Shame and secrecy are the dreadful hallmarks of sexual abuse.
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A life made for television
Like most mothers, the other morning I was getting ready for work while keeping one eye on Ziya. Of course, she’s climbing up the cupboard to pull down shoes while also trying to get as desperately near the iron as possible, even while going, “Hot! Ssss! Danger!” and making the face she does for hot things.
Meanwhile, I am trying to bathe, match clothes, comb my hair and find earrings through all this while keeping her quiet so that she doesn’t wake her sleeping dad.
Of course, therefore, I began to script a documentary about this in my head while getting dressed. In my mind, there are two narratives, the one shot from my perspective where one eye is following her around everywhere and in everything all at once. The camera itself could stay in place at various points in the story while nonetheless trying to shoot the room in both medium and close range simultaneously.
Meanwhile, there is her camera, which occupies no location for more than any one second. That camera is noticing all the interesting things in the room: the bedside drawer where I accidentally left the childproof lock off and where all manner of interesting things simply beg to be pulled out, explored, and scattered all over or hidden in various unlikely locations; the cupboard doors which, because they swing, must be swung; the iron whose reputation for being dangerously hot compels confirmation; the baby wipes which are wonderously never-ending—once you pull out one, they all string along out too; the folded clothes which are clearly best refolded by 20-month-old hands; and so on.