Here's the letter:
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?
An Open Letter From Dylan Farrow
By DYLAN FARROW
Frances SilverDylan Farrow
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