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streetlights

There is no easy way to say it. I was married to someone I hid from. Tucking E into a sling, I would disappear for hours saying I was going shopping for dinner, and if she fell asleep the excuse was that she needed fresh air as I sat on a park bench with her tiny hand grabbing my pinky until she eventually woke up. I would make my way along the side streets of Greenwich as the sun went down, leaning into store windows but not going in. Eventually I would go home, and as I turned the corner there was a security light that would switch on - obviously attached to some motion sensor. In those strange and lonely moments, I would talk to that light. Each time it clicked on, I felt somehow that the night ahead could be survived no matter what madness waited for us behind the front door.

That was twelve years ago.

Another life, another country.

Today, I turned a corner in Moscow with an all-too familiar bag of groceries swinging from my shoulder. A street light flickered on and all at once I…

Not me, her


In 1987, I found myself trying to write about a high school girlfriend that had been molested by her father when she was a child. I was 19 years old, struggling to find my way through a screenwriting assignment about delivering character. The idea was to describe messy young love between two Sid and Nancy want-to-be's. But that failed, as I could not stomach oversimplifying her complicated past, events that shaped her life as a 16 year old with a mohawk, a smart mouth, a lingering stare. I understood that I had to start at the very beginning.

No one wanted to hear the story. When it was my turn to read in class, it even came to be that some of the other students asked to stand in the hallway before they heard another description of what happened in that lonely little house in the middle of nowhere. I was trying, and failing, and trying again to get things right, to explain how this happened, how it could happen to this girl, how this man found his way to acts of selfishness and desperation. "Why do you want to write about this?" I was asked, over and again. They all expected to find out that I was the one that had actually been molested, and this was just my smokescreen, that there was no little girl, no cold living room visits to her inthe middle of the night.

I kept at writing about her for the entire semester and showed the pages to women I knew, asking them to give me the harshest comments they could, to let me know the second the train went off the tracks. I was completely unprepared for what happened after that. Along with the notes, they would share their own experiences with me. An uncle, a stranger, another story, another trespass. The work of getting this girl's story right somehow became a responsibility, no longer an assignment.

In those days, incest was discussed on afternoon talk shows, sensationalized and interrupted with commercials for shampoo and cake mixes.

Over time, the story evolved into a first novel. I spent months and months attending art shows and spoken word performances all by incest survivors. I listened to the private accounts of over a hundred women. I examined the effect these events take on the people around the survivor - the friend, the lover, the teacher. Somehow, that lead me through to the end of the book.

People still tell me they cannot, and will not read it. Not because it was written by a man, but simply because they do not want to. Too painful. Too ugly.



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