Somehow, activism became my day job

Category: About me

  • The Thomas Hodgman Abuse and Cover-up Documents

    Penn State does not have a monopoly on sex abuse cover-up. Adrian College officials have known that Thomas Hodgman was an admitted predator since 2003, yet, they support him and have allowed him to keep his job. They have not warned parents, students or the general community of the risk.

    As a result of my 2005 settlement with the Diocese of Orange, the documents regarding my abuse at Mater Dei High School were subject to public release. Thomas Hodgman fought the release of the documents and filed legal paperwork to keep them sealed, even though he claimed that my allegations were “bogus.”

    Because of an fortuitous accident on the part of a law clerk, the Orange County Register got a copy of Hodgman’s file and refused to give it back. I am eternally in their debt.

    Following are the important parts of the previously secret Thomas Hodgman personnel file. Adrian College officials have known about these documents since 2005, yet have allowed Hodgman to keep his job.

    Click here for the two signed confession documents.

    Here’s a brief explanation

    Page one:

    Thomas Hodgman admits to “dating” Joelle Casteix

    Page two:

    Thomas Hodgman admits to Mater Dei Principal Fr. John Weling that he not only molested Joelle Casteix, but also molested at least one other student. The principal makes him “swear to never make this terrible mistake again.”

    Click here for the Hodgman Cover-up Documents

    Here’s explanation of what you will see:

    Document 1 –  page 1 of the .pdf file

    Mater Dei Administrator Lu Dominguez acknowledges that she had known of abusive relationship between Thomas Hodgman and Joelle Casteix for at least a year before any report to the school. The administrator also never reported to the police.

    Document 2 – pages 2 and 3 of the .pdf file

    Weling writes a letter to the superintendent of Catholic schools about Thomas Hodgman and another incident at the school. Although Casteix was a straight-A student, the daughter of a prominent alum, and the lead in the senior musical, she was portrayed as a kid with emotional problems – and was blamed for the abuse. Although Weling states that he informed the child abuse registry, Casteix alleges that she was never contacted. The principal’s cavalier attitude is obvious in the first sentence of the second page of the letter.

    Document 3 – Page 4 of the .pdf file

    Thomas Hodgman’s resignation letter. Although he has admitted to molesting at least two students, his resignation letter is a self-congratulatory tribute to his own work. There is no mention of his admitted crimes. The letter is dated almost two weeks after his signed confession.

    Document 4 – page 5 of the pdf file

    Thomas Hodgman is allowed to write his own speaking points to be delivered to students regarding his resignation. No one in the administration makes a mention of his admitted crimes and the police were never notified].

    Document 5 – page 6 of the .pdf file

    Rev. John B. Weling announces Hodgman’s resignation and writes a glowing letter to the faculty about Hodgman’s tenure at the school. The announcement is made more than two weeks after the confession is signed.

     

     

  • Why Do We Hate Our Girls?

    I have built up a pretty thick skin towards institutional misogyny. Growing up Catholic, I was carefully conditioned to accept my lot: I could never be an altar boy; girls were seductive; boys were smarter; positions of power were always held by men; Eve’s sin is my burden; my rolled uniform skirt is the reason that girls get raped; eyeliner is Satan’s paint, etc., etc., etc.

    Even when it came to abuse, Catholic teachings forced girls to accept the blame if they were molested. The female victims (especially the young teens) were “fallen women” (Think about it – have you ever heard the term “fallen man?”). Honestly, if I have to hear one more person question my motives about my work or tell me that the only reason I didn’t come forward sooner is because I “led the teacher on” and I “wanted it” … it won’t be pretty.

    Institutional misogyny never surprises me. But what always surprises me is when I hear good, non-institutional people speak the subtle language of hatred towards our girls.

    Want some examples?

    “Girls are mean”

    “Boys are so much easier to raise than girls”

    “Girls lie”

    “She wanted it”

    I’m not saying these things aren’t true in many cases.  What I am saying is that the above statements are equally true for both boys and girls.

    Words Matter

    We are quick to talk about how vicious and catty preteen and teenage girls are. We even see it on television (remember Mean Girls, anyone?).  But when we talk about bullying of boys, many parents see it as a necessary rite of passage. Junior high fights, physical threats, and other mischief are seen as the fault of the boy who is the subject of the violence. He’s told to “man-up.” (Another crappy message, but that’s a whole different topic)

    It’s hard to be a girl. Heck, it’s hard to be a kid. We live in a culture where girls’ idols are overly-thin in a world where our girls are heavier than they have ever been before. Our focus on our bodies is not new. We have played with Barbies since the 1950s. We saw Brooke Shields on billboards and partially nude on film when she was barely 12 years old. Girls saw Barbie and Brooke and wanted to look like them. And when they didn’t, the self-hatred set in. This pattern is nothing new.

    I’m not saying that we should throw away our girls’ dolls or force them to turn off the television and the radio. What I am saying is that it’s difficult enough to be a girl without parents and other adults predetermining how girls will act at a certain age. Or giving girls a message so often that they simply fulfill a prophesy by taking a wayward path paved in words.

    Language is a powerful tool. Children hear what we say and aspire or devolve according to our spoken or implied expectations. Girls who are told that “girls are mean, liars, evil, difficult, slutty and/or worthless” – more often than not – become those very things.

    Institutional misogyny is difficult enough for women, let’s not allow our subtle language to become yet another unnecessary burden for our girls to bear.

     

  • The Wet Fish Face-Slap of Fear

    People tell me that I’m brave. But I’m not. I know fear. It’s closing in quickly. And I may fold.

    There are a lot of seemingly scary things that don’t bother me at all. I have no problem speaking in front of groups. Travel is a breeze – give me a plane ticket and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, and I’ll conquer the world. Travel alone? Go to Guam? No problem. Live in a foreign country? Easy. Come home with parasites and the mumps? No sweat. Press conference in Rome with 48 hours notice to get on a plane? A breeze.

    Having a kid? Well, that’s a story for another day. But I digress …

    The wet fish face-slap of fear is looming.

    I haven’t been sleeping well since the date was set. Usually around 4 am, I wake up with a nervous sweat (not a hot flash, thank you very much), go downstairs, get a drink of water, and worry. Nervous energy has resulted in a clean house, folded laundry, and complete reorganization of the settings for our crappy DVR.

    Why? Because I agreed to sing in a recital on August 8. And I think it’s gonna kill me.

    A little history …

    I’ve been a singer and performer for most of my life.  Not star quality, but a solid choral singer who could do the occasional musical theater lead … except in Southern California, where I am an almost-middle-aged, fishy-smelling minnow in a vast ocean of Channel-No. 5-scented, mega-talented sharks.

    My parents were not the stage parent type.  They were more like “exit door” parents, where every role I won was met with a lukewarm, “Oh. Are you sure you can pull that off?” (Thanks, Mom. Remind me to use you as a job reference. With your confidence in my abilities, I’m a shoo-in.)

    I studied opera for a short time in college, but my baggage, lack of drive, and desire to lie on the couch and watch 21 Jumpstreet pointed me towards the less labor intensive English degree at UCSB. The baggage was bad: for those of you who don’t know, the man who molested me was my choral instructor … a total buzz-kill for any future career potential as a singer. Once bitten, twice shy.

    So, I played around in community musical theater (still totally my love and where in Colorado and California I have met the most amazing people in my life), sang in a couple of choirs (this one, too, when it had a different name), and found a great teacher who has made me ten times the singer I thought I could be.

    But this? This is a whole new kettle of wet fish face-slap reality.

    W.C. Fields is looking at me and laughing. The program will include 17-year-olds with scholarships to Julliard, a couple of tweens who already have opera careers, and, knowing my luck, a standard poodle who can sing La donna e mobile in the style of Jose Carreras (You know, the “other guy” in The Three Tenors), and … me.

    My teacher keeps telling me, “Joelle, you’re mature now. You can sing things that these kids can’t. They would just sound silly.  You have experience on your side.”

    I smile and ask for a funeral dirge. She is not amused.

    So, I’ll be singing a solo and a duet (with Robin, my teacher and very good friend). In the meantime I am looking for a doctor who will give me a prescription for horse tranquilizers.

    I’m gonna need them.