What we should really be saying about Alice Munro

By Julianne Escobedo Shepherd

Last weekend, Canadian writer Andrea Robin Skinner wrote an intensely personal op-ed about her sexual abuse at the hands of her stepfather—and about how her mother had protected the abuser. Though the violence began when Skinner was 9, she found the courage to tell her mother when she was in her twenties. But her mother “reacted exactly as I had feared she would,” Skinner writes, “as if she had learned of an infidelity.” Skinner went on to report her stepfather to the police (he got two years’ probation) but never reconciled with her mother before her death. It’s a horrible story of sexual abuse and betrayal—but the thing that got the most attention was the name of Skinner’s mother: Alice Munro, the celebrated novelist and 2013 winner of the Nobel Prize for literature.

The media response thus far has been primarily about Munro’s legacy, with a procession of op-eds about what to do with her books and whether her writing indicated that she was the kind of person who would ignore her daughter’s pleas. We’ve been having these types of conversations for years—the “can we separate art from artist?” conundrum—about cultural icons from Woody Allen to R. Kelly to Picasso. And yes, that’s a mildly interesting question…which also distracts from the most important issue here: Why on god’s green earth are adults still dismissing children when they tell them, with an unimaginable amount of courage, about being sexually abused? 

Skinner’s story is important not because of who her mother is, but because it illuminates disturbing truths about how child sexual assault is dealt with—or not—particularly when family ties seem to complicate the simple act of protecting children. “It seemed as if no one believed the truth should ever be told, that it never would be told, certainly not on a scale that matched the lie,” Skinner wrote. 

Skinner’s experience is devastatingly common: RAINN estimates that one in every nine girls and one in every 20 boys experiences some form of child sexual abuse before they’re 18, though some studies say the statistics are even higher. The ripple effects are lifelong: Once a child experiences sexual abuse, they’re much more likely to experience PTSD, depression, or develop symptoms of drug abuse, per RAINN. And ninety-three percent of these children know their abuser, whether a family member, teacher, or some other person in authority—a violation of trust which makes it that much more difficult for them to report the abuse, particularly if their abuser has made threats against other loved ones, a common grooming tactic. 

When the abuser is a family member, in particular, the dynamics get even more complicated, even though they hypothetically shouldn’t. The American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry emphasizes that when a child reports their own abuse, it’s important for the adult to remain calm and refrain from making judgmental comments, and to assure them they are not to blame—two crucial kindnesses Skinner writes that she wasn’t afforded. And though there aren’t hard statistics available about the percentage of children who report abuse but aren’t believed, judging by the amount of first-person testimonies on the internet, it’s unfortunately common. Even Ellen Degeneres experienced this—she was abused by her stepfather and her mom disbelieved her. (Degeneres’s mother believes her now, thankfully; in 2019, she released a statement that read, in part, “If someone in your life has the courage to speak out, please believe them.”)

We know what some people say: that not every claim is true. And many remember so-called “false memory syndrome”—although that’s not a term or concept officially recognized by reputable psychiatric sources such as the DSM-IV—and the “Satanic day care” panic of the 1980s and ’90s, in which children did in fact accuse daycare teachers of mass abuse. (Most saw their convictions overturned.) But the fact is that these instances were and are extremely rare; in fact, like rape, childhood sexual abuse is grossly underreported, with one study identifying that half of childhood abuse survivors never tell anyone, even after they are adults. 

That makes what happens when young survivors do tell someone so crucial. “Don’t let your natural and understandable feelings of confusion and doubt override the fact that the perpetrator is always at fault,” writes the National Child Traumatic Stress Network (NCTSN), in its very helpful guide. “If, in the heat of your own pain and distress, you accuse your adolescent of betrayal instead of acknowledging that your child was the victim, he or she may begin to experience dangerous—and potentially damaging—self-doubt.” Reading the NCTSN’s materials, you also understand that given the frequency and prevalence of childhood sexual abuse, it’s possible that the person being told has their own traumatic history with abuse, which can complicate their reaction. 

Skinner wrote her piece after years of experiencing the ripple effects of being both abused and disbelieved; she began slipping in school and struggled with bulimia. But while her trauma followed her well into adulthood, as it does with many survivors, she eventually got professional help. It’s never too late to do that, and there are lots of specific resources for adult survivors, including organizations, like Hidden Water, which follow a restorative justice approach to healing. 

What else might help? Erin Merryn, a survivor and children’s advocate, has some answers. After being abused as a child—first by a neighbor, then by a family member—she has since spent the last 15 years lobbying legislators around the country to implement Erin’s Law, which requires public schools to teach prevention courses to children in school through 12th grade. (It has been adopted in 38 states, with more on the way.) Reporting abuse might be fraught, but signaling to a child that they’re being protected from further harm is more important. Most crucially, the child must be believed and treated with gentle care, particularly if they’re expected to develop a healthy adult life. And that matters more than any one writer’s legacy.  

If you or someone you know needs help, contact RAINN here or at 1-800-656-4673. 

 

 

Julianne Escobedo Shepherd is a writer, culture critic, and editor in NYC. Her first book, Vaquera, about growing up in Wyoming and the myth of the American West, is forthcoming for Penguin.