I learned about Jungian Psychology at a women’s retreat at the Chautauqua Institution in Chautauqua, New York. Foreign to me, I was quickly engaged by the skill of the teacher who spent the weekend regaling us with narratives of mythical and ancient women from a Jungian perspective. The weekend theme of Goddesses was also new to me. Never exposed to Greek myths, these epic tales were like discovering for the first time a box of 64 Crayolas – rich in their breadth and nuance, full of color.
She told the tale of Atalanta and the Calydonian Boar Hunt and of Clytemnestra from the Oresteia. Rapt, we spent two and a half days immersed in these women’s lives. She drew in other ancient women – Artemisia Gentileschi, a gifted female painter as well as the extra-biblical stories of Judith and Susanna.
All these stories.
Of women.
Why had I never heard of them?
Other themes emerged.
Artemisia Gentileschi was the daughter of a Tuscan painter in the early 17th century; born in Rome in 1593, she went on to become one of the most talented Early Baroque painters influenced by Caravaggio. She is best known for her themes depicting strong or victimized women. Her first work was completed at the age of seventeen and portrays the Biblical account of Susanna and the Elders. It is noted by art critics that she is one of the few artists who chose to depict the horror of the event which is often attributed to her female point of view.
I’d never heard of Susanna either since her narrative, along with others, never made it into the Protestant version of scripture. All the more reason to have gifted storytellers like Kaye Lindauer leading our women’s retreat making it their passion to retell the accounts of historical and mythical women so that the truth of their stories is not forgotten.
We who know the history of women disbelieved and distrusted must tell their stories and ours so that the truth is known and not forgotten.
As it was not customary to educate women at the time, Artemisia was denied entrance into the all-male art academy despite her talent. In response, her father hired a private art teacher to tutor her. The male tutor took advantage of the young Artemisia, raping her. Her father enlisted the only justice he could by suing the man for damaging his “property.” Since the testimony of women was doubted to be credible, Artemisia was forced to undergo her sworn statement while enduring torture by thumbscrews. The court believed that if a defendant could retell their account consistently while undergoing torture their testimony was deemed to be trustworthy. Artemisia’s rapist was found guilty yet never served his one-year sentence.
So incensed was I when I heard this story that I shot my hand up and insisted, “Why have we allowed them to do this to us for so long?”
It’s no wonder Artemisia returned to the subject of Susanna in her painting more than once. Susanna was a virtuous married woman who was the victim of voyeurs as she bathed in her garden. She was accosted by these same men as she returned home where they propositioned her, threatening to lie that she had been with a lover if she did not submit to their unwanted sexual advances. She refused and they made good on their false accusation; she was charged and tried for promiscuity and was in real peril of being put to death. Ultimately, the truth was revealed and the men were executed. Surely Artemisia could relate to Susanna’s experience of being put on trial even though she herself was the victim. (It’s important to reflect also on why this account didn’t make it into the cannon and who were responsible for the decision to exclude it.)
Had Artemisia been alive today she would have likely painted similar tales of modern-day women. Sadly, very little has changed in the course of history.
Tina Anderson was fifteen in 1997 when the father of the children for whom she babysat, a fellow member in her church, raped her. When she realized she was pregnant, she told her mother who sought counsel from the minister of their church. What he did should baffle and horrify us all. The minister expelled the child from her affiliated Baptist school and required this fifteen-year-old girl to appear in front of her congregation to confess her “sin” of getting pregnant and ask forgiveness for allowing herself to be in a compromising situation. The accused man had to confess in like manner the sin of adultery, but no one ever called it rape nor connected the dots for the congregation that the two confessions were linked. The accused, who was married and thirty-nine at the time, claimed in his trial years later that the sex was consensual. Several members of the church and the family conspired to cover up the event so police could not find out about the crime at the time. In 2011 he was found guilty and sentenced to jail.
It seems almost unfathomable that such a thing could occur in the twentieth century, especially at the expense of a child. Except nearly the exact same thing happened to my friend at our church when we were children. The sexual assault, the babysitting, the church member dad, the minister requiring my friend and the accused to ask for and offer forgiveness to one another, the sweeping it under the rug, the keeping it a secret, the lack of notifying the police so as not to disrupt this man’s family and his life, and the overwhelming sense of injustice. We were thirteen when my friend told me what had happened to her.
Why have we allowed them to do this to us for so long?
Examples of injustice for sexual assault seem endless:
A Resident Adviser in college who was date raped.
Family members who waited until their 30’s to reveal the sexual assaults they had each endured when they were only 8 or 9 by the same uncle in the family.
The countless friends whose stories are all so strikingly familiar.
I was afraid.
I didn’t think anyone would believe me.
I told an authority figure but they convinced me to keep it to myself.
I was blamed.
They asked what I did to allow this to happen.
For many of us, by 13 we have already learned that powerful men will protect other men from just consequences at the expense of women and children, especially if it serves their purposes. We stay silent because we have learned by watching those around us that people who should care do not, and we would rather carry the weight of a terrible secret alone than to share it and know for certain that the people in our lives whom we love and trust the most will betray us by refusing to believe us or blame us for the violence that someone else exacted on us.
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Our Jungian teacher ended our retreat with the finale to the Oresteia. Written in the 5th century BC, it is known for its themes contrasting revenge and justice shifting away from an ethic of personal vendettas to organized forms of legal action. After a weekend filled with story after story of injustice, we were transfixed as Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, Courage, War, Law and Justice is called upon to break a tie among the jury in the murder trial of the son of Clytemnestra who has avenged his father’s death by murdering his mother. (Clytemnestra had killed her husband in retaliation for him killing her first husband and her infant son and forcing her into an unwanted marriage.) The futility of the cycle of endless revenge killings is clear. Filled with anticipation for the verdict, the group sitting on the edge of our seats, our teacher built us up to the pinnacle of the story: And there before the court, Athena proclaimed that the accused was…
innocent. Her justification: because a woman’s life is not worth as much as a man’s.
A collective exhale of disappointment filled the room, and I recalled my hand that had shot up earlier in the weekend.
“People!” she said. (She would say this to get our attention and would clap her hands together for emphasis.) “Even in the age of the Goddesses, women have never been equal to men.”
Why have we allowed them to do this to us for so long? Indeed.
There is truth in the cliche’ that the more things change the more they stay the same. What can’t stay the same is the silence and the lack of accountability for criminal behavior. Sexual assault estimates vary, but reputable sources say that one in six men and one in three women will be sexually assaulted at some point in their lifetime in the United States (NSVRC). That’s more women than will get breast cancer, and we run races and raise millions of dollars and have an entire month dedicated to fighting that.
If you or someone you know has been the victim of sexual assault, tell. Tell your significant other. Tell your daughters and your sons. Tell your friends. Tell your story. Speak out for the voiceless. Warn the naive. Protect the vulnerable. We who know the history of women disbelieved and distrusted must tell their stories and ours so that the truth is known and not forgotten. The reason survivors remain silent is because they are disbelieved. We must break the cycle of disbelief.
For those knowledgeable about sexual assault, whether because we are social workers, lawyers, in law enforcement, counselors and therapists or healthcare providers or because we have been assaulted ourselves or have had friends and family who have been assaulted and have done the important work of educating ourselves about the facts – carrying this knowledge of the history of injustice and disbelief of women and how in so many ways women and children (which include male children) throughout history have been and continue to be disenfranchised of their bodily autonomy is immense. Trying to educate the public to dispel disinformation, myths and urban legends – profoundly needed.
For those who want to support survivors – to be understood is a form of love. To listen. To believe. And to commit to being advocates of truth rather than spreaders of myth. To stand up for women even when we are not present by shutting down other men who promote rape culture. This is where you can help.
We don’t need good men to protect us.
We need good men to teach other men how to be good men and to hold them accountable when they are not.
For more information about rape and sexual abuse please visit The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).
Image Credit:
Susanna and the Elders, 1610 by Artemisia Gentileschi
