Frances SilverDylan Farrow
(A note from
Nicholas Kristof: In 1993, accusations that Woody Allen had abused his
adoptive daughter, Dylan Farrow, filled the headlines, part of a
sensational story about the celebrity split between Allen and his
girlfriend, Mia Farrow. This is a case that has been written about
endlessly, but this is the first time that Dylan Farrow herself has
written about it in public. It’s important to note that Woody Allen was
never prosecuted in this case and has consistently denied wrongdoing; he
deserves the presumption of innocence. So why publish an account of an
old case on my blog? Partly because the Golden Globe lifetime
achievement award to Allen ignited a debate about the propriety of the
award. Partly because the root issue here isn’t celebrity but sex abuse.
And partly because countless people on all sides have written
passionately about these events, but we haven’t fully heard from the
young woman who was at the heart of them. I’ve written a column about this, but it’s time for the world to hear Dylan’s story in her own words.)
What’s your favorite
Woody Allen movie? Before you answer, you should know: when I was seven
years old, Woody Allen took me by the hand and led me into a dim,
closet-like attic on the second floor of our house. He told me to lay on
my stomach and play with my brother’s electric train set. Then he
sexually assaulted me. He talked to me while he did it, whispering that I
was a good girl, that this was our secret, promising that we’d go to
Paris and I’d be a star in his movies. I remember staring at that toy
train, focusing on it as it traveled in its circle around the attic. To
this day, I find it difficult to look at toy trains.
For as long as I could
remember, my father had been doing things to me that I didn’t like. I
didn’t like how often he would take me away from my mom, siblings and
friends to be alone with him. I didn’t like it when he would stick his
thumb in my mouth. I didn’t like it when I had to get in bed with him
under the sheets when he was in his underwear. I didn’t like it when he
would place his head in my naked lap and breathe in and breathe out. I
would hide under beds or lock myself in the bathroom to avoid these
encounters, but he always found me. These things happened so often, so
routinely, so skillfully hidden from a mother that would have protected
me had she known, that I thought it was normal. I thought this was how
fathers doted on their daughters. But what he did to me in the attic
felt different. I couldn’t keep the secret anymore.
When I asked my mother if her dad did to her what Woody Allen did to me,
I honestly did not know the answer. I also didn’t know the firestorm it
would trigger. I didn’t know that my father would use his sexual
relationship with my sister to cover up the abuse he inflicted on me. I
didn’t know that he would accuse my mother of planting the abuse in my
head and call her a liar for defending me. I didn’t know that I would be
made to recount my story over and over again, to doctor after doctor,
pushed to see if I’d admit I was lying as part of a legal battle I
couldn’t possibly understand. At one point, my mother sat me down and
told me that I wouldn’t be in trouble if I was lying – that I could take
it all back. I couldn’t. It was all true. But sexual abuse claims
against the powerful stall more easily. There were experts willing to
attack my credibility. There were doctors willing to gaslight an abused
child.
After a custody
hearing denied my father visitation rights, my mother declined to pursue
criminal charges, despite findings of probable cause by the State of
Connecticut – due to, in the words of the prosecutor, the fragility of
the “child victim.” Woody Allen was never convicted of any crime. That
he got away with what he did to me haunted me as I grew up. I was
stricken with guilt that I had allowed him to be near other little
girls. I was terrified of being touched by men. I developed an eating
disorder. I began cutting myself. That torment was made worse by
Hollywood. All but a precious few (my heroes) turned a blind eye. Most
found it easier to accept the ambiguity, to say, “who can say what
happened,” to pretend that nothing was wrong. Actors praised him at
awards shows. Networks put him on TV. Critics put him in magazines. Each
time I saw my abuser’s face – on a poster, on a t-shirt, on television –
I could only hide my panic until I found a place to be alone and fall
apart.
Last week, Woody Allen
was nominated for his latest Oscar. But this time, I refuse to fall
apart. For so long, Woody Allen’s acceptance silenced me. It felt like a
personal rebuke, like the awards and accolades were a way to tell me to
shut up and go away. But the survivors of sexual abuse who have reached
out to me – to support me and to share their fears of coming forward,
of being called a liar, of being told their memories aren’t their
memories – have given me a reason to not be silent, if only so others
know that they don’t have to be silent either.
Today, I consider
myself lucky. I am happily married. I have the support of my amazing
brothers and sisters. I have a mother who found within herself a well of
fortitude that saved us from the chaos a predator brought into our
home.
But others are still
scared, vulnerable, and struggling for the courage to tell the truth.
The message that Hollywood sends matters for them.
What if it had been
your child, Cate Blanchett? Louis CK? Alec Baldwin? What if it had been
you, Emma Stone? Or you, Scarlett Johansson? You knew me when I was a
little girl, Diane Keaton. Have you forgotten me?
Woody Allen is a living testament to the way our society fails the survivors of sexual assault and abuse.
So imagine your
seven-year-old daughter being led into an attic by Woody Allen. Imagine
she spends a lifetime stricken with nausea at the mention of his name.
Imagine a world that celebrates her tormenter.
Are you imagining that? Now, what’s your favorite Woody Allen movie?
