For The First Time, Woody Allen’s Adopted Daughter Writes Open Letter On How He Molested Her At 7
For the first time ever, Woody Allen’s adopted daughter, Dylan Farrow on Saturday, penned down an open letter to him on how he sexually molested her at age seven and how people, the court of law and Hollywood giants all turned deaf ears to her allegations because he is a celebrity. According to her, when she was seven, the famous film maker sexually assaulted her by putting his thumb in her mouth and also placed his head in her naked laps severally. She thought it was how fathers play with their children, but when she felt a little bit uncomfortable with the way Allen was going on with her, she told her adopted mother, actress Mia Farrow who was Allen’s then girlfriend, and that was what lead to their breakup after spending so many years living together. Fast-forward, Allen has been living a free life and has not paid for his crime. Dylan and her adopted brother are still so very much upset about this and wondered why Allen was still been honoured by Hollywood practitioners. Click read more to continue reading ....
Allen was nominated for an Academy Award and last month’s
Golden Globes ceremony, where he received the prestigious Cecil B DeMille
Lifetime Achievement Award. But on that night, Dylan and her adopted brother,
Ronan Farrow tweeted about the assault again.
Her open letter below, but before then a short note from
blogger Nicholas Kristof, (the blogger Dylan Farrow sent her open letter to).
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. But it’s time for the world to hear Dylan’s story in her own words.
Her Letter
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.
