COLUMN: The False Memory Falsehood

From Jodi Bromberg's "Red Fish, Blue Fish," Fall '94 From Jodi Bromberg's "Red Fish, Blue Fish," Fall '94It had been another rainy day in London, and the two of us opted to spend the time inside studying. She had been grumpy all day and refused to tell me what was wrong. I had chalked it up to PMS and missing the States. We had been sitting on her bed reading, when I turned to ask her a question. For hours, I sat looking on, as she fought the demons she saw each night and increasingly each day, too. I couldn't help her with this battle, but merely look on like a spectator in a boxing match. From my seat at center ring, it looked like she was losing. There are few times in my life that I have felt so helpless. This 20 year-old woman sat in front of me crying because as a young child, her older brother had sexually molested her. Repeatedly. The False Memory Syndrome Foundation is located only a few blocks from campus, yet I doubt many of you have heard of it, let alone sought the place out. Located on 34th and Market streets, it was founded 18 months ago and has since flourished. According to an article in the Philadelphia Inquirer Magazine, the FMS Foundation has grown from a small grassroots group to a national organization with a mailing list of 3,500. They have a monthly newsletter, periodic gatherings and yes, even a stint on the talk show circuit. The purpose of the organization? To provide support for parents whose grown children have accused them of incest. The parents, as the name of their organization suggests, maintain their innocence. They believe, in large part, that their child is remembering something that simply did not happen. The members are mostly white, middle-class couples, many married over 25 years. They are usually considered "upstanding" members of their communities, and to their friends and neighbors, have always appeared to maintain the "perfect" family. Not admitting they did it, the parents act horrified at the mere thought of their accused crime, continuing day-to-day activities as if nothing happened. But this charade does not mean they are innocent. Nevertheless, stories still abound of "perfect" households turning out to be quite a bit less than. How many times have the friends and neighbors of murderers, wife beaters and sex offenders remarked how surprised they were about the recent crime that occurred under the roof next door? The year I turned 13, mayhem erupted in my suburban New Jersey town when a teacher was indicted for sexually abusing a sixth-grade boy. The man conducted the synagogue choir, taught grammar school and was married with two high school-age sons. His life was picture perfect by many people's accounts. Yet overnight it came tumbling down around him. Similarly, my senior year in high school, the same town was rocked when a twentysomething Yale graduate took a machete to his family and a couple of neighbors. On ABC, CBS and NBC that night, neighbors called him "quiet" and "polite" as they watched the bodies being carried out of his house. So often the lives we believe others to be living are simply a facade, hiding the tragedies deep within their homes. In the absence of apparent abhorrent behavior (and sometimes in spite of it), we assume that all is well next door at the Jones'. It's rather convenient, then, that these people can join an organization that validates their innocence, a way to keep up the image they have maintained for so long. "Look," it shouts out. "My child was lying! She made up the whole thing!" Since there is little, if any, physical evidence of sexual abuse that occurred as a child, the parents can simply deny the charges without fear of repercussion. Rarely do these cases ever make their way into court. Satisfied that the dirty laundry has once more been dragged inside, their neighbors can put their heads back in the sand, happy again. They can convince themselves that the nasty act called incest doesn't happen in their towns. We're safe here, they tell themselves. If we lock our doors at night and earn a hard day's wages, all will be right in our world. While families are trying to uphold their dignified, well-honed reputations, their adult children are telling a different story – one of rage, humiliation and shame, of being different, of standing out. Nonetheless, they are survivors, not victims. According to a survey by FMS of the adults accusing their parents, almost all were women and many were distinguished by their academic and occupational achievements. They were not, as the FMS Foundation had hoped, a group of psychotics with a myriad of mental disturbances. Sexual abuse, especially of a child, is rarely spoken of in this country. Although we have come a long way in recent years, there is still an umbrella of shame and humiliation surrounding the topic. It seems tragic. And it is. We think of children as innocent, as pure, as untainted. Sexual child abuse ruins that picture, ruins the small house with the white picket fence and leaves us all with a bad taste in our mouth. But in this country last year, there were close to 30,000 cases of sexual child abuse reported last year. That number has increased steadily over the last decade – not because more people are abusing their children, but because more children are reporting it. What makes us think it was any different 20 or 30 years ago? How come we are so slow to believe survivors when they tell us their stories? The story in the Inky Magazine quoted earlier ran with the subtitle, "When incest is falsely recollected, parents have no defense." But what about the children? Even as adults, where is their defense? People argue back and forth over who's telling the truth. Some studies say the FMS Foundation members are innocent. Others say they are not. I don't know who's right or wrong, who's guilty or innocent. I only know who I believe. Because I can't help but think of that very sad young woman crying away the night in London. Jodi Bromberg is a senior History and Communications major from Springfield, New Jersey. Red Fish, Blue Fish appears alternate Thursdays.