Don’t Ever Judge a Book by its Cover

I am so INCREDIBLY INUNDATED with reading and papers to write, but I need to take a moment to share something with you. All of these men who have been and are being accused of sexual harassment, assault, and pedophilia may seem astonishing to you—maybe because of who they are and how they’ve always presented themselves or come across (Louis C.K., Bill Cosby, Russell Simmons, Charlie Rose, Casey Affleck, etc.) or maybe because the numbers are beginning to stack up—there can’t be this many creepy men in the world, right? Well, there are. More than you can ever imagine or wrap your head around, and “nice,” “clean-cut,” “funny” are guys included. Father figures included. Fathers included. 

My dad, Milton J. Ganier is one of those fathers. When I was growing up I adored him. I trusted him. He was my hero. When he came home from work, I ran to the front door, yelling, “Daddy’s home!!” I loved him. He was goofy, couldn’t dance, was always joking, gave to charities, taught Sunday school, had a masters degree, served two terms in Vietnam, flew fighter jets called “phantoms,” was a high ranking general in the Marines, worked for the Pentagon, and was loved and respected by all. He was charming. 

My dad molested me from the ages of 3 or 4 until after I hit puberty. He taught me how to use a vibrator when I was about 5. I was having orgasms as young as 4. He threatened that he would kill me, my mom, and sister if I ever told anyone. One time, when I was 11, after he was done with me, he went into the kitchen to make his favorite, a bowl of chicken noodle soup. I got up from the floor, naked, where he had left me, stood at the door of the kitchen and excitedly asked him if he wanted me to get the vibrator. Without looking up from his paper and bowl of soup, he replied, “No, I’m done.” I remember that being the first time I felt ashamed. 

He didn’t only molest me, he terrorized me. He was sadistic and two-faced and frightening. He called me dehumanizing words and after he attacked me badly one time when I was twelve, I finally came out and tried to get protection. My mom and I are so close now, but at the time and for years, she did not believe me or protect me. I told my dads secretary, Sandy, my school counselor, Mrs. Sui, and the Asst. principle, Aunts, my therapist, after I tried to commit suicide at the age 16—no one helped me because they either could not fathom him doing such things or because they were afraid to get involved. And I was not his only victim. 

I share this with you not for sympathy, I don’t need it. I’ve survived trying to kill myself as a teenager, drink myself to death (and by disrespecting my body) in my twenties, and bulimia from 12 to 26, all because I hated myself, blamed myself, felt dirty and unclean and unlovable. I have done a lot work to heal because as an adult, my healing is my responsibility and because I have goals that I am worthy to have realized; I want to live a joyful, loveful, intentioned, happy life. Today I know I deserve those things and have the power to achieve them.

I share this because I want you to understand that child molesters are not just some guy standing in the shadows of an alley. They are dads, grandfathers, uncles, teachers, police officers, neighbours, mayors, governors, adored actors and singers, and presidents. 

Stand up for a child and stand beside a victim, so that they do not have to stand alone. And now, I feel that one need believe the children and victims first and not the other way around.