It was one month ago today that the Toronto Star published my essay about my decision to leave the Royal Conservatory of Music over their handling of allegations of sexual abuse. Depending on your frame of reference, a month is either a long time or no time at all; I will continue to process what took place at the RCM and what it means for me for years to come. But these events have been consuming me for the past month, so I’m taking this occasion to share some thoughts.
Three days after the article ran, the RCM issued a press release announcing that they would launch an independent, third-party investigation into the abuse and the cover-up that occurred. I was happy to see it – this is what I had wanted the school to do from the time the allegations were made public – but still had many questions. The release didn’t say when the investigation would begin; who would be conducting it; what its scope would be; or whether the results would be made public in the name of the transparency that had previously been so lacking.
Unfortunately, the ensuing weeks have not provided clarity on these points. While on May 1st, the school did leave a message for Lusiana Lukman, the woman who bravely came forward with her story, they have not contacted her since, in spite of her repeated attempts. (As an aside: please read Lusiana’s article. Her voice is immeasurably more important than mine on this issue.) Meanwhile, they have made no further public statements. I still hope that one might be forthcoming, but these are not the actions of an institution that values empathy and openness, nor of one that considers this matter urgent.
I do not say any of this to single out or shame the RCM. It is painful to confront one’s complicity with sexual abuse; I wrote about my own failure to do so across decades in my article. Sadly, the RCM appears to be behaving the way most institutions still do, closing ranks and looking for the way to say and do the least possible. This is not an RCM problem, or a Canada problem, or even a classical music problem (though there are realities in the classical music world that exacerbate it): It is a societal problem.
I also want to point out that my resignation doesn’t make me braver or more principled than anyone who has remained at the school. It is much, much easier to leave a position that is neither your primary source of income nor in your home country than it is when your life and livelihood depend on it. Each of us makes moral compromises every day. In this case, I could afford to act, and so I did.
While I don’t want to point fingers or throw stones, I do want all of us to work together to make change. While I was writing my essay for the Star, I had the chance to see Dear Lara, Lara St. John’s film about sexual abuse (beginning with her own) in music schools all over the world. It made for harrowing viewing. It is unacceptable that this abuse is so common; that it is allowed to continue because we all prefer to avert our eyes; that so many lives have been ruined; that countless gifted people have turned away from music because the associations are too painful. This is all intolerable to contemplate, but if we don’t contemplate it, it will never stop, and that is more intolerable.
So, as I think about what I’ve learned in the past month – how we find ourselves in this intolerable place, and how we can all work to change it – there are two major points that strike me:
The incentive structure rewards silence – on the part of institutions AND victims.
Even though I spent weeks trying to convince the RCM to respond to Lusiana’s allegations, I never developed a clear sense of why they didn’t want to do so. But it was clear that they didn’t – that they hoped it would be possible to do nothing, and that they could proceed as if Lusiana had never come forward. My sense was that, rightly or wrongly, they felt that action carried more risk than inaction.
This is an area where we truly can make a difference. We can and must put sustained pressure on institutions by continuing to talk about abuse until it is no longer normalized. In the case of the RCM, that means signing this petition, lending our voices to make sure that the school follows through on their promise. More broadly, it means speaking clearly and boldly whenever we hear about sexual abuse, so that we stop thinking of it as a necessary evil or a part of life or whatever it is that keeps up complacent. It is a moral stain, full stop. If we say so loudly enough and for long enough, institutions will come to feel that staying silent is the more dangerous option. When they do so, change will happen.
The incentivization of silence on the part of victims is a more difficult problem. In talking to lawyers, I’ve learned how easily a young person at the start of their career can be bankrupted if their abuser decides to hit them with a frivolous lawsuit. And coming forward can be professionally ruinous, given how reluctant most of us are to stand in solidarity with a person with a tiny fraction of the power their abuser holds.
This is all terrible, and that’s without even getting into the shame which most sexual assault victims experience. We all bear some responsibility for this: We blame victims, because if we tell ourselves that it was their poor choices that made their abuse possible, we convince ourselves that it couldn’t happen to us or our children. It is a dangerous illusion, one which makes us no safer and compounds the suffering of sexual assault survivors.
Gisèle Pelicot’s framing is perfect: “Shame must change sides.” The people who need to feel ashamed are the ones who are sexually abusive and the ones who sweep that abuse under the rug. Those actions are shameful; having something terrible happen to you is not shameful. This is a massive paradigm shift, and it will not happen quickly. But if we say it often enough, sooner or later it will seem self-evident.
It’s easy to be against abuse in the abstract. The hard part is when it hits close to home.
I’ve known that sexual abuse is wrong for nearly as long as I’ve known what sex is. And yet, when James Levine came calling, I compartmentalized my way into complicity. I did this in part because I wanted to play with him – doing so was musically fulfilling and good for my career. But also, it was just easier. Taking a stand is draining. Reevaluating one’s mentors or friends or colleagues is emotionally exhausting. Most of us lead complicated, stressful lives. It is unsurprising that we don’t want to add additional stress to them by cutting ties with someone, or even just reckoning with the possibility that they have been abusive.
And so, usually we ignore it. A victim who comes forward in a field unrelated to us commands our respect; a victim of a person we know is an inconvenience. I say this without judgment. I get it; I’ve done it. I am now trying to do better. Having watched Dear Lara and spoken to Lusiana Lukman, I have a clearer sense of the effect our apathy has on victims, both practically and emotionally. Through this experience, I’ve learned that if you can sit with your own discomfort, you might grow in the process. If you push it away, nothing changes – not you, and not the culture at large.
As we watch the news and are confronted with unimaginable amounts of human suffering, it is easy to feel powerless. And the truth is that most of us have little power. But a little power is more than none. And when we use it – when we use our voices – it has a ripple effect. Just as violence invites violence, courage, too, is contagious. Lara St. John inspired Lusiana Lukman to tell her story; Lusiana has doubtless inspired others to do the same. Honor their bravery: The next time you are faced with a moral dilemma, stare it straight in the face. In doing so, you might convince someone else to do the same. Will it change the world? If you don’t try, you’ll never know.
Exactly. Well said.
strikes me as an exactingly eloquent response