Tag Archives: parenting

Two attorneys chat about a child abuse law

Imagine a lead-up to the case of Harris, as in Kamala, representing the state of California, v. Mathews, Alvarez, and Owen: a case at least five years in the making; a case delayed multiple times because witnesses weren’t available at short notice, because one of the attorneys for either side became ill; because the judge in the case decided to go on vacation–who knows? And if you weren’t there for the projected week-long trial that became a day-and-a-half trial and ended abruptly, you won’t recognize so readily the elements outlined in this speculative dialogue. You might not know that a ten year old law that mandated changes to child abuse reporting law based on now 45 year old legislation had gotten bounced around between courts since 2019–officially remanded by the California Supreme court in 2020 with the decree that the state must demonstrate, via a trial, that the 2015 amendment to the 1980 Child Abuse and Neglect Reporting Act (CANRA) advances the cause of that earlier legislation. So, conjure two principals from the state attorney general’s office (I’ll call them A and B), chatting on the eve of the trial with one of them fretting yet plotting over what may happen:

A: So, a person does something that harms children, indirectly. They look at child porn. I know. I’m supposed to call it CSAM, child sexual abuse material. Whatever. But it does harm them directly, someone says–one of our witnesses: “It’s not a victimless crime”

B: Well, it isn’t

A: Question is, is that relevant? I can hear the other side, possibly the judge: “Oh, well then we must identify, locate, and then protect the victimized child, following those questions that appear on suspected child abuse report forms. And if this change to the law will achieve that, then okay”. Well, the thing is it won’t as far as we know, but it will stop the subject of the report from continuing the behavior.

B: And presumably deter however many others there are doing this behavior

A: No, that’s been increasing in a big way actually, not decreasing–what both our side and theirs call an “explosion” of CSAM on the internet.

B: So why’s that happening, the explosion?

A: It’s the technology…ya know, the growth of the internet, the sophisticated ways in which images can be stored and hidden

B: The internet? Not people’s desire to do the behavior, look at child porn?

A: Yes, but the technology has made it easier to find the images; meanwhile, the number of images are incredible so it’s hard to track them all. People who weren’t previously inclined to do this kind of thing can now. Or, the same number of people are doing it, roughly, but are able to do it more, gather ever more images, because of the technology. We’re not sure.

B: You mean despite us having this now ten year old reporting law to deter people. So, why have the law?

A: Well, the idea was that having the law, plus the amendment, would help us capture child porn users, not just those who produce, sell, or distribute–that was what the law previously said. But capturing porn users was never the purpose of the law–protecting children is–so we have to spin it that way somehow

B: I see. The plaintiffs will argue that there are more commonplace and more effective ways to capture child porn users, like acting on tips from the public, or by going through google, for example

A: Yes, and states do get thousands of tips per year from the public about child porn users, countless more than we get from psychotherapists reporting on their patients. Not sure about compelling google to violate privacy of their users, getting them to report, and of course they’d have tons more money to fight us in court than three therapists from California plus a pro bono lawyer.

B: Okay, well if we do capture them, the child porn users–let’s say we get better at that, or that more therapists report their patients to us–then what? Remind me, are we talking misdemeanors or felonies?

A: Depends on how much child porn they’ve been viewing or downloading. If it’s not so bad we can send ’em back to therapy, only we–meaning the state–would be in charge of the therapy at that point. Basically, we’d presume they’d lie about their behavior so we’d regularly use polygraphs to verify their disclosures.

B: So what if they tell the truth about more use of child porn?

A: Well, then they’d be in violation, which would lead to a custodial sentence probably. Or, if they lie about child abuse and they fail a polygraph, then the same result would follow

B: And if they’re not continuing to use child porn and they pass a polygraph, then what do they talk about in therapy?

A: I don’t know. Whatever else they talk about in therapy. They get reminded to not use child porn, I guess. Our expert witnesses don’t say much about that.

B: And what about the plaintiff witnesses. What might they say?

A: Well, they’ve just got the one, this forensic psychologist who says, or relays studies that say that breaches of confidentiality are damaging therapy efforts, that child porn users aren’t that dangerous to children in a direct way, according to research. Much of that testimony will be redundant since their attorney can get most of that info out of our witnesses in cross examination. Then, their witness might talk about what else happens in therapy, or what motivates child porn users, like medicating anxiety states, sexual traumas–theirs, not those of the children in the…ya know.

B: What will you ask him in the cross examination?

A: Actually, our best chance is if he doesn’t show, so I have an idea. Remember, the Supreme Court back in 2020 put it on us, the state, to show that the 2015 amendment to CANRA protects children, otherwise the limiting of confidentiality rights may be deemed unconstitutional. So, we’re in trouble here: we can’t show that therapist reports are even happening on this matter, let alone that they’re leading to rescues. We got an expert witness who says that child porn use directly harms children so it shouldn’t matter that we can’t locate victims via therapist reports, but that argument’s about increasing arrests, convictions, and mandated treatment, which isn’t the point of the reporting law. So, we need a get out of jail card and I think it’s in this “no more delays” decree that the judge ordered last month. If we finish up Tuesday afternoon because we limit to a bare minimum our questions for our witnesses–which their side won’t expect–we’ll rest our case and the judge will turn to them. Their attorney says their witness is coming on Thursday, which means he’ll have to ask for a continuance, which the judge will deny. Then, we object that we’re denied a chance to cross examine, so the witness testimony should be struck from the record. And, because he’s their only witness, we’ll move to dismiss, saying they’re not presenting a case, even though they will have asked most of the questions at that point. So…why are you smiling?

B: It’s ingenious

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Take the bus sweet sixteen

Sweet sixteen. Takes a while to get there, I’d say. Also, it’s not as sexy as it sounds; not the debutante ball it’s chalked up to be. It’s a pinnacle of a problem. Throw up thirteen. Fuck off fourteen. Gross fifteen. Sickness. You hang around teenagers, amid their sniffles, dripping of various fluids, you’ll feel under the weather fairly soon. And minimal conversation. In my teens I was missing because of television, video games that sucked the air from my brain, dulling my imagination. The fingers did the walking, and seemingly the thinking as they flitted about remotes, joysticks, or a keyboard. Now it’s a deft index digit skimming over the small buttons of a cell phone. Eyes scan over the dashing pages. They appear and then disappear like cells of thought dancing about. Get a word in—you know, words—and a head may pop up and recognize external stimuli. Something from within, a hunger, signals that sustenance of an original kind is necessary. An utterance, a cry or a bark burst out with a need. Food is soon engorged. A refrigerator is emptied. Check the front door. Food is often dashed there these days. No dice. The debris of packets, spills, and a stain is all that’s left of the consumption.

Does it peak at sixteen? Does it get better afterwards, this life of or with a teenager? Savage seventeen, asshole eighteen. Nearly done nineteen. It’s not as if they’re not aware of this state of affairs, these diseases they carry. I mean, who likes teenagers? Who says or writes nice things about them? Not me. Read the first paragraph. Adults mock them or wring their hands over them. Grandparents are wary, and strain to relate. Smaller children fear them as if they were monsters lurking in closets. They don’t understand their habits: the curious disarray of belongings, the expanse of ephemera; the clumps of tissue paper, bloodied or rendered sticky, tossed about a toilet. This is why teens start forming an identity, a sense of togetherness, of esprit de corps. The world is against them, or concerned for them, which is vaguely worse. We celebrate their individualism while we lament that very incipience because it intrudes and takes over. We envy the beginning of a prime: sexual confidence is not yet there but it’s coming; athletic prowess, litheness and invincibility are upon them whether they feel it, take advantage of it, or not. Lovingly, we hope this developmental combo of affliction and power will be like one of their illnesses: that it will pass soon and drift into memory, only to be revisited every five years with terrible reunions. The worst of us will not go to those events because they’re too painful. Or, we’ll go, but much later, long after the symptoms of adolescence have abated and others’ memory of our teenage selves has dwindled.

This was true in my case. Yes, I’m not a teenager. Not anymore. Not chronologically. It’s behind me. I’m in recovery now. Or it’s in disguise, hiding like a stash of dirty magazines. Magazines? What are those, asks a contemporary teen. Don’t get me wrong. I have warm feelings towards teenagers, the few that I know, that let me get to know them. They’re both terrible and wonderful, like I was. They compel my interest while they alienate and push away. Some of them plunder and gambol about– rolling objects ever at risk of knocking down the household furniture. When they rest, they seem immovable, forgetful, unrousable. An analyst once said to me that teens are the way they are because they are mimicking the ill or absent objects they are looking to rouse. By object he meant parent. Unconsciously, analysts use the word object to signify how parents start to feel as parents. Infants pull at, chew, or cling to their parents. They drape their limbs over their heads, hug knees and ankles. They grab and scratch, give you a cold at least once per financial quarter. Parenting a small child is a workout of chasing and wrestling, interspersed with household chores, seized naps, a comradely debriefing with a weary co-parent. The teen years grant a reprieve in the form of distance. The onset of puberty, the libidinal surge, generates space and tension: privacy and basic needs do battle, forcing outbursts that juxtapose rejection and appeal. Help. Guidance. Give. Then kindly fuck off.

You’d think they’d want this stage of life to be over; that they’d want to move on. But they linger, don’t they: teenagers. The affliction bleeds into the twenties, and for some, beyond. Certain habits, the masturbatory, the dissociative, solipsistic, drifting whimsy doesn’t seem to leave. We don’t want this period of indulgence blended with insecurity to go. It’s in the dishes left by the sink; the T-shirt spread over the washing machine, left for someone else to deal with. It’s in the stolid gaze, the hapless shrug that you receive when you ask after the thoughts that linked to these actions. Were there thoughts, you wonder? Was there shame, guilt, or rather conscience, ethics, righteousness: all the qualities that magically appear when the tables are turned, a divide is crossed. One day the adolescent finishes school, gets a job, assumes responsibility and has to lead, guide, or soothe another being. As a parent, you thought to give them a head start by getting a pet, or having a second child. Feed it, walk it, babysit them, etc. That was the point, you thought.

At some point, you thought to foster independence for your own good; to take a break, thinking a massive stage of the parenting job was done. Go online, sign up for Indeed. Download that App that will get you a credit card. Get a reference, network. Find out what a deductible means. These are your decreasingly patient instructions. Take a moment. No, take several. Take years, actually. Think back to when you were a teen, or just the last time a stage of life was coming to an end, forcing you to change. Routines stopped or altered. Someone or thing modifies a system, changes the rules, or the assumptions underlying the rules. Some of those teenagers are growing up and assuming authority because they are alright as teens. They’re polite to strangers, reflective when asked questions that call for meaning. That’s amazing, you think, when you first observe or hear of this–when you get those lovely yet irritating compliments from other adults about your kids. They (the kids) are still rebelling, actually, only it’s not called that when you’re in charge and you’re organized and well-spoken; when you’re empowered and separate from the enmeshed family tree. See, they only seem empowered, or entitled if you prefer, when they’re lounging on your dime, playing the music loud, drowning out your life. It feels not quite as threatening when they’re out and about, filling the sidewalks in packs, in gaggles of giggling, mutually-interrupting, shouting groups. Give them access to a car and this gets worse. Their windows are down and the heavy bass sounds of rap coupled with raucous singing is on public display. Not everyone in the pack is like this. On the sidewalk is a couple engrossed in an intimate moment. Hands in his pockets, a reticent boy is making an effort in the dawn of an aged ritual: he is solicitous and gentle. He is sweet, the accompanying girl will think. Sweet sixteen. Keeping his hands to himself, his head down, his glances glancing, he is not yet the boorish oaf he may soon appear to be. And the prim girl is likewise demure and self-effacing, not yet the disdainful, prickly woman she may “grow up” to become. Twenty years from now they’ll have a teenage boy or girl, or someone who will identify as neither: someone who will nonetheless expect basics of food and shelter, then games and fun; then free time and space to exercise free will, often with things that are not free. They cost money because of the rules that previous generations made. Yes, you might say to the requests that demand an easier passage through the world you made and they didn’t. Yes, you will help with some things, the things you know. Well, not all things. No, I won’t give you a ride, you’ll say, alluding to an old-fashioned artifact you might have used. Take the bus.

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My Peers

I’m trippin’ on the word, hearing its layered meaning, the play. I’m trippin’ on them, my peers with their protruding toes, hearing their footsteps outside my stall, their muted grumblings about the meeting. The break is nearly over. The clatter of paper and soap dispensers, the water from a fawcett, the violence of a flush, are all sounding out, signaling an end to the break. My peers are filing out, ready to reconvene the meeting. I can’t move. I can’t make anything happen. I’m stuck in my porcelain seat, waiting to evacuate, but then find something within that will gird me for the next round of work. All work. No play.

              I hear one or two peers circling about. I feel their eyes upon my stall door. Do they know it’s me in here, collecting my thoughts? He can’t do it—that’s what they’re thinking. He’s stuck. They glance at one another, sharing their suspicions, but they’re not supposed to say. In here, you’re not supposed to say anything. It’s private time, pre-verbal time, in a private space, and no one is at their best in such moments, we’re all inclined to think. That’s our big boy voice, saying pull up your big boy pants. Just do what’s necessary, wash your hands, then leave and start talking, doing your thing. Back to work. He’s gotta come out, thinks the peer who seems to linger at the basin, washing his hands. He’s the last one there. Otherwise, the place is silent. Everyone’s break is over, except mine. I feel his eyes upon the outside door, his voice poised to speak, say what everyone else was thinking a minute or two ago: two minutes, Ray. It’s nearly ten. You comin’?

It wasn’t like this back in the day. Back when we were kids. These guys: they won’t remember. They don’t know anything from before the age of nine, when games were fun. Yeah, they liked to win. I liked to win, but winning wasn’t everything. Fun was the thing. Funny—funnee—was the thing. Silly was a thing, ridiculous was a thing. We could be ridiculous, look ridiculous, before we were nine. Was it nine? Maybe ten. I can’t remember myself. I remember laughing, and wanting to be the one that made the others laugh. It made ‘em laugh, shaking my thing outside the stalls, flanking the showers. “Keep the noise down”. That was the only complaint: a gruff, peace-seeking rebuke from beyond an eyewitness (but not earshot) threshold by a locker room attendant—a truly miserable man who wasn’t winning at anything and didn’t like to play games or even hear evidence of them. A buddy of mine and I: we did a dance opposite each other, taking turns, like the display was a preening competition. We were showing off, but feeling silly, ridiculous. Nothing serious. Then it changed. After the noise complaint, the game broke up, but only for a moment, like it was the receding of a stream that would return via another channel in moments. Let’s do something else, someone said. They gestured to a pair of urinals, then stood in front of them like they were targets. His beckoned a peer to his side, held his hand to his mouth like he was telling a secret, excluding anyone who wasn’t up for a duel.

Maybe he was telling a joke, a play on words. That’s what comes to mind now, still seated in my stall, not playing the game, not returning to the meeting that will happen without me, even though I am in charge, sort of. I don’t want to play their game, take part in their name-dropping but not naming game—their nounless attack upon substance, and my word-drooling response: it’s a leaking, or a falling out of words, this civilly symbolization; a mouth bowel movement, disguised. They know it. I feel it, the primitivism, and the inhibition of later games. I didn’t play that game that replaced mine when I was nine, or nearly ten. I didn’t want to play the peeing game, seeing who could pee the farthest and still hit targets. I don’t want that kind of comparison; to win or to lose, those cul de sac dichotomies. Don’t want to step on toes or have anyone step on mine. I don’t want to stick my neck out. I don’t want to leave my stall anymore, deal with my peers. Yeah, that’s right: my peers, my fellow pee-ers.

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