Interestingly, I don’t usually see the same kind of virtuous confidence- this sense of helping their fellow man in need- in Republicans, at least outside the religious context.  Politics is this town’s industry, and I trade views regularly with Republicans. They are smart, good-hearted people for the most part and very charitable personally.  I also find them not happy with but more tolerant of the suffering and inequality that freer economic dynamism brings about; they believe in equality of opportunity, not outcome.  They don’t like unfair prejudice, but they also distrust liberal fixes like “political correctness.”  They’re not the party of the dispossessed- they’re the party of prosperity, and those not afraid to chase after it with hard work and perseverance.  So be it.  My party is supposed to be the one that stands up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.  Call that patronizing or call it noble; it’s what I’ve heard for years and to an extent it’s what I believe.

So why have so many Democrats and other liberals literally laughed off the accusations of sexual assault made against Al Gore by not one but three massage therapists, most notably the one in Oregon?

I want to be clear: I have no idea if the allegations are true.  I’ve speculated more forcefully about the guilt of others in this space because I had more to go on.  I’m aware that the National Enquirer, a tabloid, broke the story.  I understand the lack of physical evidence and the decision not to pursue the Portland case.  I understand why her concomitant civil case has raised eyebrows.  I understand that some of what she alleged seems objectively bizarre.  I’m a prosecutor at heart, but not a zealot.  So I understand the concerns of those who doubt or seriously question Gore’s guilt.

What I don’t understand are some of the remarkably cruel and foolish comments coming from people on this issue, and particularly from people normally associated with the left.  A blogger named Tom Scocca from Slate.com brought this up poignantly late in June when he listed a few choice comments about the Oregon masseuse from readers of TPM, or Talking Points Memo, the left-leaning blog on news and politics.   It goes way beyond TPM, though; hundreds of similar ones followed the first Huffington Post article on the subject.  Many insinuate that she’s a sleazebag out to shake down Gore for money.  Because, you know, that happens constantly to rich and powerful men.  Never mind that, as my friend Jaclyn Friedman noted in a great piece a couple of weeks ago, the vast majority of wealthy, playboy types never experience a sexual assault accusation; Tiger Woods and Eliot Spitzer, whatever else they’ve done and been accused of, haven’t been accused of anything non-consensual.

But in furtherance of this paranoia (some have suggested the accusations are a conservative plot) and in apparent support of a liberal they greatly admire, too many on the left are furthering time honored rape myths: If the complaint were valid, she would have 1) run screaming from the room immediately upon escaping his advances, 2) swiftly summoned law enforcement and related facts clearly and chronologically, 3) never considered seeking to drop charges despite immense and complex pressure most of us couldn’t imagine, and 4) presented herself from the start as a self-possessed, well adjusted, near-perfect member of the middle class or better.  And of course (as Scocca highlights) there are those who insist, with a breathtaking combination of stupidity and viciousness, that a superstar like Al Gore would never have the need or desire to sexually assault some old hag massage therapist in the first place.

These are the good guys?  These are who make up the party of tolerance, compassion and inclusivity?  Maybe that’s only true for some of them until someone in that category accuses a powerful liberal icon of a terrible act. To be fair I’ve seen blowback from liberals and feminists in particular against this nonsense.  But I’m seeing too much of it to begin with from people who claim to be better and more open-minded.

Again, I don’t know if the allegations are true.  There isn’t a lot to go on from an evidentiary standpoint in the Oregon case, and the burden of proof is an unrelenting master for the prosecutor.  So be it.  But from a common sense standpoint, if there are three women from Tokyo to the US maintaining similar allegations, it’s at least fair to ask how often lightning strikes.  In any event, using this serious accusation as a font for jokes is deeply cruel.  Dismissing it with baseless assertions about “what real victims do” is foolish.

And the sentiment of “it’s gotta be false because she’s too old and ugly and he’s too cool?”  Such verbal venom is exactly the reason a survivor friend of mine once told me that most women don’t report sexual assault because they’re too damn smart to do so.

Lucinda’s uncle had been molesting her for about three years.  She had vomited this simple, awful fact to her mother one night when the thought of spending hours alone with him loomed close and her ability to mask the panic at the thought of it faltered.  Thankfully, her mother had done the right thing.  She had called their precinct.  A thorough SVU detective had taken a report, and she had sworn out a complaint.  Through the labyrinth of Bronx due process the complaint had traveled, eventually landing on my desk.

It was in this way that Lucinda and I were brought together.  I greeted her mother, a small, tough but kind looking woman, in Spanish as we stood in the waiting area of the Child Abuse and Sex Unit.  She was gracious despite my accent and occasional grammatical errors.  Then I led Lucinda alone back to my office. Her eyes were black, and moved restlessly around the room as I asked her to sit down.  When they met mine, they were oddly blank.   I was used to that.  I maintained eye contact with her, striking a careful balance I had struggled to achieve over the years.  You don’t want to bore with your eyes, especially when you’re my size.  On the other hand, you don’t want to seem unfocused or uncaring.

“Lucinda,” I said.  “Thanks for being here.”  The blank eyes shifted to something more inquisitive.  It had never occurred to her that she had any choice in the matter.  They settled back to blank, and she shrugged.  She looked at the floor.  I waited a few seconds.  Sometimes they just start talking.  But Lucinda didn’t.  I thought for a long moment and fished out a line I’d used many times before.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The change was instantaneous.  The look in her eyes melted- I know of no other way to describe it- from blank to two holes of pain her face.  It was more than the eyes, actually.  Her entire face seemed to shift and contort.  She was being crushed by fear, guilt, revulsion and pain.  She nodded.

“Okay,” I said carefully, and at low volume.  I considered myself as I always do in professional situations with most women and children.  I am tall, white, and heavy.  My voice resonates naturally like a bass drum, a blessing in some courtrooms but a curse in other venues.  Why someone like Lucinda would give me the benefit of any doubt is beyond me, but sometimes childhood is the prosecutor’s best weapon in child abuse cases.  Sometimes they give us the testimony we ask for because they don’t yet have the wherewithal to refuse us.  Sometimes they’re just willing to take leaps with us because (thank God) they haven’t yet been taught by experience not to dare.

“Do you think you can tell me about what’s been going on with your uncle?” I asked softly.  She shrugged, and seemed to cave in further.  It was as if I was asking if she’d consider slamming her hand in a car door for my amusement.  “Just wait a few minutes,” I said.  “It’s okay.  I’m going to look at the file. You can look at it too, if you want later.”

There was a small, cheap radio on my desk, playing at low volume.  On that day in early 2007, it was playing “Irreplaceable” by Beyonce.  As I fell silent the music floated over between us.  Lucinda glanced at the radio.  Her head bobbed slowly as she recognized the song- the tune is catchy as hell.  In a few seconds, she began to mouth the words.  I let a minute or so pass.

“You know when this comes on in the clubs,” I said, again at low volume, “the girls all go like this.”  I lifted my white-shirt covered arm over my head and pointed awkwardly to the left.  She looked at me quizzically for a long moment.  Then she smiled.  And then, later, she told me.

Through the magic of Facebook, I’ve re-connected with dozens of people I grew up with in Northern Virginia, suburban kids whose upbringing was similar to my own in terms of demographics and social status.  I relocated back to Washington, DC last year, so I’ve been able to make a couple of informal reunions.   They’ve been warm and gratifying; thankfully, most of the kids I came of age with have found happiness and success in various ways, many of them in or close to Sterling Park, the development we called home.  But the dark side of these reconnections has raised its head also.  Mostly because they know what I do for a living, several of them have revealed to me how they, their children or someone else precious in their life were sexually abused or exploited at some point over the long years.  Some of it dates back to the 1970’s and our childhood.  Some of it is as recent as this year.  I shouldn’t be amazed anymore.  But I am.

For the sexual abuse they endured in childhood, most never told anyone.  This is remarkably typical.  We- those of us charged with doing something about it- find out about child sex abuse in various ways.  Mostly the disclosure is accidental, meaning the child will confide in a friend who then reveals the abuse to a teacher or a parent.  Some victims appear abnormally sexualized at very young ages, prompting the investigation.  Rarely, someone will actually walk in on the abuse while it’s happening.  But purposeful disclosure of child sex abuse, meaning a child with the wherewithal to speak up for herself and seek help, is rare. Most victims find creative ways of blaming themselves, placing the responsibility for both the abuse and ending it- on their own shoulders.  If they do tell, it is often met with disbelief, denial, and a sweeping of the issue under the rug.  Things are improving, but it’s still a terribly difficult thing for a non-offending parent, usually a mother, to digest the fact that a trusted man in her life is sexually abusing her children.  Particularly when the abuser is her husband and the biological father of the child (a surprisingly common scenario), accepting the reality and acting appropriately is just a bridge too far.

Sexual victimization- and the accompanying self-blame- hardly ends in childhood.  At every stage and in every area of my life I’ve encountered women who have been raped- although many of them either don’t characterize it that way, or at very least don’t understand that they could.  This is because many of them were victimized after passing out from drinking while in the company of the person who committed the rape.  Unfortunately but typically, they don’t see themselves as rape victims.  They see themselves as blame-worthy participants, guilty for having drunk too much and engaging in risky behavior.  Even women I know who were sober victims of an acquaintance or a boyfriend blame themselves for “getting him too riled up,” or making bad choices about where to sleep. They will tell me in the same breath that they’ve never quite gotten over what happened, but that they have only themselves to blame for bad decisions or what they think was “miscommunication,” and so they have little to complain about.

I try to be careful in these situations; it’s not my place to define another person’s experience or to insist that a woman is a victim when she doesn’t see herself as one.  But then I hear them talk about how they’re still suffering so many years later.  Or how they’re fine now, but college was never quite the same afterward.  Or simply that the first smell of chimney smoke in late October brings the memory rushing back, and it takes a day or two to feel themselves again.

These experiences, and their aftermath, they believe almost uniformly is their fault.  It is not.  These crimes, they believe almost uniformly, were the work of an otherwise decent guy who just went too far.  Because he was also drunk, or because she “led him on.”  They are incorrect.  Most rape is serial rape, and most men who rape, either through the use of their body weight, alcohol or a combination of the two, will do so again and again.  They won’t hide in bushes, wear a mask or wield knives; there’s no need.  Instead they’ll orchestrate a scenario and set a trap.  Then they’ll play hard on the ancient myths and timeless guilt that wither the resolve of their victims to do anything but sit Sphinx-like until the misery passes.  For most, it does pass, at least in large measure.  And life goes on.

But then October returns, the smoke drifts, and the haunting resumes.  Again.

Some who ask are gun enthusiasts who know me as a partisan Democrat and generally liberal guy, and expect me to react negatively so they can challenge my view.  Some detest guns and are hoping I’ll placate them and confirm their belief that guns are worthless or worse when it comes to self-protection.  I know a few police officers that feel exactly that way.  The truth is, not surprisingly, somewhere in the middle, and so is my opinion on the matter.  Would I dissuade my sisters or any other capable female I know from owning and carrying a handgun in certain situations?  No.  But I also know that both of my sisters understand well the difference between what a gun is and what it’s not.  A gun is a sword, not a shield.  Failing to fully internalize and deeply appreciate that distinction is the difference between being able to use a gun to save yourself or a loved one, and simply adding to the menace.

“The Shootist” is a magnificent film about a dying man who is part of a dying breed in the dying wild west of 1901.  John Wayne’s timing- dying himself when he made it- couldn’t have been more poignant.  I saw it with one of my oldest friends, Bob Bennett, who has taught me many things over the long years, not the least of which is the true nature of a firearm.  With the movie as a backdrop, it was Bob who taught me when we were kids that a gun was not a thing to be hated.  Or loved.  It was simply a tool.  But what he stressed was that, in order to use a gun to protect oneself, it wasn’t enough to understand how to maintain, safely store, aim and shoot the thing.  It took willingness.  Wayne’s character evaluates his success as a killer by noting that some men flinch or bat an eye before they shoot- and that he didn’t.

When a woman on a dark street decides to draw a handgun from a purse to defend herself against a would-be attacker, the split second timing might not be as crucial, but the dead-eyed willingness to kill is.  And keep in mind- I’m using a woman as an example here only because women often feel more physically vulnerable for obvious reasons.  The dynamics associated with the use of guns apply equally to men, and on balance I think women are probably tougher when push comes to shove.

To maintain any gun safely and properly is a heavy enough burden for anyone worthy of gun ownership.  That was Bob’s first lesson.  But to squeeze the trigger and kill- not stop, not hurt, not scare, but kill- requires a willingness not everyone has.  Some have staved off harm by drawing and pointing guns at would-be attackers for sure.  But to rely on brandishing with no intent to fire is worse than folly.   It invites an attacker to use your gun first against you and then in other crimes.  And for what it’s worth, people in real life don’t die like they sometimes do in television and movies, and even justified killers don’t just walk away after a few questions from sympathetic detectives.  We’ve been coarsened to a large degree by CGI and illicit video uploads, so many feel as if the mystery has been taken out of violent death.  But while movies and bootleg videos might seem to reduce the shock of seeing a bullet strike a human body, video does zero to prepare a killer- even a completely justified one- for the emotional, legal, financial and social life changes that soon take place and never fully subside.

So my advice is different from what many who know me would assume.  Want a gun for personal protection?  Do as Bob would do:  Own- don’t just learn, damn it, but own- how difficult it is to maintain one properly in your home and on your person.  If you’re comfortable with that considerable burden given your circumstances (kids, neighbors, the security of your car, home, etc), then shop wisely with someone who knows you and knows guns.  Then attend a NRA safety course and whatever else you need to supplement it.  Then take a long, unvarnished look in the mirror and ask yourself if you mean it when you tell your instructors that yes, you won’t ever draw unless you’re ready to shoot and yes, you understand that guns are for killing and not for wounding.

If you can handle all of that, and your circumstances truly merit the need for a handgun, then Godspeed and I pray you never have to use it.  If you do, aim as you’ve been taught and have practiced and be ready for what comes next.  If you’ve done everything correctly, it’s a far kinder fate than what the bastard you shot down had in mind for you.  But it won’t be a cakewalk.

It’s become an endemic part of the sleepless news cycle.  “Accuser” is how the media now commonly refers to the person who has made a complaint of sexual assault, regardless of the circumstances.  It’s replaced the antiquated legal term “prosecutrix,” the feminine term that was used in criminal justice particularly in the realm of rape.  On its face, it’s hard to argue with the designation of “accuser.”  Unlike prosecutrix, it is sex neutral and seems less paternalistic.  And it’s technically correct.  The person who makes a complaint of sexual assault against another is, by definition, accusing that person.  So what’s wrong with it?

The issue is the weight, and connotations, of “accuser.”  The word has a storied history in our culture, and it’s not pretty.  Puritanical, early America was stained by episodes of religious hysteria, exacerbated by superstition and fueled by the misery and uncertainty of 17^th century colonial life.  Witch trials predated the Puritans by centuries in Europe, but the Salem witch trials in Massachusetts bored their way deep into the American psyche.  The story, of course, involved accusations of witchcraft on the part of village women, many of whom began to accuse each other in order to divert the suspicion that had been cast onto them, or to gain some other advantage as the hysteria continued.  The motives of the accusing women varied, but all had one thing in common:  Their accusations were largely or completely false.  Made famous first by author Nathaniel Hawthorne (Hawthorne was a descendant of witch trial Judge Hathorne and so ashamed that he added a letter to his last name), the story was picked up in the 1950’s by the playwright Arthur Miller in “The Crucible.”  Miller’s adaptation of the story was driven by the hysteria of the McCarthy era in which accusations of Communism, also usually false, were dispensed recklessly, destroying careers and lives.

The accusing women of Salem weren’t just incorrect, either.  According to lore at least, by and large their finger-pointing, high-pitched accusations were fanciful, destructive and cruel.  They tormented the innocent and shamed themselves, playing on the fears of a hapless and vulnerable community.  They were accusers; they were not victims, certainly not in the way they claimed.  It is this legacy that lingers when the word “accuser” is used in the context of a sexual violence case.  At very least, labeling someone an “accuser” conjures doubt in the accusation.  At worst, it subtly but clearly connotes ulterior motives, mental illness, or evil intent.

Supporters of the designation claim that using the term “victim” for a person who has made a report of sexual violence is presumptuous and possibly unfair in the case of a mistaken or false accusation.  American criminal justice is based on a presumption of innocence, after all.   Defense attorneys around the country have been successful in recent years in preventing DA’s and witnesses from using the term “victim” in court to describe the prosecution’s main witness prior to a conviction of the defendant.

Part of what drives these arguments is the fact that most sex cases (either adult or child) are not “whodunnit” cases.  The question usually isn’t who committed the act; the great majority of the time the perpetrator is known to the victim.  The question is whether the act was committed at all, or if the “accuser” is wrong, malevolent, mentally ill, under pressure to lie, or some combination of all of these.  The problem with this analysis, though, is that it assumes some sort of roughly equal balance between “real” cases and false reports.  False accusations do occur, but the idea that most or even many charges of sexual violence are false is grossly misleading.  Thorough and methodological research puts the rate of false reports for sexual assault no higher than that of other crimes at the highest.  Nevertheless, when it comes to accusations of sexual violence, ancient myths suggest that rape allegations need to be looked at with a more suspect eye than other cases.  This is despite the fact that other crimes, like car theft or insurance fraud, offer much greater incentives to falsely report and are probably reported that way at higher rates.

My suggestion for a compromise is the word “complainant.”  It’s a little legalistic, but easily understood and technically every bit as correct as “accuser.”  But without the punishing baggage of history and myth.  Unfortunately, too many of the purveyors of the term “accuser” employ it for exactly that reason.  So-called “Men’s Rights” groups, “false rape” websites and other like-minded sources want there to be a veneer of doubt over the idea that women, children and some men are sexually abused and assaulted in rates that are frankly alarming.  As for the media, I sense the term has gained traction at least in part because it suggests the kind of knockdown, high-stakes dispute that sells papers.  The idea of an “accuser” evokes courtroom theater, pointed fingers, surprise twists and hidden agendas.

This is as tragic as it is unfair; the very act of standing up for oneself as a survivor of sexual violence and starting the terribly slow and uncertain wheels of justice is by itself a cathartic and deeply impressive profile in courage.  Those who perpetrate the myths fear this, and so prefer to cast “accusers” as hysterical or worse.  The media seems unimpressed with the sometimes desperate and always difficult act of coming forward, apparently seeing it as too mundane with out some provocative term to hang on the survivor.  They’re wrong.  The evil that underlies the acts is mundane; all evil is at bottom.  But the journey toward survival and the quest for justice is anything but.  It’s sad that it’s still not enough.

If you’re doing it right, you’ll look for someone who probably won’t be believed or taken seriously if they dare to report whatever crime you’re planning against them; perhaps a person with perceived mental health issues, a disability, a reputation as a liar, or anyone on the fringe or disenfranchised.  But if you’re really slick, you’ll go for someone who won’t say a damn thing in the first place- someone who won’t report.   That’s already the case with people who fear reporting crime because of government backlash against them.  For all the fear-mongering about the terrible things undocumented aliens do to US citizens (read: brown threatening white), the facts are most of them are here desperate to work and desirous of nothing but a very low profile.  Because of that, they often keep quiet about crime and abuse within their own communities and whatever is forced upon them from without.  It’s an age-old phenomenon, and it’s about to get a whole lot worse in Arizona.

I love Arizona.  I’ve traveled every corner of this magnificent state and have found wonderful people, breath taking scenery and a diversity in nature that is all but unparalleled.  I also lived in what the Mexicans call the Frontera, that is Northern Sonora where I learned the language and found a second family through a close childhood friend who now lives outside of Phoenix.  I know the frustration on both sides of the border, and I can understand the deep-seated feeling by many Arizonans that the Federal government can’t or won’t provide the necessary border security that might make laws like SB 1070 less tempting.  Regardless, the law is Constitutionally repugnant, mean-spirited, begging of abuse, and it stigmatizes and threatens further the Hispanic ethnic group, many of whom are citizens and legal aliens.  These people might now feel panic nudging them when they realize they’ve forgotten their wallets and are on the street facing a police inquiry because of “reasonable suspicion.”

I don’t have room for a full criticism of the law; there’s no shortage of that out there anyway.  What concerns me immediately is the further chilling effect this law will have on an already frightened and disenfranchised population when it comes to crime.  I’ve studied the text of the law closely and I’m aware that police officers are not supposed to inquire about citizenship when it might impede or obstruct an investigation.  I’ve worked with police officers for years and find the vast majority to be decent and conscientious, and I don’t fear police abuse, while it’s certainly possible, as much as others on my side of the political spectrum.  Regardless, the message anyone will hear who is undocumented or could be mistaken for undocumented wherever cops are concerned is “back away and keep quiet.”  Predators will act accordingly and target even more victims of (or near) these suspected groups.

Take, for instance, the 3.6 million people of Maricopa County who, if they are arrested, are held in the custody of Sheriff Joe Arpaio, among the most despicable people to bear responsibility for the custody of other human beings in recent American memory.  Arpaio would be a perverse but harmless clown were he a consultant somewhere peddling his sick views to municipalities.  Instead he is among the most important law enforcement officials in the state, and he is to law enforcement what Joe McCarthy was to patriotism.  Arpaio’s jail system has been sued multiple times for human rights abuses; he is under an almost continuous state of investigation for mistreatment and mysterious, violent deaths that take place in his jails.  His facilities are legendary for their lack of decent food and medical care, regardless of the fact that most of his inmates are awaiting trial and have been convicted of nothing.  Arpaio brags about how harshly he treats his inmates and relishes in publicly humiliating them.  This is all in the name of justice and deterrence, apparently, convincing his inmates that time in jail isn’t much fun.  No sir, it’s not.  It’s also not legally appropriate to punish someone who hasn’t been convicted of a crime.  That would include arrested persons who are in the US legally but unable to overcome the remarkably totalitarian presumption of guilt if they forget their “papers” on the street some day.  How long does it take to verify one’s legal status, or process them for deportation, while one languishes in Arpaio’s jail?  We don’t know.  What we do know is that most people will do or avoid doing almost anything to escape a sentence like that.  But that’s exactly what they have to look forward to under this law in Arizona’s largest county.  No conviction necessary.

So imagine an elderly undocumented man, brought to the US with family, wanting to tell someone about the auto mechanic who fleeced his son-in-law for a car that still won’t start.  Imagine a 16 year-old undocumented girl, desperate to tell someone about the classmate who is stalking her, or the family member who is molesting her.  Imagine an undocumented mother of a toddler, holding her child with trembling hands as she wonders what to do to comfort her after a worker at daycare has beaten and burned her for giggling at nap time.  Imagine these people as victims, and not as human beings.  If you’re still thinking like a predator, you’re smiling ear to ear.

Assuming the Hansen’s are being completely truthful (which the Russian government disputes) and the boy was exhibiting homicidal ideation and fire starting, the fact remains that he’s seven.  Without resorting to abusive practices, he’s relatively easy to control physically, and he needs to be monitored- pretty much constantly- anyway.  If the family was that exhausted by him, they had better have sought out every possible means of assistance before returning him like a pet who ended up damaging the carpet and exasperating the owners.

Regardless, there is no excuse- none- for putting a child on a 10-hour transatlantic flight and having him scooped up by some guy on the other side, paid $200 to drop him off at a ministry headquarters. I could care less how many “safety references” the Hansen’s claimed they gathered with regard to this courier.  Canadian Press reports that he dropped the child off with his bags and the letter and promptly left.  Everyone involved, most certainly this child, is lucky he didn’t disappear outside of the airport like smoke.  Since a lawyer has now muzzled the family, we probably won’t know until an official inquest why Torry didn’t accompany the child back to Russia upon rejecting him.  My guess is her reasons will involve all sorts of feelings of helplessness and failure that mask the fact that she really just didn’t want to go.  Cost, and the uncertainty of how, exactly, the Russian government might react to her walking away from him surely gave her pause.  Especially cost.  So instead Nancy, the grandmother, accompanied him as far as Dulles.  United Airlines and the hired stranger in one of the developed world’s more dangerous cities had to suffice from there.

What prompted me to write, though was less Torry Hansen’s grim and nihilistic response to this boy’s purported difficulties, and more her description of them.  In the letter she wrote to explain her abandonment, she stated that he is “violent and has severe psychopathic issues/behaviors.”  I don’t expect much from this person in terms of competent description anyway, but she is far, far out of bounds in using the term “psychopathic” in any context.  From my work in New York State with civil management/commitment proceedings, I have a fair amount of lay experience with psychopathy.  I have encountered, spoken with, and cross-examined psychopaths.  The diagnostic term describes a terrifying and still only partially understood condition afflicting career criminals, serial killers, and the most repugnant and dangerous people, criminal or not, among us. At this point anyway, it is reserved almost exclusively for adults, with expanding research suggesting that it can be applied to adolescents.  I’ve yet to see it applied to children as young as seven.  I understand she’s attempting to describe behaviors in the letter, but the word “issues” is broader than “behaviors.”  Certainly she’s at least suggesting the child is, in her mind at least, some sort of “budding psychopath,” another term that is tossed about far too much to describe troubled children.   It’s obvious she used the word for shock value in an effort to underscore her faultlessness in abandoning him.  The media is pushing these same unfair buttons also, with shocking headlines that focus on the boy’s “terrorizing” behavior, as noted in an excellent blog post by Martha Nichols.

The Hansen family’s response to this child’s troubles, whatever they truly are, has been destructive, selfish and cruel.  It has further stoked existing tension between the two countries and threatened the entire process that has placed thousands of the over 700,000 children in Russia who are growing up without parents.  Adoption of Russian children by Americans has resulted in some well-publicized horrific failures, but most, according the National Council for Adoption, are  successful.  But this family’s abandonment of one of them confirms the suspicions of many Russians that Americans view adoption from their country with a mentality best described as something between boutique shopping and the fate of an empty coffee cup.