When Dr. Christine Blasey Ford made her allegations in 2018 against Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh, acknowledged sexual predator Donald J. Trump tried to muddy the issue, throw the bloodhounds off track, and defend Kavanaugh – in his (Trump’s) usual shameless manner of engaging in denial and deceit — by saying: Where is the police report? Why didn’t she report the incident to the police?
Ford was fifteen years old at the time. Kavanaugh was seventeen.
She said (during the 2018 controversy over the allegations) that she didn’t want her parents to know that she had attended a house party with older boys. And, at any rate, what fifteen-year-old would have the presence of mind to think — or to know that things could be handled this way — I have to go report this assault to the police? She left the house in sort of a daze.
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I am going to relate a long ago experience of mine, in the interests of illustrating something.
I had a similar experience, with a gay man making a pass at me, when I was in my late teens.
It was summer vacation after my freshman year in college. I went to a concert of classical music by the Boston Pops on the Esplanade in Boston. I loved those concerts. I always went by myself.
At some point, no doubt at intermission, a man who was what I considered to be an adult — anyone thirty or older, if not in their mid- to late-twenties — seemed like an elder to me back then — approached me and asked, “Do you come to these concerts often? Do you like music?”
He was dressed casually, but seemed respectable. He said something at some point about being a professor. I was flattered to be asked about my musical interests and concert-going habits. I was impressed to be talking to a scholar. And, I was always receptive to and interested in anyone who cared to converse with me.
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As I write this, some details come back to me. I believe the concert had just ended, and the crowd was about to disperse.
The “professor” asked me casually if I would care to stop by his apartment in Cambridge for a chat. I found this welcome. I was flattered to be asked, and I associated Cambridge with being the place where intellectuals lived.
At his place, we chatted for about a half hour. The “professor” seemed to be a vibrant conversationalist. I did notice some erotic statuettes on a side table in his living room. I think one was what appeared to be primitive art: an abstract figure of a man and an erect phallus (?). I remember that it was black and was wood or Formica. The figure was of a primitive man.
I wanted to talk to the “professor” about music. He seemed a bit “aggressive” in introducing topics. He made some references, allusions, to sex that I didn’t fully comprehend. He kept making them, intermittently.
I was totally inexperienced sexually at this point in my life. But I had read a couple of erotic novels, had associated and talked with teenagers who had had sexual experience and didn’t like adults to tell them how to behave — smart, rebellious kids. Sex was raised as a topic in some of my church youth group workshops and discussion groups. But I had never had bull sessions, say, with male friends where they recounted sexual exploits in detail.
I felt uneasy with this part of the “professor’s” conversation, but I didn’t want to seem like a prude. So, I laughed uneasily. I tried to convey the impression that I was not uncomfortable with risqué conversation or topics and was used to them being talked about, if not actually experienced in sex.
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There is something else about me that was relevant at the time, and may have been somewhat similar to Blasey-Ford. I tended to be not only shy, but passive. The opposite of assertive.
The “professor” after a while asked me if I would like a back rub. Girls would give boys, including me, back rubs at our church youth group weekend retreats. That was the closest I had ever come to being physically close to a girl.
Being passive, and not wanting to be oppositional, looking up to the “professor,” thinking that perhaps this was something that was usual or normal — and anyway I was probably too rigid or uptight — I consented.
After a few minutes, I started to feel uncomfortable. I stiffened up. Then the “professor” started to reach under my belt and tried to slide his hands down my pants. At that point, I bolted. I made some excuse (I think I said my parents would be worried about me getting home late) and beat a hasty exit from the “professor’s” apartment.
What would Holden Caulfield have done?
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I drove home in our family’s second car (a 1953 Chevy). I felt very anxious, but relieved to have gotten away from the “professor.” I couldn’t get a handle on what had happened.
I was known for honesty and had always felt that honesty was the best policy; somehow, things always came out better that way. I didn’t quite know what to do, but, unlike Blasey-Ford, I told my mother (not going into detail) what had happened, immediately upon arriving home. It seems that I did this to relieve stress. Sort of like telling your shrink something. I thought to myself, I did nothing wrong. What do I have to hide? And, if I had done something immoral, would not my parents see that in that case I would not have told then about it?
I do not recall my mother’s response. I think she said little, because she did not know how to handle this confidence by me or what to say.
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I tried to put the matter out of mind, as one might a bad dream. I didn’t know what to make of it. The next day, I felt better.
But then my mother brought the matter up again. I don’t recall her exact words. But it was something like: Your father and I discussed your experience after the concert. We are sorry you experienced it. (My parents always feigned being advanced when it came to any sex issues — they had a copy of the Kinsey Report on the bookshelf in the living room — but, actually, I know this intuitively, the thought of having to deal with sexual issues or sexual behavior by their children terrified them.) Then, my mother said, if what you said was the truth, then you did nothing wrong.
Somehow, I could tell — intuited — that this experience, mine, had made my parents very anxious. More even than me.
I loved my mother and respected her. But she should NOT have said that. It made me feel bad about myself — or at least how my parents felt about me. They weren’t prepared to necessarily believe me. They were wondering if I had perhaps misbehaved with the “professor,” or had perhaps somehow been party to the event occurring. I never forgot this mixed message: My account of being the victim of a would be sexual predator was heard but was not deemed necessarily credible.
— Roger W. Smith
May 2020
A most interesting story, not unusual at that time I think. I had a similar experience where a guy picked me up hitchhiking and tried not to let me out of his car.
The “if what you said is true” comment is inexcusable. In light of the deep sexual issues that our parents faced on their own, it’s not surprising that they would have been very confused about how to respond. But her comment must of been very hurtful and confusing to you.
Using your experience to suggest that Biden is lying is quite a leap, however, This could be the same thing, or it could be very different. I know Susan Blasey Ford’s friends and family quite well and I tend to believe her, but some of her friends and family think she confused something very different to the point where it grew out of proportion over time.
There’s no way you can know, based on your experience, whether she was telling the truth or whether Biden is lying. Everyone except Biden and his accuser are just guessing at this point.
Connecting your experience to Joe Biden’s is patently absurd. Just because you were foolish enough to accept a back rub from a stranger – an older man who had an erotic statue in his house — does not lead to any sane conclusion that Biden is guilty of assault. Where on earth is the connection here? How do Roger Smith’s personal experiences prove Biden’s guilt or innocence? And how would you know anything about it? Where is your evidence that he is guilty? What a bizarre leap in logic! Biden could be guilty…or he could be innocent. Who knows? You certainly don’t. And I would rather you leave Mom and Dad’s personal words to you about such incidents out of a public blog. They are my parents too and, even though this is your blog, I deem it an invasion of our family’s privacy. Mom and Dad are not here to speak for themselves and I believe they would agree that to post intimate discussions among family members on a public blog is a disrespectful invasion of privacy.
I had to edit out some of your words at the end attacking me for personal failings. This is a typical comment from you, missing the spirit and intent of this post. Very sad. I was “foolish” to accept a back rub from an older man? The whole point of the post was to illustrate how my naiveté and lack of sexual experience led me to “blunder” into agreeing that it would be nice to go to the man’s apartment — I had foreknowledge of what would be on his coffee table? Your lack of insight into and unwillingness to “forgive” human failings is remarkable. It’s sort of like a moral policewoman has been sicked upon me à la Inspector Javert. Don’t read any more Dickens. His characters’ failings would exasperate you.
The point of the post, which everyone else liked, was to use my own experience to illustrate, or reflect upon, what Blasey Ford seems to have experienced. The title of the post (Biden was not mentioned in it) was meant to be provocative and clever. (I think it is). You can’t appreciate my writings for what they are, but instead cherry pick, pull them apart like an angry kid a toy they didn’t like, and look for things you can pass judgment upon. Captain Queeg of “The Caine Mutiny,” who was obsessed with petty infractions, also comes to mind.
Regarding invasion of family privacy, I am NOT prohibited from (and should not be) using my personal experience — including my youth, family, etc. — as subject matter for posts in which I draw upon personal experience. I did this tastefully. You can not find one thing in the post that is invasive of family privacy. My mother’s comment is key to understanding how my relating what happened to me was responded to, dealt with. This implicitly connects with what Blasey-Ford might have feared when it came to not wanting her parents to know what happened. You can’t see that? Show me (you can’t) one instance of an improper or inappropriate disclosure of something about our family in this post?
A larger point is that anyone can see that this is a thoughtful, well written piece of writing — as are all my writings. But you can’t accept or appreciate that; or, if you are aware of it at some level, can’t acknowledge it. Because of your obsessive desire to find fault.
Such laughable insults (as usual) lobbed my way. Can’t you do any better than that? At least you acknowledge how well read I am, knowing that am learned like you and so can readily identify the titles and characters you reference. Thanks for the compliment. Your anger and paranoid defensiveness grow oh so tiresome. Hmmmmm….think I’ll go read “A Christmas Carol” again; it alway amuses me to see how like Ebenezer Scrooge you have become as you’ve aged. Ironic that he was once a caring, loving, thoughtful man in his early days, just as you once were. How the passing years can change people. So sad.
For your information, we did share the same parents, but my relationship with my parents — or father or mother individually — represents MY personal experience, not yours. And my own relationship with them, which is not something you could or should control, including retrospectively.
If I wish to disclose something personal about myself for illustrative purposes — or simply want to write about it — that is my prerogative, not yours. MY experience with MY parents was relevant here, to illustrate how one’s experience (in this case mine) can be misconstrued, lead to unwarranted criticism, or — most importantly — not believed as being credible.
Your privacy certainly wasn’t invaded. Following your strictures, no one could ever write about their experience of their parents when the writer was growing up. It’s funny that you seem to like pop psychology. Do such writers never disclose stuff such as I have done here?