I have this week off from Finnish class, and, shockingly, I've managed not to completely piss it away with internet-surfing and face-stuffing. No, I haven't studied a word of Finnish -- I really ought to rectify that, and soon -- I've been researching and writing. A lot, actually.
For about a year now, I've been wanting to write some fiction about the ritual abuse hysteria of the 1980s. After a few false starts, I actually managed to get a promising story started upon arriving here in Finland. After a lot of research and a lot of writing and a lot of thinking, it became clear that I wouldn't be able to cover the topic properly in anything less than a novel. The problem with this topic, as you might imagine, is that it's sensational. Just imagine if the Salem Witch trials had taken place in recent historical memory. And the accusations are far more lurid; we're talking knives in orifices, animal and human sacrifices, secret rooms, evil clowns, etc.
My interest isn't really in the injustice of it all, although one can't really consider the subject without noting how ridiculously unjust the investigations were. My interest also isn't so much in how accusations from chldren were made possible, since the methods of both the prosecution and the "therapists" in their employ have been brutally, ruthlessly discredited. In other words, we know damn well how these kids came to accuse their elders of such heinous acts. I find all that stuff fascinating, believe me, but it isn't why I want to write about it. I want to write about it because it could have been me.
My parents sent me to a reputable community preschool in 1988 and 1989, when I was 3 and 4 years old. I can't say I remember it terribly well, but I have no reason to doubt that it was a pleasant experience. Yet, in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, just over an hour away from where I lived in Connecticut, an openly gay day care worker was convicted of molestation in 1985. A year later, three family members from the Fells Acres preschool in Malden, Massachusetts were convicted of ritual abuse. These are only two examples. The country and, to some extent, Europe, had been whipped into a mode of malicious delirium. In those days, the unsubstantiated accusations of one lunatic parent could have resulted in a guaranteed long term prison sentence. My preschool was not immune, it was merely one of the lucky ones.
Since I, as well as my friends and a few of my cousins, could have endured days, weeks of leading questions, anatomically correct dolls and false memories of horrific (if comically absurd) events in our lives, it got me wondering what those kids really went through. What was it like to be three and badgered repeatedly about knives-in-the-butt and satanic clowns? What kind of malignant tumor of an idea was it that brought about these investigations in the first place? What was it in the individuals, and in the country as a whole, that propelled them towards this mass injustice? What are some of the long term effects on the kids who were involved, all of whom are adults now?
It's something I don't think should be forgotten.
Anyway, there's something about living in Finland that has allowed me to examine the problems of the USA more completely. So, no, my writing hasn't been about Finland, but it's from the safety of this (somewhat) outside perspective that I can write about the things I want to write about.
For about a year now, I've been wanting to write some fiction about the ritual abuse hysteria of the 1980s. After a few false starts, I actually managed to get a promising story started upon arriving here in Finland. After a lot of research and a lot of writing and a lot of thinking, it became clear that I wouldn't be able to cover the topic properly in anything less than a novel. The problem with this topic, as you might imagine, is that it's sensational. Just imagine if the Salem Witch trials had taken place in recent historical memory. And the accusations are far more lurid; we're talking knives in orifices, animal and human sacrifices, secret rooms, evil clowns, etc.
My interest isn't really in the injustice of it all, although one can't really consider the subject without noting how ridiculously unjust the investigations were. My interest also isn't so much in how accusations from chldren were made possible, since the methods of both the prosecution and the "therapists" in their employ have been brutally, ruthlessly discredited. In other words, we know damn well how these kids came to accuse their elders of such heinous acts. I find all that stuff fascinating, believe me, but it isn't why I want to write about it. I want to write about it because it could have been me.
My parents sent me to a reputable community preschool in 1988 and 1989, when I was 3 and 4 years old. I can't say I remember it terribly well, but I have no reason to doubt that it was a pleasant experience. Yet, in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, just over an hour away from where I lived in Connecticut, an openly gay day care worker was convicted of molestation in 1985. A year later, three family members from the Fells Acres preschool in Malden, Massachusetts were convicted of ritual abuse. These are only two examples. The country and, to some extent, Europe, had been whipped into a mode of malicious delirium. In those days, the unsubstantiated accusations of one lunatic parent could have resulted in a guaranteed long term prison sentence. My preschool was not immune, it was merely one of the lucky ones.
Since I, as well as my friends and a few of my cousins, could have endured days, weeks of leading questions, anatomically correct dolls and false memories of horrific (if comically absurd) events in our lives, it got me wondering what those kids really went through. What was it like to be three and badgered repeatedly about knives-in-the-butt and satanic clowns? What kind of malignant tumor of an idea was it that brought about these investigations in the first place? What was it in the individuals, and in the country as a whole, that propelled them towards this mass injustice? What are some of the long term effects on the kids who were involved, all of whom are adults now?
It's something I don't think should be forgotten.
Anyway, there's something about living in Finland that has allowed me to examine the problems of the USA more completely. So, no, my writing hasn't been about Finland, but it's from the safety of this (somewhat) outside perspective that I can write about the things I want to write about.
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