Dear Dawn:

I apologize for being out of touch for so many years. Things have been great, sometimes; awful, often. Fred Fox was only the middle in a long string of abusers.

Dawn, I realized I was molested by two high school teachers at a very expensive prep school, Milton Academy, when I read this, at the end of 2019:

https://nypost.com/2019/02/07/private-school-starts-probe-of-accused-pedophile-priest-teacher/

That was my junior year English teacher. He once assigned pornography in class; when I refused to read it, he threatened to fail me (thereby asserting his power over my entire future); when I went to Mr. Moores, the academic dean, I was severely reprimanded, and sent back to Mr. Cornigans.

What he did to my best friend Wu-jin Lee was even worse. Wu-jin (David) was an exquisitely beautiful boy; the most perfectly beautiful human being I have ever seen on this planet. Such people are bred, not born. Wu-jin was in fact the eldest brother of a clan within the defunct Chosun dynasty, and therefore quite possibly the rightful king of Korea. 

The Japanese had scattered the Lees to the wind: they'd ended up first in Japan, where they were, needless to say, abysmally treated. They eventually ended up in Mississippi, where, burnt brown under the southern sun, they were surprisingly well-treated. Mrs. Lee ran a dry-cleaning shop; Dr. Lee was an academic economist.

All that changed when David got to Milton. The Lees realized that an Oriental soul in America (I prefer the older term, so please don't gaslight me about my words: I've been gaslit my whole life) must do everything to get ahead. They thought that Milton was his ticket out of the nail salon underbelly of Korean America. They were wrong. He was too handsome to survive what he was about to encounter.

Milton was the most profoundly racist and abusive place I have ever encountered, but it took me years to realize this. It was concealed under an Orwellian and constant encomium of self-congratulatory diversity pablum. Its real aim was to make transracial communication so awkward as to keep the races apart: so that Saltonstalls and Janeways would not find their precious blond daughters marrying Blacks or Asians, and giving them mongrel grandchildren. 

Practically once a month, somebody was accused of racism. The accuser was almost always white. Finally they hired a diversity coordinator, Christine Savini, to take care of the accusing, and zombify the students. She performed admirably. They now have a diversity staff of six.

Meanwhile students of a brown cast are routinely beaten up on, sexually abused, and expelled for minor infractions, while rich white students get a wrist slap for monstrosities.

They scour the ghettos for acceptable Negroes, and add them in for a bit of spice. In her yearbook, one such patronizingly-named "A Better Chance" (ABC) student put, instead of a photo of herself, a box of cornstarch, with the words: "Hi Mom and Dad. Now my transformation was complete." Quite apt.

"People of color" faculty ran culture groups, which policed acceptable cultural expression for "persons of color" (there was a penchant for giving such students impossible names). Much of this is common practice on campuses across the land, but given what happened to David Lee, I now know that its purpose is to uphold racism, while concealing it.

Eastern seaboard northern anglos are the most racist people in the country. They hate Serbs too (I was at Milton during the siege of Sarajevo, so that was especially painful). The only reason I can speak freely about all of this is that I plan to emigrate to South Africa.

Robert Cornigans' abuse of a Korean boy was not only due to geosexuality (South Korea is an American colony: half the GDP goes to the Eastern American elite, and so one has the grotesque fact of Samsung factory workers paying a fifty percent tax so the idle rich in Cohasset can send their blond sons to play lacrosse at Milton Academy); but given his royal status, it was also a geopolitical act. It was an act of war, an act of violence, against a subject race. That Cornigans was Black and identified as gay made him unimpeachably diverse, however, and therefore untouchable. You know the old saw: everyone is diverse, but some people are more diverse than others.

When David went to China, Robert Cornigans was the chaperone. David told me that there was a constant stream of Chinese boys going into his hotel rooms. Robert Cornigans was raping those Oriental boys in full view of his Oriental students.

One day David was sitting in the dining room, twirling a pen on his thumb. Cornigans came up to him and said, adopting a fuck-me pose: "all the Asian boys do that. Can you show me how?" It was a perfectly good pickup line, but, needless to say, a rotten way for a teacher to address a student.

Unfortunately none of us understood the idea of professional boundaries between teacher and student, because there were none.

Had David spoken out about what he saw, he would have been accused of being a homophobe, and perhaps even disciplined. Robert Cornigans was then head of the campus gay-straight alliance.

David was also molested, perhaps physically, by his dorm head, whom I will not name. And I ask you, by the way, not to share this letter with anyone: I haven't asked David's permission. I can't: he is 100% disabled by lifelong depression. I simply need to unburden myself, to seal the recovery from my own abuse.

My freshman year English teacher Todd Fry lit in to the hard sell of boys being anally penetrated by adult men immediately, and did not let up. I dreaded teacher conferences, because he would lean so close to me that I could smell his breath. The unspoken question was: are you gay? and the implicit threat was: if you don't tell me about it right now and come out publicly, you are a rotten human being.

I only knew one student who took the bait. His boyfriend was in his twenties, and he was sixteen. So we may surmise that Todd Fry was smart enough not to sodomize boys himself; he merely directed them to friends, and no doubt was rewarded in kind.

My beloved Spanish teacher, Leo Maza, was a hero, a brilliant man, a strictly professional teacher----and also gay. Like many gay men then, he died of AIDS. I never really recovered from that. He was the only teacher of literature at that place who treated me like a human being, not a sexual object.

Neither Todd Fry nor Robert Cornigans got AIDS; and that, we may surmise, was because they only sodomized underage virgins. Safe sex indeed!

A gay man, Dawn, is someone who forms committed relationships with men above the age of 21. Everyone else is an abusive pederast. (I will make an exception for Stephen Moore, because he is a Bohemian and a mensch. But 19 is cutting it a little close.) And those pederasts have, unfortunately, been the loudest voices in the gay rights movement. They have created an epidemic of mental illness such as the world has never seen.

I hope this American pandemic will have the salutory effect of showing us why there has always been a prohibition against sodomy, while also allowing us to look at the phenomenon of male homosexuality in a detailed and compassionate way.

(There is nothing wrong, and never has been anything wrong, with lesbianism. Male homosexuality, because of the anatomical realities, is much more complex.)

But then, human society, in both China and Greece, already had a detailed understanding of male homosexuality: Cao Xueqin, and Plato, respectively. In contrasting Xue Pan's abusive pederasty with Bao Yu's love for Qin Zhong, Xueqin, far more elegantly than Plato, shows the different between right sex and wrong sex.

But Plato is the best prophylactic. I used to say that to Fred Fox. That old goat wasn't interested. I will never be able to walk into my beloved Grove again, because even when Dr. Fox dies, Hans Brightbill, who sexually harassed a Filipino guest of mine, will still be there; and so will whoever performed fellatio in a tent; and all the people that Dr. Fox brought in. As far as I am concerned, Tunerville Camp is finished for eternity.

Dr. Fox's abuse of me could well have killed me, given the circumstances, but Todd Fry and Robert Cornigans nearly destroyed my life and my entire family. When I left for Milton freshman year, we were all a happy family, my father, my mother, my brother, and me. There is a picture of us, all smiling, in front of the house, the sun shining behind us. None of us smile now. It has been thirty years, Dawn. I have never held a job in my adult life, never been kissed. I made my first real friend last month. Because I was finally able to say "I love" in my mind to a man without smelling Todd Fry's stinking breath leaning close to me, without remembering his constant imputation of gayness into every literary work, his shallowness and hatred of Steinbeck's great American epic East of Eden, his arbitrary grading, his weeks-on-end "units" about Harvey Milk and the fact that the Holocaust was about gay people too (he never mentioned Jasenovac, or, for that matter, Ernst Röhm).

Why was such an ignorant man hired? Well, there was a network there: and there probably still is.

When I got back home after freshman year, I was a wreck. I couldn't get through a book, and I had no idea why. All that year I had been having a recurring nightmare. I dreamt there was a gas boy in the basement of my dorm. The gas boy was hooked up to a gas machine, which strangled and penetrated him like a monstrous squid. All was dark, but the green poison gas glowed about the basement. Then the gas boy would take off his mask, and turn to face me from his bier, and I would see his pale face: and with a shock of recognition, that he was me.

And then I would wake up, go to class, and pretend to be happy.

Sophomore year I collapsed into depression. I hated poetry above all, because every time we had a poem, Todd Fry would say "here's a nice meaty poem", as if he had designs on it. And if you didn't put something in your paper about his designs, then you were sure to get a B-. I came to believe, unshakably, that literature was a fraud. After that I'd turn a poem over every time they passed it out in class, because I didn't want to feel those tingling tentacles into the crevasses of my brain from Todd Fry. I told people that instead, I wished to be a robot. And that I was.

I began to have a happy junior year, but then Cornigans started in on me. By then I was battle-hardened. I merely lost all respect for authority, all interest in the future, and lived happy-go-lucky in the present. I did my best to piss that psychopath off, and I am proud of those efforts to this day. I told my parents I didn't want to go to college. I hated school. By then I had a full-blown case of induced ADD, and had to take Adderall to get through Yale.

The only reason I squeaked in there is that I got an 800 SAT verbal (a very rare score in those days: only sixty others in the country got it). This became another opportunity for faculty abuse, because the scores were posted in the faculty lounge for all to see, needless to say without the students' content. I was therefore branded a sluggard.

As I was writing this, I just got another cloying email from Milton dunning me for money. Maybe it's time for them to pay me.

I hope you are well.

Here is how the story ends: David got seriously depressed while at Milton. He started smoking and drinking to drown his sorrows and was punished. He had trouble waking up in the morning. One day, three weeks before graduation, he arrived five minutes late to class. He was expelled. And he never recovered.

The end.