Tainted

My codependent relationship with literature

On my 19th birthday, just after the end of our first year of college, my friend Elly gave me a copy of The Mists of Avalon. Her note on the inside was essentially a dedication to our friendship because/despite of a particular boy, a theme that she would echo years later in her Maid of Honor speech at my wedding reception. I devoured the thick tome in a June that was tinged with heartbreak and loneliness, and I was thoroughly immersed in this feminist retelling of the King Arthur saga — so much so that it became an annual read for me. That is, right up until I found out the author’s daughter came forward with stories of sexual abuse from the author toward her and several other children. I tried to read the book — my favorite book — again, and found I could not. As if a veil had been pulled away, the sexual acts depicted in the book as an expression of spirituality and power and connection to nature felt exploitative and meant to be titillating in a way that made me immensely uncomfortable. This wasn’t feminism; this was women using and abusing other women as they saw fit, with the excuse of instructions from The Goddess. The comfort I had been craving was as ashes in my mouth.

I’m walking a well-worn path in this narrative, I realize. Many of us (I venture to say most of you who are reading me on the regular) have been struggling for years over how to — whether to — continue to consume art that is revealed to be borne of sullied origins. Woody Allen was probably the first controversy of this type I remember — I was not a fan of his work, so it didn’t bother me at the time, or really, since… except for the uncomfortable business of deciding whether or not to also condemn the artists who continued to work with him. That part is sticky for me. Playing 6 Degrees of Separation with child abuse is disgusting, but throwing Diane Keaton out with the bathwater also doesn’t feel terrific. I will continue to wrestle with this, I’m sure, for the rest of my life.

Examples of musicians are complex. I listen to more Jackson 5 than Michael Jackson’s solo work, the former having been produced at the point when MJ was victim, not predator. I still struggle to separate his story, and the stories of the children who may have been harmed by him, from the music he produced. At what point do we find ourselves trying to justify (oof, do I want to use that word?) abuse by pointing to the trauma in the abuser’s past? Brian Wilson was similarly treated by his father, but as far as I know, Wilson did not become an abuser himself.

Obviously R. Kelly is a bastard and a criminal, and Chris Brown the same, but as I’m not a fan of their music I’d just be happy if they went away.

As referenced in this piece’s subtitle, I’m struggling the most with authors. Besides Bradley, I’m feeling most betrayed and disgusted by J.K. Rowling and Neil Gaiman. In case this is news to you, Rowling has repeatedly — and with increasing vitriol — spoken out against the trans community. Gaiman is a rapist and an abuser. Both of these authors have created work that captivates me and brings me great joy and emotional catharsis and satisfaction.

I started reading the Harry Potter books in my early 20s, when the 4th book was just about to come out. I remember finishing my waitressing shift at around 9:30, and rushing home to my basement efficiency apartment to pull out my hide-a-bed and sprawl across it with the first, second, and third (my favorite) books. I read into the wee hours for a week. When the first movie came out, Elly (yep, same one) and I attended a midnight screening — I remember sitting in the bar on the floor above the theater, delighting over a line of kids dressed up in robes with wands, and informing Elly that I would very much like her to be my Maid of Honor. (Dan hadn’t asked me to marry him yet, but that was beside the point.) The Potter-verse had me completely in its thrall, and I voraciously consumed the books and movies as I evangelized about “the series that made kids want to read again” (which in hindsight is completely ridiculous, but I was drunk on Butterbeer).

I was late to Gaiman. My first experience was actually the movie version of Stardust. I loved it, of course — romance? Check. Witches? Check. Dark humor? Check. Michelle Pfieffer? Check. The first of his books I read was American Gods, which I felt was a darker, more complex telling of Stephen King’s The Stand. (Not really, but that’s where I landed at the time.) I loved it and was also overwhelmed by it. My consumption of Gaiman’s work always had great expanses of time between, so when I read one it was a wholly standalone, immersive moment.

I was never pulled into the world of Sandman, so perhaps Gaiman’s exposure as a predator is not as jarring and painful as it is for some. However, when someone tells stories that are that imaginative, unique, and dark, it is difficult to go back to them when you know more about the rot in the character of their creator.

The question for me is now, How do I move forward? Clinically, logically, it comes down to economics. I will no longer contribute to J.K. Rowling financially — I won’t buy books she has written, or HP memorabilia. I will not watch the new HP show, or see the Broadway production. Thus far, I have not watched any of the original HP movies on a streaming service… I don’t know how that system works, and if my viewing of it would put any money in her pocket, so until I find out I’m abstaining.

However. I refuse to kill the joy of children.

I have a Potterphile in my class this year. She has found in me a kindred spirit, and I refuse to take that away. Growing up is painful, and eventually she will find out that childhood myths are just that, and that some people that feed our imaginations are also capable of evil.

Condolences to you, for any similar experiences you have had. May life serve you with brilliant, unencumbered-by-toxicity art that brings you great joy.

Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie