2018年10月4日，星期四
陌上美国
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转载自公号【加拿大和美国必读】
这是美国知名媒体人宗毓华（Connie Chung）写给指控曾遭卡瓦诺性侵的受害者，美国心理学女教授克里斯汀·布雷西·福特(Christine Blasey Ford)的一封公开信。信中主要描述了宗毓华自己在小时候遭遇性侵的经历，那时候的宗毓华跟当年的福特女士一样，不敢告诉家人，也不敢报警，多年之后同样记不起具体的事件和那么多的细节。唯一印象深刻的，只有惶恐与无助。只有拥有极大勇气的人，才能在许多年之后将当年的经历公之于众。
亲爱的克里斯汀·布雷西·福特：

我也曾遭受过性侵，但不是36年前，而是大约50年前。我一直把这个不安的秘密埋藏在自己心里，沉默了50年。对我实施骚扰的人是我们当时最信赖的家庭医生。更让我觉得气愤的是，他正是1946年8月20日接生我来到这个世界的医生。现在，我已经72岁了。
那是20世纪60年代，我还在读大学，外面性解放正在如火如荼的进行。这段经历的确切日期和年份对我来说已经很模糊了，但事情的细节却永远是那么清晰——它永远铭记在我脑海里。
我能确定对方是谁吗？嗯，是的，100%确定。
我当时在一所很酷的男女同校大学里，但不那么酷的是我在60年代还是处女，我确实有了一些性经历，但是还没有跟任何人发生性关系，我觉得自己可能很快会进行下一步。
我去找了我的家庭医生，希望他能给我一些避孕药、避孕环或者安全套。
他在办公室就在他的家里，这是一栋经典的19世纪风格房子，吱吱作响的木地板上摆着已经磨损了的维多利亚风格天鹅绒家具。他的办公室在进门的左手边，走进办公室，可以看见里面玻璃窗盖着紧密的窗帘。这是一个很大的房间，房间被帘子分隔成两部分，一半是他的办公区域，另一半是他给病人做检查的区域。
需要强调一下，我确实记不清具体日期，甚至是年份。但我仍然可以详细描述这些内容：他坐在窗台边的桌子那里，要求我把衣服脱到腰部以下。当我脱下去之后，他来到检查区域在检查台上安装脚架。
我当时20多岁，从未接受过妇科检查，所以也没有见过这种检查时用的脚架。我伸展双腿，将脚抬起放到那些冰冷的脚架上有种很奇怪的感觉。
当时我盯着天花板，他的右手食指按到我下面开始摩擦，他的中指直接伸了进去，然后开始有节奏的活动。他还用柔和的声音跟我说，“注意呼吸”……
令我震惊的是，我生命中第一次出现了性高潮。我的身体猛地抽了几次。然后他靠过来，吻了我一下，碰了一下我嘴唇，然后再慢慢回到他自己的办公区域。
我不记得对他说了什么，我甚至无法直视他。我只能赶紧穿好衣服开车回家。
当时，我可能把这件事情告诉过我的一位姐妹了。但我没有告诉我的父母，我也没有报警。我从未想过要保护其他女人。请理解，我当时对性体验的感觉是尴尬。我虽然20多岁，但却对性没有任何了解。我想做的就是把这件事埋在心里，保护我的家人。
我母亲看不懂英语，更不用说开车。所以在那以后，我告诉她我们的家庭医生住得距离太远了。我们不会再见到他了。
多年之后，我把这件事情告诉了我的丈夫。我什么时候告诉他的呢？哪一年？什么日期？我也记不清了。
当《纽约客》和《纽约时报》的优秀报道引发了这一场 讨论的时候，我这个埋藏在心底的不安经历被回想了起来，我愿意把这件事告诉任何想倾听它的人。
我记得那位家庭医生差不多30多年之前，在他大约80多岁的时候去世了。我曾经很多次路过他的家，或者说是他的办公室，但我不想再看见那个地方。就在昨天，我在谷歌地图上找了一下这栋房子。再次看见它，我感觉到了惊吓。
当我公开讲述这件事的时候，克里斯汀，我也很害怕。我不能安然入睡、因为不能好好吃东西。你感觉怎么样？如果你也跟我一样不安，我其实完全可以理解。我万分恐惧，但却哭不出来。
我作为媒体人30多年的优秀经历在未来是否会被降级成为这件事的“注脚”？“她也是（She Too）”会不会刻在我的墓碑上？我不想说出真相，但我又必须说出真相。作为一名记者，我们观念是真相统治了我们的生活，这也是我日常工作中的关键内容。
克里斯汀，我和你一样明白真相的重要性。几年前，我的丈夫读了丽塔·梅·布朗的一部名为“六分之一”的小说。他告诉我，“这本书有一个很好的理念”。“说实话的好处是你不必记住你所说的话。 ”
希望自己可以忘记这个真实的事件，但我却忘不掉，因为这就是真相。我写信给你是因为我知道确切的日期其实并不重要。重要的是，我们确切的记得发生在我们身上的事情，记得是谁给我造成的伤害。我们会永远记得真相。
克里斯汀·布雷西，说实话就行了。
本文作者介绍：
宗毓华（Connie Chung），美国知名媒体人。上世纪70年代起，先后任哥伦比亚广播公司、全国广播公司等三大电视网记者和新闻节目主持人，1993年，她被任命为《CBS晚间新闻》（CBS Evening News with Dan Rather and Connie Chung）的联合主播，成为坐上美国主流电视网晚间新闻主播位置的第一位亚裔美国人和第二位女性。曾获选全美十大杰出妇女之一和电视“艾美奖”、“金锤奖”等奖项。
加拿大和美国必读编译自华盛顿邮报
转载自【加拿大和美国必读】谢谢授权
英文全文
Dear Christine Blasey Ford,
I, too, was sexually assaulted — not 36 years ago but about 50 years ago. I have kept my dirty little secret to myself. Silence for five decades. The molester was our trusted family doctor. What made this monster even more reprehensible was that he was the very doctor who delivered me on Aug. 20, 1946. I’m 72 now.
It was the 1960s. I was in college. The sexual revolution was in full swing. The exact date and year are fuzzy. But details of the event are vivid — forever seared in my memory.
Am I sure who did it? Oh yes, 100 percent.
I was a cool college coed but not that cool. I was still a virgin in the ’60s. I did advance to the so-called heavy petting stage, short of intercourse. I assumed that would come next.
I went to my family doctor to ask for birth-control pills, an IUD or a diaphragm.
His office was in his home, a classic Georgetown 19th-century house, creaky wooden floors with worn velvet Victorian furniture. His office was to the left of the front door, through double doors with glass windowpanes covered with tight curtains. It was a large room divided by a curtain he could draw. Half the room was his office, the other half his examination space.
Again, I cannot remember the exact date or even year. Yet I can still describe the following in detail. He drew the curtain, asking me to remove my clothes below the waist while he sat at his desk by the bay window. When I was ready, he came to the examination area and installed stirrups on one end of the cushioned examination table.
Here I was in my 20s, and I had never had a gynecological examination. I had never even seen exam stirrups before. It was extremely odd to spread my legs and dig my heels into those cold iron stirrups.
While I stared at the ceiling, his right index finger massaged my clitoris. With his right middle finger inserted in my vagina, he moved both fingers rhythmically. He coached me verbally in a soft voice, “Just breathe. ‘Ah-ah,’ ” mimicking the sound of soft breathing. “You’re doing fine,” he assured me.
Suddenly, to my shock, I had an orgasm for the first time in my life. My body jerked several times. Then he leaned over, kissed me, a peck on my lips, and slipped behind the curtain to his office area.
I don’t remember saying anything to him. I could not even look at him. I quickly dressed and drove home.
At the time, I think I may have told one of my sisters. I certainly did not tell my parents. I did not report him to authorities. It never crossed my mind to protect other women. Please understand, I was actually embarrassed about my sexual naivete. I was in my 20s and knew nothing about sex. All I wanted to do was bury the incident in my mind and protect my family.
My mother could not read or write English, let alone drive. From then on, I told her our family doctor lived too far away. We’re not going to see him anymore.
Years later, I told my husband. When did I tell him? What year? What date? I don’t remember.
When the superb reporting of the New Yorker’s Ronan Farrow and the New York Times’s Megan Twohey and Jodi Kantor helped touch off this intimate discussion, my dirty little secret reared its ugly head and I told anyone who would listen.
I think the doctor died almost 30 years ago in his 80s. I’ve driven past his home/office many times but refused to look at it. Just yesterday, I found the house on Google Maps. Seeing it again, I freaked out.
Christine, I, too, am terrified as I reveal this publicly. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Can you? If you can’t, I understand. I am frightened, I am scared, I can’t even cry.
Will my legacy as a television journalist for 30-plus years be relegated to a footnote? Will “She Too” be etched on my tombstone instead? I don’t want to tell the truth. I must tell the truth. As a reporter, the truth has ruled my life, my thinking. It’s what I searched for on a daily working basis.
Christine, I know the truth, as you do. Years ago, my husband read a novel by Rita Mae Brown called “Six of One.” He told me, “There’s a great line in this book. ‘The advantage of telling the truth is you don’t have to remember what you said.’ ”
I wish I could forget this truthful event, but I cannot because it is the truth. I am writing to you because I know that exact dates, exact years are insignificant. We remember exactly what happened to us and who did it to us. We remember the truth forever.
Bravo, Christine, for telling the truth.
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