I Was a Pedophile’s Plaything: My Response to the Amazon Scandal
I have posted once about my sexual abuse. I had planned to leave it at that. I don’t comment on current hot-button issues until I’ve had time to sit with them. However, given the fact that I have had most of my lifetime to sit with my childhood, my adolescence, I feel fully equipped to comment on the recent scandal surrounding Amazon allowing a how-to guide for pedophiles to be sold through their Kindle self-publishing service. I feel so strongly about it, in fact, that I am posting twice in one morning, because I cannot sit silently. I don’t think my response will be what you would expect.
I want to start by saying that I am ONLY posting this because Amazon pulled the book off of their site earlier this morning (Thursday), after originally saying they would not. After originally standing behind the First Ammendment, they buckled under the bad PR. I’m not going to rant about freedom of speech. I’m not sixteen anymore and while I like my Freedom of Speech, I’m not going to be so idealistic as to throw that hat in this ring. Censor a pedo, don’t censor a pedo, I don’t give a fuck.
Here’s why I care, here’s why I kind of hate that Twitter went ablaze with the Amazon boycott: it’s a stupid book which would have gone completely unnoticed if we hadn’t given it the time of day. Again, I am only posting this because there is no book sale to link back to now, so I will not have a hand in helping him to sell one single copy of that disgusting guide. However, he got an interview on the Today show, his book got print news coverage, his book has been quoted all over the internet. Vile, waste-of-space information has been spread around; quite useful tips that some filthy child rapists may not have thought of themselves. They’re now getting that information for free from well-intentioned, pissed-off mommy bloggers who are reposting the information. People who were probably too scared to electronically download (pedos are clever, and terrified of being caught) a how-to guide have free access to it now. Good job.
A book does not a pedophile make. It’s just a stupid book. It’s not going to convert an otherwise upstanding, well-intentioned citizen into a child rapist. Simply having it for sale on Amazon would not have promoted it even a hundredth of a fraction of the way the communal outcry at its existence has proven to do. Please don’t think that I approve of its sale, nor do I misunderstand the outrage at its availability in print. I get it. I wasn’t violently raped. I was groomed. For almost ten years. By the same kind of sick fuck that author is appealing to. Eventually, I liked it. I let him. It makes me completely insane that people like that exist in the world.
Boycotting Amazon and giving that book so much press will not do anything to help those who have been or will be sexually abused. I challenge everyone who was so moved to boycott (and I COMPLETELY commend your intention) to redirect your outrage to a more productive outlet. I challenge you to write to your congressional representative, to your local legislators about sentencing guidelines regarding pedophiles. They are currently GROSSLY under-punished. I challenge you to get plugged in with a local outreach program, to donate money or volunteer time to a shelter or treatment facility for victims of sexual abuse. And for the love of god, talk to your kids about it. I challenge you to be part of the solution, not part of the hype. DO something.
A poem I wrote in my Poetry 503 class (oh yes, I was a bleeding-heart, poetry major at a very unprestigious university) about my experience, which happened with or without any damn how-to manual.
Pink and Loose
By Lerner Farrington
Momma’s house had two stories, a clock in every room, time
different behind every door. Upstairs white siding, downstairs red
brick, windows framed with black shutters. Flowers circled in loose
horseshoe, planted swirl of color. Lilacs grew by the path with love.
Their summer smell an aphrodisiac, full-body wash
from a jar of honey—thick, sugar scent on skin like perfume smoke.
She braided my hair, cigarette hanging from her mouth, smoke
folding in with the crisscrossing of her fingers, keeping time
with the Patsy Cline record she played Saturdays to wash
the dishes. The outline of her hand still stinging bright red
across my jawbone when she told me she would love
more time together, tying bows on the braids—pink and loose.
The February after I turned five, he turned the door latch loose
and pushed inward. Ashtray in the living room let smoke
down the hall. Climbing on top of me, he showed me his love
wrapped in the smell of gray chest hair and cologne after bedtime.
By morning, my sheets had soaked to the mattress with red.
I asked why bleeding made a woman and didn’t come out in the wash.
Momma never answered but said it was important to wash
carefully, pee when I was done so I didn’t get sick. Only loose
girls go to the doctor for their lady parts, loose was the red
brand of girls nobody wanted, no self respect. Through smoke
screen of indifference it continued for years, the last time
before high school. I gave too many a piece of my love,
offered without standard what I knew about love.
Tried a scouring pad, but the scum of shame wouldn’t wash
clean. Pissed off, anxious, I kept score—expected a decade of time
back—wanted to be pulled in closer, needed to be turned loose.
Burning down the world and choking on the smoke,
I threw my body on the flames. As a young woman, I often saw red.
Sundays, Momma at the table—her press-on nails and wine both red.
She’d pour mine into a teacup, tell me stories of free love,
her thighs lacquered with bellbottoms, head filled with the smoke
of the sixties. She’d had an illegal abortion and never could wash
off the remains. It’s why she’d lost the twins, her cervix too loose
and scarred. No more babies after me. She could’ve died next time.
At the news of her death, I expected a red flood of grace to wash
away the guilt, the obligation to love her. Only relief broke loose.
She was a wisp of smoke in a wheelchair when I saw her the last time.
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