by Julie Steiner
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| Photo credit: Julie Steiner |
Some smells are Portkeys: following your nose
will take you where you wouldn't choose. The past,
as patient as a paparazzo, lies
in wait in harmless objects, poised to spring.
One soap brand’s scent assaults you. (There’s no way
you’d share that silly symptom with a doctor.)
Your mother had a friend who was a doctor —
the sort of gent who won’t look down his nose
at those beneath him. Honored by the way
they’re treated, social climbers think they’ve passed
some test that’s caused their public stock to spring
up fifty points. (We tell ourselves such lies.)
Our own redemption makes us idolize
such reputable citizens as Doctor
Snow. We’re baptized in their sacred spring.
If kissing up to them should brown your nose,
you hold them blameless. Demigods are past
reproach. Shit happens, but some other way.
So when your kid complains about the way
he shows affection, know the trouble lies
in misinterpretation. No one’s passed
the slightest ugly hint about the doctor.
He hugs a lot—that, everybody knows—
but Honi soit qui mal y pense. Don’t spring
to damaging conclusions. Irish Spring
(a bar held in her mouth) should wash away
the filth she’s said. But soon the whole town knows
about your kid’s attention-getting lies.
She starts accusing classmates, not just Doctor
Snow. The social life you loved is past.
And now these drawings! When will she get past
this stage? You hope her sex craze doesn’t spring
from something in your gene pool. Playing doctor,
miming sex acts—this could be the way
your grandpas went so wrong. Salvation lies
in moving to a place where no one knows
your problem child. There, doctor up her past.
Ignore her noes. Keep buying Irish Spring.
Don't cave to tantrums. That way madness lies.
will take you where you wouldn't choose. The past,
as patient as a paparazzo, lies
in wait in harmless objects, poised to spring.
One soap brand’s scent assaults you. (There’s no way
you’d share that silly symptom with a doctor.)
Your mother had a friend who was a doctor —
the sort of gent who won’t look down his nose
at those beneath him. Honored by the way
they’re treated, social climbers think they’ve passed
some test that’s caused their public stock to spring
up fifty points. (We tell ourselves such lies.)
Our own redemption makes us idolize
such reputable citizens as Doctor
Snow. We’re baptized in their sacred spring.
If kissing up to them should brown your nose,
you hold them blameless. Demigods are past
reproach. Shit happens, but some other way.
So when your kid complains about the way
he shows affection, know the trouble lies
in misinterpretation. No one’s passed
the slightest ugly hint about the doctor.
He hugs a lot—that, everybody knows—
but Honi soit qui mal y pense. Don’t spring
to damaging conclusions. Irish Spring
(a bar held in her mouth) should wash away
the filth she’s said. But soon the whole town knows
about your kid’s attention-getting lies.
She starts accusing classmates, not just Doctor
Snow. The social life you loved is past.
And now these drawings! When will she get past
this stage? You hope her sex craze doesn’t spring
from something in your gene pool. Playing doctor,
miming sex acts—this could be the way
your grandpas went so wrong. Salvation lies
in moving to a place where no one knows
your problem child. There, doctor up her past.
Ignore her noes. Keep buying Irish Spring.
Don't cave to tantrums. That way madness lies.
Author's Note: The following context for the sestina "Peat Moss and Clover"—named for the scent profile of Irish Spring deodorant soap—might cast light on two recent news stories: first, the attack ad featuring Ohio gubernatorial candidate Amy Acton's mother calling her a liar, and second, the Cornell Seven situation.
The second-person narrator changes from the child's perspective to the mother's over the course of the poem, to reflect the erasure I have felt whenever I've tried to get my mom to acknowledge that I did, indeed, experience sexual abuse from ages five to seven, and that she and my father punished me for trying to report it (as well as for my attempts to come to terms with it, through drawings and playacting). She still clings to her preferred narrative—namely, that I was a deeply sinful kid, but through firm parental discipline and fervent prayer, she and my father saved me from being a pervert like the many convicted sexual predators in her family tree.
It is unsurprising that both my own mom and Amy Acton's are so deeply invested in characterizing their daughters as liars. The alternative is admitting that they made a bad situation worse for their kids, and that they continue to wrong us by being in such obstinate denial decades later. If I can't expect my mother, with whom I am otherwise on good terms, to give up the self-exonerating idea that her young daughter's claims of sexual abuse were just attention-seeking lies, I certainly wouldn't expect Acton's estranged and unstable mom to be able do so.
I had thought that the sexual abuse I experienced from other kids was an outlier, because my elementary school situation seemed unique. Many of my classmates were years older than I was, because I was put into an "open education" class—my elementary school's dumping ground for special needs kids of mixed ages. Hans Asperger was still a decade away from publishing the news that some individuals with autism have average, or even high, intelligence, but can be overwhelmed by sensory input (such as buzzing fluorescent lights, or by an entire classroom's worth of kids radiating laundry detergent and shampoo perfumes). My school didn't know what to do with me. I had entered kindergarten as a strong reader and was excellent at math, but I disrupted any classroom I was put into with my near-daily tantrums and distracting "stimming" behaviors. So they put me where I would only disrupt the almost non-existent education of the throwaway kids—those referred to in the day's lingo as "mentally retarded." These kids also happened to represent the population that is at the highest risk for being targeted by sexual predators. Some of my classmates were probably experiencing sexual contact outside of school, and were trying to make sense of it by experimenting on younger kids, like me. (I regret to say that I, in turn, did the same thing myself, when given the opportunity.)
But perhaps my victimization by, and of, other children was less unique than I'd thought. In an Oct. 20 PBS NewsHour interview, an expert on child sexual abuse said:
"Up to 70% of contact offenses in the U.S. are caused by other kids. People are surprised that a lot of it is at the hands of other kids, and it can be every bit as harmful as adult-perpetrated abuse. But kids often do it for different reasons and under different circumstances [than adult offenders]. [...] Being cognizant of the fact that your kids are capable of causing harm, and teaching them not only about giving consent, but also about receivingconsent—this topic is coming up more and more, especially in the moment with the Cornell Seven. A lot of people are looking at the parents' involvement, and thinking about 'How did they teach their kids?' [...] It's a really good example of how we should be teaching our sons and our daughters about both sides of the [consent] equation."
I highly recommend the full interview with authors Elizabeth Letourneau and Luke Malone about their book One in Five: Why Child Sexual Abuse Is Our Biggest Public Health Crisis, available for free viewing on the PBS NewsHour website. It is surprisingly hopeful.
Editor’s note: The New Verse News is honored to continue to host, in the wake of the news at Cornell, a series of courageous memoir poems.
Julie Steiner is a pseudonym in San Diego. For her other poems in repeating forms and/or on this topic—many of them first published in The New Verse News—see her Substack, Off-Piste on Mount Parnassus.
