What Makes Your Arse So Special?
Originally published in sept 2018The American actor Anthony Rapp recently tweeted that he’d been physically accosted by the actor Kevin Spacey at the end of a party when the other guests had gone home. Young Rapp was then led to a bedroom by Spacey who attempted to “seduce” him. The actor did not accuse Spacey of raping him. He said Spacey lay on top of him. This must be shocking stuff for an innocent 14-year-old.
Well, it depends what 14-year-old you’re talking about.
I grew up in Beechholme, a children’s home in Surrey, Banstead, England.
Beechholme has become notorious over the years for the wide-ranging mistreatment of the children who were in residence. The Beechholme story is chronicled online and the digital communication between former child residents (now grownup adults) who spent time there continues to grow. Their written testimony provides an ugly, unimpeachable record of systemic abuse that is shocking and deeply repellent.
If I were to accuse every male member of staff who has touched me inappropriately, groped me in the shower or bath, climbed into my bed while I was sleeping and ordered me to hold them, beaten me with a belt for not touching their penis, put tape over my mouth to stop me from talking, locked me in a cupboard for hours, rubbed pepper into my eyes, repeatedly harassed me and made my life in the Home hell because I didn’t return their affections, I’d be in a solicitor’s office every day.
And I’m only talking about the male staff.
I’ve woken up to find a drunken female member of staff sitting on my bed threatening to cut off my penis if I didn’t kiss her, watched female members of staff make out each other in front of me and been encouraged to take part in group sex with other children and staff.
During my boyhood and early teens when running away from the children’s home I’ve been attacked in cars by men who offered me a lift, been held captive for hours in a rundown bedsit by a lonely desperate man who slashed his own face body with a knife and promised to do the same to me if I didn’t suck his penis. And on and on.
Either I’ve become desensitized to the horrors of the world or my life has been even more out of whack then I thought because my first response to Rapp’s story, despite a minor twinge of baseline human sympathy, was “Is that it?”
The mainstream liberal media has responded generously tor Rapp's tweets. I live in another world and the response hasn't always been so kind. I've spoken with some old friends who also grew up in care. Many had experiences in Care that made my own life appear idyllic. I’m grateful they’re still alive. The heated, emotive discussions produced an openly confused consensus: “What is so special about this guy’s arse?” and “Why is so much attention being paid to this person’s grievance when no one gave a shit about what happened to us?”
My friends and I concluded, with much self-knocking humour, that we were all hardened, selfish bastards, who were probably the least well equipped to assess the Rapp story fairly . The scale of abuse we experienced was so much greater than Rapp’s that we would have gladly swapped the unpleasantness Rapp experienced for our own.
Looking back over these conversations I’m struck by how quickly an unsympathetic “my pain is greater than your pain and demands greater recognition” attitude took hold. It’s as if we had automatically applied a survivor’s abuse metric that measured small acts of abuse against the violent, life-threatening acts of abuse with only the violent, dramatic crimes being worthy of attention. If Rapp had been in our group, we would have effectively bullied him into silence and told him he had no right to be heard before us.
This response is plainly cruel and untenable. By way of a brief defence I can only say that life forces survivors of abuse to be tough. We’re not saints. Sainthood, in our experience, was often the quickest way to victimisation.
Thinking about our response to the incessant abuse claims, I’ve concluded that my friends and I need to try and set aside own high tolerance levels of abuse. We must recognize that anyone who has experienced any level of mistreatment needs to be heard and should be listened to. Not all scars are visible. And those who have prospered in their lives are surely to be admired, not rejected.
These last few words have been written by my better self.
In all honesty, the other side of me – the more aggressive, empathy-fatigued part of my personality – is telling myself I’m talking shit. This inner voice aggressively demands that those wrongs need to be righted and, at the very least, wants to be heard and recognised for what repeatedly happened behind Care’s closed doors.
This internal dialogue is part of my personal daily battle for inner peace and reconciliation. This doesn’t give me (or anyone else) the right to misdirect my anger at others.
NB: The cover photo is a picture of the writer during his time at Beechholme.