Preying Mantis, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Assault

No, that's not a typo in the title. 

It’s a lazy, cold, rainy morning and I’m catching up on Facebook, wondering if there’s an actual date that the world will melt from global warming or some similar event to spoil my Zen. Masochistic, I know. But Donald is running in 2024! People in power, more than one, are outed for sexually abusing children. Oh, that works. 

But wait. Before getting to anything substantial, maybe in lieu of getting to anything substantial, let’s play a game! A language game. 

Is child sexual abuse the same as child sexual assault? 

When it comes to kids people are always using the word abuse as in child abuse, but in my studies of sexual assault, and there were several years devoted to this, I learned that no matter the spot on the continuum— from molestation to rape, or even murder before or after the rape, it is the legal word assault that we use. So why, if we are talking about kids, is it abuse that gets prime time? Nobody says, A child was sexually assaulted in a classroom. They say, there’s a case of child sexual abuse in such and such a school. Just an example, apropos of nothing. Let’s look a little deeper.

I was not even sure what abuse meant so I Googled it and found the definition of abuse to be improper treatment. Abuse is softer, it is code for assault, less in your face.  

By this definition we might say that abuse is what happens while I am behind the wheel of a car with a manual transmission. I will abuse the clutch. You can count on it. The clutch is likely to be an ex-clutch when I get through with it but it isn’t something intentionally cruel, I don’t mean it, I do not set out to wreck the clutch or its future. 

 

Abuse might also be applied to shoes, or linens, too. You wear a pair of suede shoes out in the rain. Or you take a tablecloth, one that should have been dry-cleaned, and throw it in the wash. Textile abuse. Always accidental but the consequences are lasting. 

 

But you see, nobody cares if I ruin my shoes. Nobody cares about my table cloth, except maybe my mother and she is in Heaven. In Heaven there must be better things to do. Perhaps golf.

 

Assault, on the other hand, implies more energy, more intention, even violence. It is what I’ve done to more than one cockroach. I admit to assaulting small, defenseless creatures, midges, flies, mosquitoes. Maybe a spider or two. This points to a severe empathy deficit when it comes to insects. Is the deficit genetic or learned? It is learned, for sure. This one is learned. I suffered a trauma —and I need to talk about it. Talking about trauma can be therapeutic. It is can be exposure therapy.

A Relevant Story About the Praying Mantis

Once I loved these insects—so elegant, so delicate, filigree green—until on a summer night at the pool, about to hop in, I see a praying mantis merrily prancing in the water. The green sticklike creature is hopping up onto the blue and white plastic rope cordoning off the lap lane. Not believing my eyes and good fortune, because again, I had once loved these insects and had never seen one in a swimming pool, I jump in to get a closer look. 

 

A correct call! This is a mantis pacing back and forth on a plastic rope. I watch for a bit then swim a few laps, checking once or twice to see if it is still there. At one point I stop to observe, stand up for a better view. Within seconds the mantis’ persona seems to change. The creature appears to be summoning up insect serotonin, readying itself for an attack. Posture forward, legs in front. No longer praying. 

 

Stunned, I do not move. Why this sudden confrontation, I wonder? Perhaps it thinks I invaded its  space, turf. He, she, they got there first. (Let’s go with she). I’m not usually in the pool after dark. Or maybe this evolved creature, clearly a favorite of the Old Mighty by design, feels objectified. I had been watching, admiring. She jumps back in, treads water a moment while glaring at me, bug-eyed, threatening.  

I’m about four feet away. We have a little staring contest for a few confusing seconds before she makes her move, darts at me, paddling at top speed! True story! I back off, swim away fast, terrified, and when I look back, she is gone.

 

The moral of the story? 

 

Do not trust all insects, especially if they feign to be religious. 

 

Game over. 

There is more to be said about why child sexual assault within schools tends to be washed, bleached, softened as child abuse or even no abuse at all. So this subject is 

To be continued.

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