On Casey Anthony and Incest Statistics

On Casey Anthony and Incest Statistics

Look, I don’t know what happened in Florida years ago. A child is dead. I wish for her sake that the death was a painless accident, one with no fear, violence, terror. I am not being callous when I say that so many many children are dead, ones the press never describes as pretty, beautiful, precious, cute, tragic — ones the press never describes at all, like all the Pakistani and Afghani children killed by drones which are, by definition, heartless, soul-less, premeditated murders.

I do know this: while most everyone I know claims to “know” the statistics about rates of incest, “know” that men rape and terrorize and murder children every single damn day, when any one woman stands and says, “This happened to me” she is immediately disbelieved. As if “those children” child rape happens to are aliens, out there, somewhere. As if the adults who rape children are even more alien, evil outsiders, half mythological boogeymen.

Since none of us know what happened, how has the press created a narrative so strong that hundreds of thousands of people are ready to lynch this woman? The 13 people that did get to see and hear what exists of the evidence said, quickly, that it was not enough to prove anything.

Since none of us know what happened, let’s try on a different narrative, one that all kinds of official FBI statistics and years of sociological and therapeutic studies say could be true. Casey Anthony, as a girl, was raped, humiliated, and terrorized by a father obsessed with controlling everything about her. Her brother was, on occasion, part of this abuse. She therefore grew up in a web of fear and lies, probably with a high level of dissociation, one that would allow her to live through hell at night and get up and go to school as if life were normal in the morning. Both the lying and the dissociation became habitual, such that even Casey’s closest friends had no idea what was true. When Casey became pregnant, she at first “didn’t know” for many months, and then never told a consistent story about who the father was. With no real life skills, and under her father’s obsessive control, she continued to stay intertwined with her family, ensuring the lying and dissociation remained uninterruptable. She was, her friends report, an extremely loving and attentive mother. But then again, her friends were also always being lied to about basic details of her life.

Then, at her parents’ house with her mother gone, something happened, which resulted in her father saying that Caylee was dead and that they would have to cover up the death. How did Caylee die? Casey reported that her father reported the girl had drowned. If so, why not call an ambulance, call the police, report the horrible accident?

Exactly. Without really knowing what happened, let’s suppose, as we’re supposing all of this, that Caylee died the way plenty of girls have died, while being orally raped by an adult male. (Sorry if even reading that upsets you, but reality is reality and it ain’t pretty or easy or nice.) Or maybe she died some other way under this man’s hands – since the body was missing for so long, we may never know. We do know that the body, when found, had been treated the exact same way Daddy George buried family pets, mouth and feet duct taped and the body then wrapped in a blanket. And we do know that Casey pretty much lost her mind at that point, descending in a dark fantasy world where the child had never existed, then, pulled out of that world, into a pathetic, amateur web of lies.

(Here’s where I can’t agree with the press conclusion that’s she a classic sociopath – she just doesn’t seem that smart or calculating. Latina nanny is right up there with Susan Smith’s black car jacker. And need I remind you that Susan Smith’s daddy started raping her as a young teen and continued into her 20’s?)

Why did the story of the incest, her father’s “discovery” of Caylee’s body, the cover-up, only come out at trial? One proven theory – that, after three years in jail away from her family, Casey finally had enough distance from the terror to begin to move out of the lying and dissociative breaks. One theory, but it’s been true plenty of times in the history of incarceration, including folks who finally get sober, finally are safe from some kinds of violence (and victim to others in the horror that is our prison system), finally stop running and begin to have their lives catch up to them.

I’m not asking you to take this as truth, or to take it whole-cloth. I’m only asking that you hold this story up to the story the press has been telling, and measure for yourself the gaps, the unlikely moments, the prejudices, of each. I’m very clear about my prejudices and assumptions here, as an incest survivor myself. My great-uncle would sometimes call me by his daughter’s name, making me wonder if Daddy George knew the difference between Casey Anthony and Caylee Anthony. I know that incest survivors, as young adults, often drink, sleep around, take stupid risks, and get into to awful situations way over their heads, and that this is a pattern started by the abuse.

Who in the press will be so honest about the assumptions driving THEIR version?

Translation Revision – Shez’ “The Excuse of Literature”

See my most recent translation here

With input from poet and translator Ruth Artman-Breindler, with whom I might be working, a deep revision of my first attempt. I have to go back and re-do the learning I once did about verb forms, because I mistranslated as first person what was actually “to me” in second person. So the true sense of the poem is much more like this:


The Excuse of Literature
Shez, translated by Elliott batTzedek


On the day of judgment for fathers who rape,
you will not say a word
you will sit, mouth shut,
in this place where girls are allowed
to weep from the horror

But until that day of judgment, you go on silencing me
while smiling politely,
refusing to allow my words to be printed
in my hometown
behind the lie of their literary value

April 24 – Anti-semitism

Anti-semitism
January, 1983


my great-uncle’s living room
Terra Haute, IN, late,
watching a WWII documentary

with him

because knowing where he was
was safer than not knowing

he was mesmerized, always,
by all things Nazi

Battle of the Bulge survivor

In the back bedroom, his wife
lay dying of cancer, weak, wasting,
terrified— no longer

my Great-Aunt Ann,
mother of 7 and still time for me

she’d seen no doctors
had no pain drugs, hankies
from constant nosebleeds piling up
unwashed

For healing, his god must suffice

3 of his children sterile—
measles

In the dark he turned to me
They deserved it. The Jews.

What?

What Hitler did. They deserved it. They killed Jesus.

I went to my great-aunt
to her dark room
where he wouldn’t come

She died that spring

only now can I say
none of us deserved it

April 22 – Shez “Be rough, do not be indifferent”

Ok, this is where translating gets really really interesting. I used google translator first, as a way to get a very rough sense of the poem, and it translated the last line as “your glass sun attitude.” Huh? So then I started using a dictionary one word at a time, and still got only “attitude sunlight a cup/glass of you/to you.” Still not much sense to be had there.

THEN I switched dictionaries and learned that word being translated as glass or cup is also an Arabic word, course slang for “female sex organ.” OOOOOhhh. That makes much more sense, and of course Israeli Hebrew is full of Arabic words. In terms of my sense of the poem, I’ve put in the word “cunt,” but with much ambivalence because I love the word cunt, it is very positive for me, while here the sense is supposed to be insulting, demeaning. The work will go on.

But there is something really exciting happening here, a strength, directness, violence in the language that is incredibly powerful. I want to make this make sense because I want to deeply get what she is saying. And that’s where translating gets really really interesting, too.

This is a very early start on this poem. The first few lines might be the opposite of what I have here, “be” for “do not be” or the other way around. Right now I’ve stumbled on a combination that allows the poem to make emotional sense to me. Doesn’t translating always reveal the emotional live of the translator alongside that of the poet? I think it must.



תִּהְיִי גַּסָּה תִּהְיִּי קְצָת אֲדִישָׁה


תִּהְיִי קָשָׁה וּלְרֶגַע
תִּהְיִי כָּל כָּךְ רַכָּה
וְתֵלְכִי שֶׁאֲנִי
לֹא אוּכַל
לִחְיוֹת
בְּלִי הַמַּכּוֹת שֶׁלָּךְ
תִּבְעֲטִי בִּי
תִּצְעֲקִי עָלַי
תִּירְקִי
תְּקַלְלִי אֶת הַיּוֹם שֶׁנּוֹלַדְתִּי
תְּקַלְלִי אֶת אִמִּי
תִּצְיֲקִי לְזכְרָהּ
תָּקִימִי גַּל אַשְׁפָּה לְיַד קִבְרָהּ
צוֹאַת כְּלָבִים תְּגַלְגְּלִי עַל מְרִיצָה
וּתְזַיְּנִי אוֹתִי שָׁם בְּרַגְלַיִם פְּשׂוּקוֹת
שֶׁאֶבֶן הַמַּצֵּבָה קָרָה קָרָה
וְיחֹם הַשֶׁמֶשׁ בַּכּוּס שֶׁלָּךְ



Be rough, do not be indifferent
Shez, translated by Elliott batTzedek

Don’t be hard right now,
be like this, all soft,
and I will go
It’s impossible
to live
without your blows
Kick me
Scream at me
Spit
Curse the day I was born
curse my mother
insult her memory,
erect a garbage pile on her grave,
roll in wheelbarrows of dog shit,
Fuck me there, legs spread apart
on the cold stone, cold tombstone,
let the sunlight arouse this cunt that is yours

April 20 – Shez “Literary Rationalizations”

UPDATE: see revision at The Excuse of Literature


תירוצים ספרותיים




כְּשֶׁיַּגִּיּעַ יוֹם הַדִּין לָאָבוֹת הָאוֹנְסִים
לֹא תַּגִּידוּ אַף מִלָּה
סוֹפְסוֹף תֵּשְׁבוּ בְּשֶׁקֶט
וְתִתְּנוּ מָקוֹם לְזַוְעוֹת בְּכְיָהּ שֶׁל הַיַּלְדָּה


אֲבָל עַד שֶׁיַּגִּיעַ יוֹם הַדִּין תַּמְשִׁיכוּ לִסְתֹּם לי אֶת הַפֶּה
וּלְחַיֵּךְ אֵלַי בְּנִימוּס
לֹא תַּדְפִּיסוּ אֶת הַשִׁירים שֶׁלִּי בִּמְקוֹמוֹתֵיכֶם
וְתַמְשִׁיכוּ עִם תֵּרוּצֵי סִפְרוּת.


Literary Rationalizations
Shez, translated by Elliott batTzedek


On judgment day for fathers who rape
I do not say a word,
finally sit, quietly,
in the place where the girl’s weeping from the horror
is permitted

But until that day of judgment, my mouth continues merely
to smile politely,
I do not print my words in my hometown
and continue with the stop-gap of literature

April 16 – back to translating Shez

the house didn’t have internet from Saturday night until this morning after I left for work, so the posting backlog continues…..


אמא 2



קְחִי אֶת הַיַּלְדָּה וּתְנַגְּבִי לָהּ
אֶת שְׂרִידֵי הַוֶּרַע מִסָּבִיב לַפֶּה וְעִם
מַטְלִית רְטֻבָּה בְּתוֹךְ חֲלַל הפֶּה וְהֵיטֵב
אֶת הַשִּׂנַּיִם הַקְּטַנּוֹת
וְתָשִׁירִי לָהּ שִׁיר-עֶרֶשׂ לַקְּטַנּה וְתַצִּיעִי לָהּ לַחֲלֹם
עַל דֶּשֶׁא – יָרֹק, שָׁמַיִם – תְּכלֶת, צִפֳּרִים – צִיּוּץ

Mother 2
Shez, translated by Elliott batTzedek



Take the daughter, dry off
the saliva from around her chafed mouth,
with a wet rag wipe thoroughly inside her desecrated mouth
The childhood years
Sing her a song – in the cradle of her childhood make a bed for her to dream
about grass (green), sky (blue), birds (chirping)

April 11 – found poem, NYTimes follow-up story

Megan Waterman, 22; Melissa Barthelemy, 24; Maureen Brainard-Barnes, 25; and Amber Lynn Costello, 27


vanished drew little or no notice—prospect of a serial killer
four more bodies—that changed

Shannan Gilbert, 24, a prostitute but much more
aspiring actress oldest daughter of Mari Gilbert

Mari Gilbert said police failed to take her seriously until
Long Island’s latest serial-killer case

Look at them: throwaway, margins, anonymous, addiction,
invisible, vulnerable, prey

[average age girls enter prostitution: 13]

estrangement from their families

[57% of prostitutes report sexual abuse as children,
by an average of 3 perpetrators
]

few notice

Joel Rifkin, an unemployed landscaper, 17 prostitutes
Robert Shulman, a former postal worker, 5 prostitutes
Kendall L. Francois, 8 prostitutes
Gary Ridgway, 48 prostitutes:

I picked prostitutes because I could kill as many of them as I wanted

Evidence: brush and grassy dunes, bodies of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of murdered prostitutes — women, men and transgender people

Message: “They should be very careful with their contacts”

April 9th – a Beloit prose poem

a revision, because the first ending was far too simple.

On the 4th day of Bio 101,
Elliott batTzedek

sitting in a hall with more students than my entire high school the professor read to us from a medical journal update about the first person to have died of tetanus in the U.S. in many years. “She was poor, rural,” he said, then read from an article about it, “she’d stepped on a fishing hook in her back yard and when her leg became infected and swollen she had not sought medical attention. Neighbors and friends reported that she felt that her foot was a long way from her heart and that Jesus would save her.”

Laughter from all around the hall.

4th day lesson object attained – the triumph of scientific, logical reason over ignorance and out dated belief systems.

Her name was Hazel Miner. She was 48. She left behind her husband Harold and her son Eugene who loved her. Her backyard had tools and fishing gear and hunting gear scattered everywhere, for they were a busy, self-sufficient family. Her house was small, but the kitchen door was always open for neighbors to sit and have Sanka. On the floor between the small living room and kitchen was a Charlie The Tuna rug which I had loved to play on when my mom brought me three houses down the block to visit.

She belonged to my Grandma Dorothy’s church.

I didn’t go to her funeral last week because I was here, in Chamberlin, in Bio 101, in my semi-elite private liberal arts college.

8th day lesson object attained—I was smart enough to get in, but I could only belong here if I became ashamed of who I’d been. Which was easy—I hated that church with all its bigotry and hatred of others, I hated the racism, the fear of anyone or anything different that defined that little town, I hated that no one there seemed to care about Bigger Things, I was learning that I ought to hate the food, the music, and those short nasal vowels that hang there for second and second in the middle of a word.

I needed to belong here. I did not yet get that my being ashamed of them did not mean these new peers would ever see me as one of us.

April 4th – Pain Poem #2

It is not the body pain destroys
Elliott batTzedek


The pain that waits, crouching
around every corner, the pain
you once tried to fool by living
in a round house, the pain that comes
from no one place, that was waiting for you
inside you, when you were born

this is the pain that destroys you

Not your body

You

When it lunges, ensnarls you,
throws the rancid black hood over your head

you are done for

And you know it

But your body goes on, it drags you to the toilet
to the kitchen, to the door to let out the dog,
to the truck, to your mother’s, its mouth says
“It’s not a good day, but I’ll be okay”, its leg will carry
a bruise from the bench in the garage

which, when the pain retreats, you will discover
and wonder at, another incident, another fact,
another day rendered from you

Translating Shez’s “in the nights”

Translating, round two, after help from Ann Ellen Dichter and Eugene Sotirescu. This is complex stuff, translating. Which I knew, but I just keep knowing more and more. In theory, I’ll have an entire manuscript of at least 48 poems by next year. In theory…

First, the Hebrew original:

בַּלֵּילוֹת הָאַיָּלָה חוֹלֶמֶת עַל
נִמְרֹד גִּבּוֹר צַיִד
שֶׁתָּבוֹא כְּבָר לִתְקֹעַ חֵץ
בִּקְרָבַי
שֶׁתַּעֲמֹד פְּשׂוּק רַגְלַיִם מֵעַל
גּוּפָתִי הַדּוֹמֶמֶת
שֶׁתַּעֲרִיץ אֶת הַבָּשָׂר הַזֶה

Eugene’s translation:

at night the doe dreams of
nimrod the hunter hero
let him come already to stick an arrow
into my insides
let him stand with spread legs over
my still corpse
let him admire this flesh

Here’s my revised translation, based on his literal translation.

In the nights, the fawn dreams
of Nimrod, the mighty hunter
Let him come, press an arrow
into and into me
Let him stand, legs spread,
over my unmoving body
Let him lord over this flesh

a few notes about my translation:

I chose “fawn” rather than “doe” because in the Hebrew the word ayalah is both a girl’s name and the word for “doe.” I think the sense of human and animal intertwined is essential to the poem, so I chose “fawn,” which can be a woman’s name in English. It’s not common, and I’m not sure the double meanings carry anything close to the same strength of the Hebrew, but it’s a start.

I chose “press” rather than “stick” because the word in Hebrew can also mean the meteorological term “bar” as a measure of pressure. Press also, I think, carries an intimacy that I think is there in the poem.

I chose “into and into” rather than “to my insides” because of how Marcia Falk uses “b’kirbi” in her morning blessing and translates as “heart of hearts” or “innermost being.” I’m not sure “into and into” captures the sense of being in the deepest part of oneself, although the sense of the act being repeated night after night is important.

And I chose “lord over” rather than “admire” because the Hebrew root carries a sense of being a despot or tyrant and thus a strong sense of control. “Lord over” in English carries both the sense of being the lord of the manor and of the slang “to lord it over someone,” both of which meanings are relevant here.

Or at least that’s what I’m thinking today. When I hear from some of my other Hebrew speakers, words and emotional meanings could shift again radically.