Mr. Gavagan goes to Albany

What follows is a transcript of my statement in support of the Child Victims Act to members of the New York State Assembly, press, advocates & survivors of childhood sexual abuse. “I’d like to say that I’m making this film from some pure journalistic curiosity.

As you know, that’s not the case.

I am making this film because at fourteen years old,  when all I wanted in the world was to be a better hockey player, I skated down the wrong block. Five blocks from my home in Brooklyn, a trap had been laid. This was a trap perfected by a man who by that point had coached a thousand young boys over twenty years. He made himself a master of manipulating both adults and children.

When I decided to move forward with this project, I sent this man, my abuser of 4 years a letter asking him to be involved in this documentary about “the men who made us what we are today.” He jumped at the opportunity, saying it would be the honor of his life.

I’d like to show you a few moments from these interviews now.

(I then played four minutes of interviews with my own abuser. Admitting and justifying sexual abuse as a “lesson”. Raising the concern that doing this interview could put him in jail. Laughing with relief when the issue of New York’s statute of limitations—age 23—is raised. And then this man walking away, fading back in to his neighborhood.)

When people see this man walking back into his neighborhood, they all ask the same question: “What neighborhood is this guy walking back into?”

Your neighborhood. That’s the answer to that question.

All of our neighborhoods.

Those who have suffered sexual abuse as children have become tragic experts in a field that the rest of the world wants to pretend does not exist.  Yet survivors can be society’s lifeguards. While millions of children splash about in the surf right now, there are sharks circling. Survivors bear the scars of these sharks. We are the ones who can say “There. There is the predator that attacked me.”

Give the people who know, the chance to say what they know.

The statute of limitations have taken the whistles from the lifeguards. Victims are forced to watch; helpless, mute—as predators sink their teeth into the next victim, and the next victim. While we scream on the sand, child after child is snatched from the sunlight and dragged to the darkness below. Not every child will survive to see the surface again. None will emerge from this fully intact.

There is blood on somebody’s hands here…

The statute of limitations by it’s very existence in cases of child sex abuse—create more victims. Many lawmakers seem to cast their vote as if they believe a shark, once fed, will never eat again. The reality is that these predators will feed for a lifetime on our children. And the short statute of limitations in our state guarantees 30, 40, 50 more years of children—-our children—your children—-as prey. A generation of children that could so easily have been spared.

I have been forced to watch—helpless— as my own abuser, a coach with direct easy & access to a hundred children a year for decades, found his next victim, and his next victim. I reported him at twenty-four years old. So close…

In my case, the criminally short statute of limitations has created a video vigilante. In my darkest years, this story could have had other endings. I would have killed myself to end the pain. I would have very easily killed my abuser to end the threat to other children. To make the shame go away. I could have made the only person who knew my secret go away just like that. What are your options when your ability just to tell the truth has been taken away by law?

But I but I didn’t drive the three hours from New York City to impugn the good name of this esteemed body by implying that the majority don’t care about safety at all.

In fact the majority have voted to make the great state of New York a safe haven. Let it be known to molesters, pedophiles and child sex predators that this state has chosen to protect you. You are safe here. With each failure to pass the Child Victims Act we are saying to these criminals: Welcome to New York.

When we have to rely on other states such as Massachusetts to enforce our laws, to arrest & try our criminals what we are telling those who rape and  molest children is this: New York is the path of least resistance. Stay within our borders, and you are unprosecutable.

Passing the Child Victims Act can change that. A vote for the Cild Victims Act can put you on the right side of history. You can let the true experts, the survivors, have their day in court, to say what they know. You can give the lifeguards  back their whistles, you can play your part in looking an a pandemic, a shark-infested sea, and saying: “We’re gonna need a bigger boat”.

You must extend the statute of limitations by passing the Child Victims Act and giving the victims back their voice…otherwise I’m afraid that this legislative body will go down in history as an assembly of accomplices.”

A public step for a private person

I am a writer, first and foremost. Mine is not an an instinct for exhibitionism. I can be intensely private. These days, that seems to render one an anachronism. I do not tweet what I had for breakfast. I do not ‘check in’ online to let an imagined audience know that I just bought a half gallon of milk at the local bodega. I do not vent my grievances as status updates. I try to avoid airing dirty laundry, and even the clean linens are kept in their place, folded; not flaunted. I am not judging a single person who has embraced these ways.

Yet through my creative writing, every hope, fear, strength and weakness has always—will always—be laid bare. Scattered across a dozen screenplays, one would find the unvarnished truth of an emotional life lived. Nearly none of those stories are strictly autobiographical, yet they are all me. And if I am writing these with an eventual audience to receive them in mind…then I have already tweeted my breakfast, so to speak. And my ‘modest’ ego deems that worthy of 120 pages at a time, rather than 140 characters. So again, I am not judging those who partake in the technological party. Only the chosen medium distinguishes the forms of sharing ourselves. One of many ways that I am old fashioned.

My training and experience in the independent film world, fifteen years of honing my craft as a writer, a dozen years as a meditator facing ‘what is’…and my entire biography have all merged within Coached into Silence. If you sought out this page today, you’ll know the line is blurred beyond recognition.

Beyond just including my personal story among the others in Coached into Silence, never was this me/movie muddiness more obvious than September 25th. It sank in as I was being wired by our sound mixer Bret, preparing to step in front of the camera for the first time since we were all required to do so in film school a dozen or so years prior. The mere moments from having a microphone taped to my skin, to the beginning of the interview left little time for mental luxuries such as self-consciousness. If I had thought about a ‘Big Screen Debut’ prior to that, myriad considerations; my clothes, my hair, my crooked teeth, my voice, my poor posture…all would have had their moment to annoy and undermine. Without a second’s thought given to these considerations, I had once choice, which was hardly a choice at all. Just be me. This was not a role to be played, this was not a character that I had written to safely hide behind and speak through. For better or worse, my entire directive was; Be Me. That was my intention on that day and with this documentary: Serve the truth as I know it.

If the golden rule of writing is to ‘write what you know’, it is trumped only by it’s prerequisite; the commandment to be that which you truly are. And so here I am, having  just been asked to speak at as press conference at the New York State Capitol in Albany on Tuesday about Coached into Silence and the experiences that inspired it. This is uncharted territory for me. Also speaking will be two of the heroes of this movement for justice, Assemblywoman Margaret Markey & Professor Marci Hamilton. They are among the giants upon whose shoulders we stand every day. It has been an honor to have them associated with Coached into Silence, to have them speak in our film. Now Assemblywoman Markey will be introducing me to the world, and it is my turn to speak. Be careful what you wish for…this genie will not go back in the bottle. That rounded glass refuge has shattered to shards.

What happens next?

I have been warned that I may lose the respect of many who are close to me, and possibly gain the respect of a stranger. I will quite certainly cause pain for those who love me. I’d rather those wounds scab instead of scar, so new healthier skin can grow. I want those who love me to know exactly who it is they are loving, with masks torn away and walls torn down. What I gain by taking this public step is not theoretical or down the road. In taking this step, I give myself the gift of integration and of wholeness. I am taking down the lone barrier in my life which has separated the world into ‘those who know’ & ’ those who do not know.’  I might also, as is my hope, provide some small measure of comfort for a number of people whom I will never meet. Those who are living in shadow may learn a simple single fact that makes this worthwhile: You are not and have never been alone.

More optimistically still, I daydream that someone—years down the line—may never need to take my film down off some dusty shelf in order to have benefitted from it. I retain the human right to dream, and so I dream that this project will have an impact. It has already had an impact on me, one thousand times daily. So if I lose the eye contact of those whom I call neighbor, perhaps I may gain the handshake of one who I would have labeled ‘stranger’, prior to this public step forward. Both definitions are relative, reductive, ephemeral and diminishing, as all labels are.

I am laying all that I have and all that I am on the line, personally & professionally. In our society, labels stick, merely for convenience; ease of reference. In my business, ‘typecasting’ is so prevalent because it allows a judgement, once passed, to replace any further complex consideration in the future. We put each other—and ourselves—in boxes, in closets, in drawers. These roles rarely fit, yet we play our parts. No wall can ever hold what a human being truly is, or more importantly what they can become. Evolution laughs at every fence that has ever been built. A natural world that created something called wings scoffs at all efforts at sequestration. Evolutionary means of overcoming may be a wee bit long-term, still, I understand the possibilities…and the risks.

My name is Chris Gavagan and the label that likely brought you here today reads thusly: I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse at the hands of my hockey coach. My story was the genesis for Coached into Silence, and forms it’s spine…but better men than I provide it’s limbs, it’s lungs, it’s eyes, it’s brain and it’s heart. I hope to have the honor of introducing you to those courageous men in the coming months.

Every voice raised fights the silent injustices of this most silent of epidemics. If I began by self-applying the label of writer, I must now earn it. It is time for me to give voice to the many thousands of words typed.

It’s time to write the speech of my life.

Running out the clock?

A history of silence.

Among the core stories in Coached into Silence is another case that hits close to home (five minutes from home, to be more precise.) Rather than my version of this decades long struggle, I encourage you to visit the website set up by the survivors of these abuses at Poly Prep and their supporters at www.whitetowerhealing.org

When the reputation that is being protected dates back to 1854, an institution can dig in so deeply on their denial that they may see it as reality. When headmaster after headmaster has clung to lies so tightly, for a generation, those lies can become their New Truth.

Yet no commitment to denial or dishonesty will ever manage to replace reality. The facts are the facts. Deny gravity all you want, daily, as a matter of policy…but one misstep and you still fall. The fall feels farther; more jarring, because your worldview did not even include the possibility. “Damage control” should not be spinning truth into lies that better serve a bottom line while countless other children are left at risk. True damage control is minimizing the moments between crime & admission of said crime. Otherwise you are building your empire on unexploded ordinance, guaranteeing more collateral damage. The first reports against this serial sexual predator at Poly Prep were made in 1966. He lived free among our children until his death thirty years later. It is 2010 and Poly Prep has still not taken responsibility for it’s action and inaction. The time to wake up and acknowledge the past is always now; still they fight.

“Philip Foglietta worked as a coach and Physical Education Teacher at Poly Prep from 1966 to 1991. He died in 1998, without being held accountable in a single criminal or civil forum for his numerous, prolonged and heinous crimes against children.”

“John Joseph Paggioli filed a Civil Suit against Poly Prep, Harman, and past Administrators and Coaches alleging that the school was indeed aware of the problem as far back as Foglietta’s first years of employ up to his “Retirement” in 1991, 26 years after his arrival. This lawsuit was dismissed in January 2006, not on the merits, but rather on the basis that the statute of limitations had expired.”

There will be much more to follow as this story, over forty years old, continues to develop. Until then, please read on. Not in my words, but in their words.

My kind of crazy.

In our earliest research we began looking for local cases that could be possible fits for Coached into Silence. It didn’t take us long to be drawn in to the allegations against New York basketball coaching legend Bob Oliva, of Christ the King Regional High School.

The man featured in this article, Oliva’s former player and eventually his assistant coach, Ray Paprocky found himself in what—to an outsider—seemed like the most difficult position imaginable. His mentor accused and his friend among those doing the accusing. As a scandal swirled, at the eye of this storm, stood Ray.

As we followed each development, it brought us back time and time again to the work of Michael O’Keeffe in the Daily News. Difficult as it often is to keep the blood at 98.6 degrees while scrolling through them, I have made an effort to study as many of the reader comments as I can when the subject matter is allegations of sexual abuse. It is by no means a scientific survey of public opinion, but it is an excellent way to acquaint oneself with the talking (nay, shouting) points on both sides. Generally, the bulk of the comments fall into two broad categories: those who bust out the pitchforks and torches to lynch/castrate the alleged perpetrator, and those who attack the victims who brought the allegations. More often than not, this latter group cyber-shouts something about ‘thoze liers R jus tryin 2 get CA$H’. Just as often, a litany of outrageously homophobic vitriol spews forth, attacking the “manhood” of children; now grown. What I found was enough anonymous hatred and violence voiced on both sides to fill an entire Potter’s Field worth of graves.

As I forced myself to wade through the caps lock cacophony of comments and contretemps, a compelling drama developed. One user continued to chime in; a voice of reason. He said that he had knowledge of the case and he believed the charges. As defenders of Oliva continued to post accusations of gold-digging, lying “victims” (their quotes) who “wanted it” (my quotes), the voice-of-reason-poster himself grew more adamant. He knew. He believed. More doubt and more hate followed from the peanut gallery.

As what passes for discourse on the internet escalated, our knowing, believing voice of reason upped the ante and took an extraordinary step: he announced himself as Ray Paprocky—the very subject of the article—and posted his phone number, challenging anyone who didn’t believe to talk to him directly for clarification. It had to be a joke. It had to be an impostor. If it was really him…he was crazy…but he was precisely my kind of crazy.

What did it cost to give it a shot? I mean, I’m paying to have a thousand text messages a month,right?  So…

I sent the following text:

“Ray, I saw your post on the Daily News site. I’m directing a documentary about the sexual abuse of boys by coaches. It would be priceless to talk to you on the topic. Sorry for the informality, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Chris Gavagan, dir. Coached into Silence”

Two hours later, the digital peal of a bell alerted me that a text message had arrived.

“Give me a call tomorrow. I’m not sure how much I can help.  I am not a victim of a predator.  I’m simply a friend of one.”

We spoke the next day, and he had enough insights and stories not just for Coached into Silence, but for his own mini-series. He invited us the the arraignment, and a few days later we made our way from Brooklyn to Boston, and the Suffolk County Courthouse at Pemberton Square.

Upon introducing myself, the man we only recognized from the photograph that you see above greeted us as friends. He spoke with reporters, engagingly and with a no-nonsense charm that all the gravity of the moment, which obviously weighed on him, couldn’t dim. He’s one of those men that you find yourself walking away from saying simply—to no one in particular—“what a great guy.” Above it all, what you take away from a moment or an hour spent with him is his matter-of-fact integrity.

Ray Paprocky thinks there is nothing special about what he did. He may believe that anyone would have done the same in his position, even as he draws the ire of so many who did not. When the issue is the sexual abuse of children, all too often the default position for one’s head is buried deep in the sand. Ray saw his choice as no choice at all. It was just the right thing when faced with the most reprehensible of wrongs. No alternative, no big deal.

To those who have summoned the courage to bring the accusations, in the face of an institution intent on silencing them, Ray’s stance was The Biggest Deal. He believed. Nothing is more important to one who has finally, somehow, forced the seemingly unspeakable words from their mouth. He believed and he took the steps to get a child molesting coach—no matter what his reputation or win/loss record was—away from other boys.

There’s a word for someone who does such a thing, and it’s the word that Ray Paprocky is least likely to apply to himself. That word is hero.

Ray is one of mine and if he ever reads this, his reaction will more than likely be to tell me who the real heroes are. There is always room for more names on that roster. ‘Anonymous’ may be the most common name of all.

I can only imagine the strength of those who have spent their lives on the front lines battling against this pandemic. The process of making Coached into Silence requires so much looking-at-the-worst. Heartbreaking story after heartbreaking story in the hundreds daily. A thousand a week for months on end. And when you think you’ve seen it all, a dozen of the latest horrors arrive in your inbox. The shadows are unbelievably dark, yet not a day passes that I am not inspired, encouraged, emboldened and reenergized by seeing the best. The light provided by so many others. The courage of those who do what is right. The strength of those who have survived. The determination of those who lend their voice to others who cannot speak for themselves.

Tania, Ron, Steve, Megan, Paul, Mark, Jim, Sheldon, JP, Tony, Robert, Marci, Chris, Don, Angela, Lynn, Rick, Gabe, Kathy, Theo, Kevin, Aaron, John, Phyllis, Heath, Beth Ann, Durell, Lyn, Joe, Patricia, Wayne, Rhett, Sherri, Rommell, Darlene, Taylor, Catherine, Casper, Ken, Reilly, Jeffrey, Tyler, Alison, Patrick, Mackenzie, Scott, Renu, Felicia, Tim, Glenn, Flavia, Arny, Sam, David, Lee, Erik, Ginny, Laveranues, Loretta, Bob, Brooke, Andrew, Melissa, Sean, Arlene, Christine, Samuel, Darlena, Lisa, Keith, Julian, Nikki, Stephen, Jill, Carla, Allan, Gabriel, Lauren, Vivian, Richard, Tracie, Edward, Kip, Jennifer, Caitlin, Marty, Billy, Constance, Christopher, Ophelia, Antwone, Leslie, Stacy, Nissa, Donnie, Ruth, Byron, Karin, Michael, Margaret, Caesaro, Douglas, Kamala, Michelle, Todd, Dana, Erin, Matt, Jackie…and yes, Ray.

I could go on for the rest of my days…and I will, in no small part because of you. Thank you all for who you are, and what you do.

* a parting note to all who would try to divide and conquer on the basis of gender:

Look at those names, and find another tactic. —CG