You may recall that I recently posted about starting the movie Lolita. I’ve always wanted to read the book first, but since my reading has been sparse and the movie was recommended, I decided to watch the film. I watched about 10–15 minutes, then I turned it off, and I haven’t returned to it since. I stopped watching at the scene where the man goes outside and sees the girl lying on the grass.

The other night I thought about turning it on again, but I felt a wave of discomfort. I’m not sure I can watch a man lust over a child, no matter how phenomenal the acting, how romantic the setting, or how artistic the entire endeavor. At the end, it is pedophilia. No matter how much lipstick you put on it, I cannot stomach it, nor ignore the fact that it is grotesque: the forcing of acts upon the most innocent, condemning them to a lifetime of confusion, pain, and in many cases, the continuation of sexual predation.

But I have to hold myself to account here. Another friend recommended the show Hunting Wives. I watched a few episodes, but it failed to hold my attention. However, in those few episodes, the women, supposedly in their forties, were shown to be sexually involved with high school boys. If I’m honest, I can’t say that I was one bit disturbed. How could I watch that without experiencing the same visceral reaction? Why does the image of a man lusting over a young girl disturb me, yet the explicit images of women with young boys do not?

Could it be cultural conditioning? Have I been taught to think that when it comes to older men and young girls it is predatory and criminal, while women with young boys is scandalous, maybe, but sensationalized, almost a shoulder-shrug, a “lucky boy”? I suppose I want to explore how my gender biases shape both my disgust and my tolerance.

Could it be that I see females as less dangerous and males as more threatening? Perhaps there is also the belief that boys have more experience at that age, even though both genders are still vulnerable. In both cases it is an abuse of power, that much I understand.

Could my own experience also be shaping my thinking of late? What I experienced as a child was not as horrific as what so many others have endured, yet it still feels important to name it.

I must have been around eleven years old. It was summertime, and a large group of our family was at my Tía’s house in Avondale, Louisiana. Naturally, I was out running around with my cousins and a few of the neighborhood kids. My step-grandfather was sitting on the porch and called me over. When I approached him, he told me to sit on his lap, and I did. He put one hand firmly over my leg and the other, he slid under my shirt and felt my chest. I did what came naturally, I jumped up and ran.

I never told anyone that until about five years ago, when one of my younger cousins accused him of other dirty deeds. From what I understand, some didn’t believe her, although he had already been accused many years earlier by at least one Tía of the same type of disgusting behavior. Why didn’t I say anything? I suppose I didn’t think it was a big deal. I was physically and mentally abused at home and I figured this was just another thing adults did to kids. And mostly, I didn’t want to be blamed for it.

Although I am no closer to a definitive answer, I am relieved that I can look back at my own experience and still question gender, power, and cultural conditioning. It leads only to more questions, and somehow that is satisfying: the act of acknowledging, questioning, and beginning again.

And maybe that is the point. Whether it is a film like Lolita or a memory long buried, what disturbs me is worth sitting with, especially when I find myself in contradiction. The unsettling and contradictory feelings do not always provide clarity, but they do offer an avenue: a reminder of where power lives, how easily it is abused, and how I have been conditioned to look away when one gender is involved and condemn when another one is.