job, and I decided I was too old for comic books anyway (a decision I reconsidered about eight years ago). But though I don’t remember my knight’s name, I still clearly recall his kind face with the John Lennon glasses and haircut, and I hope he still remembers the young damsel he rescued on a summer evening so long ago.
I’m sorry this happened to you.
I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s what all of us learn, one way or another, growing up.
But at least you were able to process it well, to put the fear and hurt into proportion. Some do, some never do, and we end up with anti-sex crusading women. I can’t explain the anti-sex crusading men the same way.
That’s was one of the things I was thinking about; I wonder how many neofeminists experienced something no worse than I did, but couldn’t deal with it and blew it up into a life-changing experience?
Different women interpret things differently …
I have a stepdaughter – but my wife was not married to her Dad. He was a “one-time” thing. She told me about him and explained that … “It was a situation where it was just easier to say “yes” to the guy than “no”. Guy was also kind of one of her bosses. My wife didn’t interpret this as “rape”.
But I also dated a girl named, Sue. She was a swimsuit model on a couple of 80’s TV shows. Sue had almost the same exact experience my wife had (though Sue didn’t get pregnant) … and she definitely interpreted it as “rape”. I asked Sue if she told the guy “no” – and she confirmed she hadn’t. I asked her if she tried to run, or to fight the guy back – and she confirmed she hadn’t. She said she was afraid to do those things, not knowing the guy’s reaction – but the guy never threatened her. He was aggressive during the intercourse – but never hurt her really – except for the fact that she complained he was “too big” and it hurt her vagina while doing it.
In her mind, Sue hadn’t wanted to have sex with the guy that night – and so to her she had been “raped”.
And Sue’s definition of “rape” probably fits nicely with the neofeminist definition. Somehow the guy was supposed to read her mind, which – I can confirm, was very difficult when it came to Sue. She had sexy little tricks she used to signal when she was ready for sex – but once the show got going – Sue just kind of laid there and did little else.
We only dated a few months.
I bet a lot of them couldn’t deal with it and blew it up into a life-changing experience.
yes ,think some women have had bad expeirences and condem the wholw lot. I find myself doing this ……..but then remember there are all sorts of people in this world.To condem a whloe group becouse of the problems of a few is wrong and lazy thing.
True, you don’t have to hate someone to enjoy hurting them. Even to see someone as less human and thus not deserving the same consideration as oneself, one does not have to hate that person. But I can still imagine many cases in which sexual assault IS a hate crime, especially against sex workers. As you pointed out yourself, there are some sick men who are so frustrated that women dare to charge for sex that they want to “punish” those whores.
I think there are certainly cases where hate is involved, but never without sexual desire; hate alone, divorced from lust, never gave any man an erection.
“Maman” … this is a Southern thing I’ve never figured out. My maternal grandma was “Mamaw” … and my Mom’s grandkids call her “Mimi” – except for my kids – who call her “Grandma”, basically because they were raised mostly in Hawaii and California.
You know – we NEVER had these problems in my town. It was a very small and religious town. There were two types of girls – ones that wouldn’t wear pants or cut their hair because it was a sin – and ones that wouldn’t cut their hair because they thought it was a sin (but they wore pants). There was NO dancing – it was a sin. Everyone seems to have grown up fairly well adjusted though – I go to the reunions all the time. I know a lot of people have problems with religion – but it worked there (even though I was never a subscriber to evangelical Christianity).
Now – there was even a lot of covert racism – and it was bizarre. Blacks were condemned all the time in private – but I remember that my Mom and Dad allowed one black man to take me anywhere. His last name was “Mobley” and he was a former Minnesota Vikings football player – and he was one of my coaches and he was an outstanding role model.
Yeah – if anyone in my town (especially me) had seen anyone attempt to assault you like that – they would have been fucked up beyond mercy.
Our pronunciation of it was pretty close to “mawmaw”.
“Maman” is used a lot in France, and for whatever reason there’s a lot of French influence in the South.
Well, Noveau Orleans was a French colony!
That should be Nouvelle, shouldn’t it?
Yep. 😉
Yeah – if anyone in my town (especially me) had seen anyone attempt to assault you like that – they would have been fucked up beyond mercy.
That’s the natural reaction to this… extreme anger followed by violence against this “Chicken”.
I’m sorry that happened to you, and I’m glad there was a true knight there to assist you. Today a man would afraid to make the offer, for fear that just suggesting such a thing would get him branded a child molester.
You know how I’m always saying that most things are better than in the past, a few things are worse than in the past, and over all, the world is a better place? I stand by that, but this is one of the things which is worse. The truth is, most men do not want to rape children, and we really need to understand that.
Another thing that’s worse nowadays is that the clerk would probably have insisted on calling the cops, thus introducing the typical police sledgehammer-egg technique into a situation that was dealt with much more effectively by two women on the telephone.
This is true. You might even have been subjected to “therapy” which would have convinced you that you had been molested, by the whole neighborhood.
When I was in 5th Grade, I was walking home from school with my little brother and a 7th Grader (whom I knew mainly as a bully, but not one of the really bad ones) pulled up along side us on a bicycle. He started talking to us about sucking dicks, and how it was something that all ‘real men’ like to do. As you might expect, I found this somewhat disturbing.
He got off his bike and grabbed me, and pushed me down onto the ground beside the road. And then he pulled down his pants and climbed on top of me. (This was on a rural dirt road and there were no cars around, or any potential witnesses.)
I screamed and struggled, and my brother started running home. I guess this wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for, so the guy got off of me and let me go.
I ran home and we told my Mom and my aunt, who just happened to be there that day. I have no idea if they ever did anything about it. I’m pretty sure the police were never called.
I did tell all my friends about it at school the next day. I assume the word got around, but I never heard how any of the guy’s friends reacted.
While it was definitely an unpleasant experience while it was happening, it didn’t traumatise me to any extent or haunt me afterwards, the way modern mythology says that it would. The guy never bothered me again, and he actually got pretty friendly in High School (but we were never really friends).
I’m glad no authorities were ever called in and it wasn’t treated the way it would be today. That guy got pretty screwed up in his late teenage years, but it would’ve been much worse if he’d been dragged through the kind of ‘Justice System’ we have nowadays. I’m pretty sure he never did anything like that again; any modern-style permanent punishment would’ve only made things worse.
And if I’d been pushed into therapy, I’m sure it would’ve transformed this unpleasant experience into a far more lasting horror.
I think the current response of “counselors” descending on young people like hungry vultures after any bad experience is a lot like making a big deal of a toddler falling down while learning to walk: the more of a fuss one makes, the more likely he is to cry. I remember once at my mother’s house, I was inside alone with my baby nephew; my sister was out in the yard. He was trying to walk and fell flat on his face; he instantly turned his face to me and I said, “Don’t expect me to make a big deal over that like your mother would.” He immediately broke into a huge grin, though I had seen him cry for falls before when my sister was around. I don’t think he understood what I said, but he understood my tone and that was enough. Kids are very impressionable; if adults tell them they should be upset they’ll probably be upset.
My daughter is like that… if she falls, I tell her, “Well, get up!” Her aunt pitches a fit over everything, when my daughter falls and her aunt is around, she pitches a fit after her aunt panics over it.
Perhaps it was just my upbringing, but although my grandparents were wonderful people, They simply didn’t do big displays of emotion. They thought it low class. I was definitely raised with the “keep a stiff upper lip” principle.
Dear Sailor B, once again you make the effort to give condolences/kind words, etc., to ALL who have had a trauma and/or loss, not JUST the 1’s you like, the 1’s that belong to groups that you do, who like the same things, etc. Thank you for keeping the highest and most fair standard there is and being consistent with it (making a commitment to this behavior for life).
I’ve been inclined to this for some time. I had influences. I’m reminded of what John Carter told Tars Tarkas in the Valley Dor.
However, it is you who have influenced me to be somebody who holds to this like a sacred trust. You really have been a good influence on me.
Even though you have a cat.
@Maggie
I wonder how having a cellphone would have made a difference in this case?
Anyway, Chicken should consider himself infinitely lucky that today’s laws didn’t apply back then, because he could then be branded a sex-offender. As it was, it looks like Chicken’s mother “barbecued” him to everyone’s satisfaction.
Well, if my mother had a cell phone I could simply have called her at the ball park to come and get me. It wouldn’t have stopped the attempted assault, but would have let me get back to Maman’s without having to trust a stranger.
Had you had been my sister, I probably would have knocked those boys out to next week, regardless of the consequences.
Luckily I never had a sister.
I understand My Lady has a more religious outlook than I do, but is human sexuality really “dark and chthonian and animalistic?” After all, people kill one another for money; they gorge themselves on the flesh of living creatures; they drink and gamble out of house and home. But they also work for a living, eat in moderation, and enjoy a few beers at a weekend poker game with the neighbors. Why single out sex? I’m fond of my sexual urges and see them as every bit as honest and vital as the desire for a good stiff drink or a box of See’s candy.
I don’t know whether My Lady is interested in seeing the citations, but there are studies showing delinquents, criminals, sadists, sexual offenders, and individuals aroused by forcible rape all share the same core features of personality, such as lack of empathy, which mark them as different from controls. In short, simply put, rapists don’t necessarily want sex more, but they do care about other people less. You mentioned that John and Tony had unsavory reputations – was their reputation specifically for sexual predation, or, did it include unrelated behaviors?
I’m trying to figure out why you think “dark, chthonian and animalistic” means “bad”. None of those words is a synonym for “evil”; they mean exactly what they mean.
“Chthonian” is a word which is not often encountered. I had to look it up (I knew I’d seen it, but couldn’t remember exactly what it meant), and my spell checker doesn’t know it.
And yeah, it means “of the [deep] Earth,” not “evil.” When teamed up with “dark” and “animalistic,” it does rather suggest “the dark side of nature.” But it also suggests “primal,” perhaps “elemental,” but that’s not quite it. Or maybe “deep, dark, and mysterious.” The sort of thing from which both good and evil spring, rather than being good or evil itself. I suspect that this is what you were going for.
Exactly. Primal, powerful and beyond merely human concepts like good and evil.
Sometimes, I’m way off base. But every now and then, I get it. 🙂
The first adjective My Lady used set the tone for the cluster. This word has several meanings, many of them literal, and other figurative, as http://dictionary.reference.com will show:
1. having very little or no light: a dark room.
2. radiating, admitting, or reflecting little light: a dark color.
3. approaching black in hue: a dark brown.
4. not pale or fair; swarthy: a dark complexion.
5. brunette; dark-colored: dark eyebrows.
6. having brunette hair: She’s dark but her children are blond.
7. (of coffee) containing only a small amount of milk or cream.
8. gloomy; cheerless; dismal: the dark days of World War II.
9. sullen; frowning: a dark expression.
10. evil; iniquitous; wicked: a dark plot.
11. destitute of knowledge or culture; unenlightened.
12. hard to understand; obscure.
13. hidden; secret.
14. silent; reticent.
I feel that entries 8 through 14 speak for themselves. So let us turn now to chthonian, which offers a rich shade of meaning to the definitions given above:
“of or pertaining to the deities, spirits, and other beings dwelling under the earth.”
Whether there are deities or spirits dwelling under the earth such as Hel and the Svartalfs of Niflheim, Hades and abducted Persephone, or Satan with his retinue of demons, is a matter My Lady will have resolved for herself, but I wouldn’t loan money to any of them. Likewise worms, serpents, scorpions, moles, “and other beings dwelling under the earth” aren’t generally regarded as wholesome or benign (however they may taste with garlic).
Finally your cluster concludes with animalistic:
“of, relating to, or resembling an animal or animals; brutish”
Brutish, My Lady. Brutish. And all this followed immediately by My Lady’s reminiscence of her attempted rape!
I would write more, but the latest product of my dark, chthonian, animalistic lusts is cranky, and though he can’t talk yet, he threatens to smash the keys if I don’t put on another episode of I Dream of Jeannie to distract him. I suppose I must admit that he is indeed a little brute.
Your little brute has good taste in sitcoms.
Thank you, sir!
A couple of slaps…..
Many (most) young boys have had the living %*%@ beaten out of them by other/older boys, terrorized in various ways.Multiply your experience in intensity by about 20-fold, and repeat a dozen times, and you have my boyhood. Big deal.
Males are overwhelmingly the victims of male violence, and the victims aren’t always the ones who go looking for it.
No need to slap, Josh; I totally recognize what you’re saying, and I’ve stated that I agree with Camille Paglia that being beaten up for a man is a lot like sexual assault for a woman.