Tuesday, November 16, 2021

E. Jean Carroll: A Sexually Molested (Pre) Teen Girl Scout

There's an excerpt in New York magazine (June 24-July 7, 2019) from E. Jean Carroll's What Do We Need Men For? A Modest Proposal where Carroll alleges that she was raped in Bergdorf Goodman by President Trump. 

And Carroll wrote that when she was a nymphet, another pre-teen shoved objects into her vagina. 
One day my parents gave a party. Everyone brought their kids. Arthur and Evelyn drove up from Indianapolis with James to the redbrick schoolhouse where we lived, deep in the hills north of Fort Wayne. As the parents drank cocktails in our big yard with the scent of the blooming wads of cash infusing every inch of Indiana just after WWII, the kids played up on the hill beside the schoolhouse.

James was 7 and a half or 8, a bloodthirsty, beautiful, relentless boy. He ordered everyone around, even the older kids. To me he said, “I’m going to shove this up you again.”

We’d played this game before. Our families had gone on a camping trip to Pokagon State Park, and I learned that an object could be shoved up the place where I tinkled. I don’t remember now what it was, probably a stick, or maybe a rock. It felt like being cut with a knife. I remember I bled.

This reminded me of an episode of Pamela Adlon's Better Things where, in a game of Truth or Dare, Duke dared another pre-teen, "Put four Monopoly pieces in your vagina." She did! 

In addition, when Carroll was a 12-year-old Girl Scout, after being crowned Miss Camp Ella J. Logan, she was repeatedly fondled by Cam - the waterfront director:
I walk over and whisper: “What?”

They whisper: “You are Miss Camp Ella J. Logan.”

After they put the papier-mâché crown on my head, the cape on my shoulders, and give me the baton covered in Reynolds Wrap, Old Cam, No. 6 on the Most Hideous Men of My Life List, the waterfront director, takes me out in a boat and runs his hands under my shirt and up my shorts. 

He is breathing and moving his hand slowly and hotly, and I fight no battles in my head. My mind goes white. This is Cam. This is the man who has watched me grow from an 8-year-old Brownie Scout, and his notice is an honor. This is Cam, who teaches me to swim and dive and awards me the coveted White Cap! This is Cam, who continues to run his hand inside my shorts and under my blouse — even in the dining room during dinner, under the table, squeezing my thighs, shoving his fingers — saying, “You’re my girl. You’re my girl. You’re my girl,” and making me Girl Scout–promise “not to tell anyone.”

He does this until I go home. I am 12.

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