It’s a pun. I’ve been following the public re-hashing of Mia Farrow’s allegation against Woody Allen back in the day that he molested their daughter, Dylan.
As I say increasingly often these days, two things can be true at once. And, of course, what I mean by that is, lots of things can be true at once.
It’s none of my business, in spite of Mia Farrow, and I don’t have any particular insight into the matter, but I believe she coached their daughter into saying she was molested by her father, and over time Dylan came to believe it so much that she wrote a letter to the New York Times several years later saying it all over again.
But I could be wrong. Certainly Woody Allen is off-putting and weird and miscasts himself in his movies, and his relationship with Soon-yi, whether she’s his adopted daughter (he says she isn’t) or not, scores pretty high on the yuck-o-meter, given that he may as well be a thousand years older than she is, so much older than she is he anyway.
Way to make yourself even more off-putting, Woody.
Some girls, though, are born middle-aged, aren’t they. My best friend growing up was mature beyond her years. I mean, it was ridiculous. She was more mature at ten years old than I am now. I’m serious. She was younger than ten when she wrote “Fuck God” in the Bible during Sunday School. I was completely FREAKED OUT and she was like, “Don’t worry. God isn’t real.”
When I found out from my mother a few decades later that according to her mother, whom she met up with at a social function, she had acquired an auto-immune disease, I’m embarrassed to say that what immediately sprang to mind was that “Fuck God” she wrote in the Bible.
I don’t mean she was bratty, she wasn’t, she was just her own person, a fatalist, when I was still worrying about leaving Smokey, my stuffed dog, home alone with my Gram while I was at school.
I read somewhere online that Mia Farrow had a rule for the nannies to ensure that Woody Allen was never alone with Dylan, too.
Now, when you read that you might think, “Ooh, she was concerned way back then that he might molest their adopted daughter.”
Except that you’d be wrong to think that because it’s common for mothers these days to have such a rule when we’re in non-traditional relationships with men who aren’t the biological fathers of our children.
I’ve read articles. It’s recommended. Better safe than sorry. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
Trust. No. Man. Because. All. Men. Are. Potential. Molesters. Of. Your. Children.
Sometimes, though, and depending on the age of your children, of course, it’s really more to protect everyone from a possible false accusation that, once made, cannot be unmade.
There. I’ve said it. False accusers exist. Get over it.
When my ex and I first moved to Ottawa our real estate agent asked, “So would you consider hiring a teenaged boy to babysit your children?”
I thought he was asking on behalf of a nephew so I replied, carefully, “Oh. Well. If we ever went out. I guess?”
“No! Sooey, never ever never ever never ever let a teenaged boy babysit your children! Boys are perverts! Trust me! I was a boy! We’re perverted!”
And it turned out he had a niece looking for a babysitting gig but by the time we went out somewhere we’d lost touch and I had new friends with daughters of babysitting age.
Now don’t comment as if I agree with my former real estate agent because I don’t, but he did say that and, well, I never hired a teenaged boy to babysit my children because, well, I’m highly impressionable.
I also wouldn’t hire anyone named Alice.
The power of suggestion will be the death of me yet.
The thing is, I was a girl. And I went through phases, as girls do. And some of those phases that I went through, and I can only speak for myself, although I’m speaking for all girls, included shameless attention-seeking. Nothing so dramatic as a sexual assault accusation – but – there but for the grace of (fill in the blank) go I.
Because, like I’m trying to say here, once an accusation that has everybody immediately looking for a pitchfork has been made, it’s a tricky matter for a girl to unmake it.
My grade eight teacher did twelve years in prison because he wouldn’t admit to or show remorse for the fact that he molested at least 16 girls who were willing to testify against him even a couple of decades after the crimes were perpetrated (there were more victims but they didn’t all want to testify).
His attacks increased in severity over the years, too, as he was transferred from school to school after being accused or, I’m sorry to say, getting caught in the act by an adult in authority, the principal.
See, it wasn’t that no one believed the victims/accusers, it was just that no one cared enough about them to do anything about it beyond transferring the perpetrator to another school.
And sometimes not even going to that much trouble.
And that’s a fact of life that I can’t help but wonder we’re over-compensating for today, pretending that victims weren’t believed back then and that’s why nothing came of their accusations, when the sad fact is that everyone knew they were telling the truth, it was just that their truth didn’t matter.
I wasn’t a victim, although someone gave my name to the police, who then called me to inquire about events. I was quite a time convincing the officer, too, but I have a very good memory and was able to give him a couple more names of likely victims. Finally I said, “Look, he was too smart to molest a kid like me. Or maybe I wasn’t his type of kid. But I would have made a federal case out of it and he would have known that I would.”
And I told him, too, about girls trying to get him to tackle them on the beach in their bikinis during our grade eight graduation party, which he was more than happy to do, the boys standing about sullenly knowing it wasn’t right that they had to compete for girls with a man in his 30s or 40s.
It’s entirely possible that some of his victims didn’t even realize they were victims until, I don’t know, maybe they saw an episode of Oprah that twigged something and they realized, “Hey – that was wrong!”
Sigh. I know this all sounds terrible and maybe I’m not articulating it well, but parenting wasn’t a word back in the day, was it, and some of the kids I went to school with would have been better off being raised by wolves.
My own mother was quite surprised to hear of my grade eight teacher’s arrest when I distinctly recall telling her about the principal catching him in the act of molesting a girl in grade six AT THE TIME THAT IT HAPPENED!
Later, when I was in high school, everyone knew about one of the teachers necking with a student on the way home from a field trip, too. On the bus. Necking. I knew the girl. I knew the teacher. Sure it was wrong, just, more for everybody else later than it was for them then.
Am I the only middle-aged person who remembers it being like that?
Meanwhile, can you imagine the reaction by every Tom, Dick, and Harry if a high school teacher necked openly with a girl on the way home from a field trip today, in the year of our Lord, 2014?
You know what I’m sayin’? Like, let me just put it this way, it’s like everything that had the same neglect then, suddenly has the same concern now.
Grr. Or something. I know what I want to say even if you don’t. Ugh. Sorry. It’s this damn cold. It’s like I have Alzheimer’s.
But that’s not really what this entry is about (Woody Allen and whether or not he molested Dylan) because this entry is about Mia Farrow and my decision that, after everything I’ve read about her and by her, well, I won’t let Mia Farrow get within a kilometer radius of me, my Beau, my children, their friends, their parents, my friends, your friends, and so on and so forth and more of the same, etc etc.
I don’t know if Woody Allen is guilty or not.
But Mia Farrow as sure as hell is.