Raped by my father

An Open Letter From
Dylan Farrow Dylan Farrow FRANCES SILVER By DYLAN FARROW
February 1, 2014 (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?