As we call attention to Violence against Women/Girls this month, we'd like to share this heartbreaking story by Dylan Farrow, Stepdaughter of Mia Farrow and movie Producer Woody Allen. Many should recall Allen is the man who married his other stepdaughter Soon Yi Previn whom he'd met when she was just a child, while being in what we would call legally today a "common law" marriage with Farrow.
A round of applause for Dylan on speaking her truth and releasing the pain, while calling out some in the entertaiment industry who continue to give this man a pass all because he makes great movies! Sounds familiar, the same behavior is being shown towards R&B singer R. Kelly, albeit highly convincing evidence has shown he sexually manipulated young girls as young as 13 years of age, all while promising them fame and fortune, also marrying a than 15 year old singer by the name of Aaliyah Haughton unbeknownst to her parents.
While many notable personalities have started petitions calling for the ban on R. Kelly's music, other high profile musicians in the music industry continue to tour with him and turn a blind eye! Though an artist's survival is imperative in the recording industry, maybe they'll think twice after reading this very personal story of Dylans. Read Dylan's Story after Jump. "THERE IS A TRIGGER WARNING FOR SURVIVORS"
REPORTS:NewyorkTimes
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.
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?
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