or: Rachel and the Charming Prince

Please forgive me—those of you who don’t believe or accept Judeo-Christian Scripture, as I venture into a quotation which seems more than a little bit appropriate:

“Hark, lamentation is heard in Ramah, and bitter weeping, Rachel weeping for her [children]. She refuses to be comforted…”

Jeremiah 31:15



This scary tale…although filled with denials and deceptions and “my-word-against-yours” and outright lies…is, at the same time, symbolically a true story. It is a record of love replaced by betrayal. It tells of legal agencies and individuals conspiring to convict wommon of  crimes of which they are innocent—or even crimes that never existed, and to which there were neither witnesses nor—as far as my research shows—any acceptable evidence. In fact, in one case I’ve studied, such evidence as exists is most probably—according to primary characters—blatant falsehood, created of imagination and told to ensure conviction. It is the story of the wommon and the cruel Prince who stole her children, gaining legal “possession” of them, as their “custodial” parent so he could keep said children in sexual slavery as well as employing and apparently enjoying abuse of other kinds.

This tale is based loosely on what is, in all probability, the most distressing, disgusting, appalling story I have ever heard, and I’ve heard more than a few. It continues without relief. For this story…in its disguise as an ancient fairy tale…is true. And its end is not yet. It goes on and on and on for thousands of parents, even today.

That’s right; you read correctly. According to authorities whom I have contacted, there are literally thousands of wommon in similar positions, some in prison, others not; there are also many fathers who have lost custody to a mother with an abusive boyfriend; and there are literally thousands of children in such bondage as is recorded here. This becomes then, not the tale of one woman and her children…but of a whole great community trying to deal with this tragic problem. Many of them cannot figure out a solution.

Here begins this trashy tale:

Once upon a time, in a land not far away from you     (wherever you may be as you undertake to read and absorb this tawdry tale) there lived a most cruel prince. His name was Prince Arthur Sylvester Strangelove, and he was the cherished son of the King and Queen in a land called Ichabod. The odd thing about Prince Arthur—or Prince A.S.S., as he was called by those who had been touched by his cruelties—was that he was a man well able to present himself as  kind and loving and generous and honest and honorable and all that good stuff. When anyone was looking on, Prince A.S.S.’s appearance and demeanor were such that he was respected and admired and believed by all.

Just in passing, I might mention that he was the kind of guy who made a perfect witness in court, because—despite the decidedly despicable nature of his behind-the-scenes activities [pardon the expression, but it somehow seems disgustingly  appropriate]—Prince A.S.S. was so totally personable that everyone believed him, whether he told the truth or lied through his perfect, pearly-white teeth. (At this point, of course, the term “sociopath” seems to be knocking about in my noggin, demanding entrance and application. I must reject such a disreputable term. I absolutely must. I mean…how could I possibly have the audacity to apply such a label to the nobility of Ichabod?)

On with the story!

Many—if not, in fact, nearly all—of his subjects adored him, considering him a true and worthy object of hero worship…and worship they did. Whenever Prince A.S.S. passed by, they fell to the ground in droves, proclaiming their allegiance to his royal self.

And I must call a little something to your attention at this point: if, when said droves rose again to their feet, there were some who lacked the heads which had previously been attached to their necks, then other members of said crowd tended to credit said lack to a certain slowness of movement in the prostration process and a certain rousing of ire, not in Prince A.S.S.—since he was in public—at all, but in his royal guard, who rather specialized in the maintenance of their own heads and health by becoming quite zealous on behalf of the Prince.

Now our “good” Prince A.S.S. was not only the King’s sole son, but he was also a bachelor in good standing, yearned after by the monied, intelligent and well-educated beauties of the realm. I say “beauties” here advisedly, because Prince A.S.S. had a decided tendency to destroy anything that failed to please him, and homely women most seriously displeased him. Thus all the remaining women of the land were, indeed, quite lovely. I use the terms “monied,” “intelligent” and “well-educated” for much the same reason.

Now as most of us know from childhood reading of tales like this, if there is one thing a Prince must acquire if he aspires to eventual kingship, that one thing would be children and heirs. Although Prince A.S.S., in view of his amorous proclivities and indiscretions, may well have had children of one sort or another and in various numbers, yet since he was unmarried, he had no so-called “legitimate” heirs. And there came a time when he knew he must remedy that situation. Legitimacy of heirs required legitimacy of marital status. So Prince A.S.S. set about to acquire for himself a legitimate wife.

Taking to horse—is it mere coincidence that his favorite steed was named “Beelzebub”?—and accompanied by an escort of his favorite members of the guard, the A.S.S. set off in search of a suitable lady to enter his service in the role of “wife.”

Perhaps I need not actually write into this record that he found her. But I guess I’ll write it anyway. Prince A.S.S. found the woman of his dreams. Her name was Rachel, and she was a legal secretary, practicing in the courts of a small town near the royal city. He turned on the charm, for he was quite capable of complete charm of the most charming kind. (You remember, of course, that the multitudes of the realm—for the most part—considered him an exceptionally wonderful example of humankind.) He convinced Rachel that he was the man for her. And Rachel—whatever doubts she may have entertained temporarily soon gave way before that charming princely charm--followed him to the great cathedral where royalty was wed…and pledged herself to him in marriage.

The only thing she insisted—a real blow to A.S.S.’s ego, in all probability—was that she should retain her own name, rather than taking his. There was something about the name “Strangelove” that simply stuck in her throat, and she knew she would never be able to introduce herself as Mrs. Prince Arthur Sylvester Stranglove.

Thus it was that Prince A.S.S. married Rachel Allwomen—and “Allwomen” she remained. The first years passed much as expected. Two children resulted from the union. First came Prince Elthper, followed some years later by Princess Jeanne. Elthper was his father’s great pride and joy, while concerning Jeanne, since she was a mere female, he felt only a small pride. And their mother, being a marvelous example of all that people respect in motherhood, loved them with a motherly love that absolutely knew no bounds. They were her love…her life…her very heart. She had read somewhere, in the writing of some wise person, that once you have children, “…you will spend the rest of your life with your heart running around outside your body.” With the birth of her two treasured children, Rachel knew the meaning of the words.

And then came the moment of horror. Absolute horror. Deeper horror than any Rachel had ever before known. She began to realize what lay behind the appellation “Strangelove,” of which A.S.S. was so proud. It was clear to her that he had begun abusing their children sexually. And yet, said horror—terrible as it was—had a long journey before it would reach its climax [again, pardon the expression].

Rachel, appalled and suddenly uncertain of her future, fled and took her children with her, to a neighboring kingdom where there was a castle of refuge—guaranteed by the king of that land to be a place of safety to anyone of any faith or national origin who could reach its walls. The king, being something of a poor speller, called his refuge simply, “The Ultimate Kastle”—or the U.K. for short. And there Rachel and the two young royals did, indeed, find safety.

Ere long, however, A.S.S. discovered them, and arrived for a visit. It was a pleasant enough visit, since that was one of the times when A.S.S. held himself to charm and good behavior. After several such visits, A.S.S. persuaded Rachel that he was a changed prince and she and the children might safely return. Ah…happy day for the realm. The Prince once again had a wife and children. And so long as the Prince remained Charming…things went well.

He did not remain charming.

Once again his family began to quaver before a side of him that was seldom, if ever, revealed to other residents of the realm.

“Mom, can you make him stop?” said Jeanne to her mother one day, as Rachel and the children labored over a batch of cookies in the castle-kitchen, where they really were not supposed to be, since the royal family maintained a staff of cooks to meet their every whim. But Rachel loved projects with her son and daughter, so the three of them often slipped quietly into the huge kitchen, while the cooks were indulging in afternoon naps.

“Make who stop? Stop what?” demanded Rachel, her brow furrowing into a series of creases that were somehow both curious—and horribly certain of the answer that the princess was about to give her.

“Dad!” exclaimed Jeanne. “He keeps shoving those stupid practice swords in my bottom.”

There was stunned silence in the kitchen…

And silence…

And more silence before...

…Rachel gathered the cookie dough they had been working on and slammed it down on the cutting board…and slammed it down again…and then again.

“Hey!” yelled young Elthper. “You’re wrecking our cookies, Mom!”

“The cooks will make us some, dear,” Rachel assured him, but her voice trembled as she plopped her royal crown—slam-bang-plop—askew atop the mound of cookie dough. “We are leaving now.”

“Cooks are going to be mad ‘acause we di’n’t clean up our mess!” Elthper protested.

“Then they will have to be mad,” said Rachel. “We have to go.” And they went.

Leaving the castle with her children, Rachel (you will remember that she was herself involved in the legal profession, maintaining a deep respect for the law and the judicial processes) went in search of power—in the form of attorneys…doctors…psychologists… social service people…anybody who could protect her children.

“Well,” said one of the doctors. “There is obvious evidence here of sexual abuse. Bruising here on the buttocks. Splitting of the anus. Both of these are probably due to the forcible insertion of a rather large foreign object into the girl’s rectum.” The doctor shuddered. And he took time to write his evaluation…at length.

Their next stop was the psychologist, where the children told more horror stories of their father’s mistreatment. These were recorded by the psychologist, shaking her head, as if in despair, over each new revelation: physical battery…sexual assault…name-calling…belittling, all defying Rachel’s best hopes for her children. Rachel tried hard to hide her tears from the children. With all that was happening to them, they did not need to have worry about their mother added to their burdens.

As her next step, Rachel—armed with papers from the medical people—then took her children to a social service worker, who listened until Jeanne told the story of the practice sword. “It was a practice sword! Honest! I saw it!” Her brother almost screamed at the social worker, who was wrinking her nose and shaking her head in derision and unbelief. This social worker had a far different take on the situation than did Rachel and the children.

“Now kids,” the case worker responded calmly. “You know very well that a wooden practice sword is far too large to insert into such a small opening. This alone makes your story quite unbelievable.” And that was the end of all hope for help from that social worker, a most practical woman, who had a decided fondness for her head.

“Could have used the handle, couldn’t he?” questioned Rachel. “Or even just a piece of the stupid thing?”

But her protests were too late. The social worker had forgotten them before they even left her office.

Shortly, when Prince A.S.S. heard what his wife and children were doing, he intercepted them in their search for help. “Now, my little ones,” he said, an unbelievably strong hand on each child’s shoulder, “you haven’t exactly been telling the truth about what’s going on, have you?” Most anybody who happened to be watching would have noticed that the two children winced when he spoke—but some might well have missed the prince’s white knuckles, straining fingers and the strong hands clenched so tightly that the chldren’s small shoulders were virtually crushed in A.S.S’s fierce grip.

“Uh, no Dad,” said Elthper quickly.

“No. Nope. Not at all,” added Jeanne—white with fear. “Nope.”

Thus Prince A.S.S. went in search of an attorney himself. The courts, for some reason—perhaps by virtue of the remarkable, personable, pleasant presentation of himself by A.S.S. were quick to take his side. It is often so with certain criminals. (Now why in the world is that word “sociopath” slapping me upside the head again? It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t…it couldn’t…

Anyhow, because of A.S.S.’s charm and way of telling a story, he was believed. Rachel, who loved her children so deeply, and yet was not quite the charismatic witness that A.S.S. was…well, Rachel was not believed. And thus Prince A.S.S. became the custodial parent of Rachel’s beloved children…all wrapped up and legal by decree of the courts of the land. (I don’t suppose I really need to remind you here that said courts were firmly and thoroughly under the thumb and threatened by the armored fist of the Prince himself, as well as his father the King and his mother the Queen.

In the meantime, a friend of Rachel’s, a woman by the name of Martha, who also loved Elthper and Jeanne—probably about as much as she would have loved children of her own, had she been able to have children of her own—took a drastic and secret step which was to result in disaster for Rachel and her children.

This friend, who worked for the Queen in a matters which fell to the Queen’s care, decided that she could solve the problem on her own.

“Pssssst! Rachel!” she hissed, as the two of them passed at a party. “I’m going to go to the castle—to the Prince’s apartments! I’m going to take care of this!”

“No!” Rachel shook her head almost violently, as if she could not bring herself to believe what she had just heard. “No! Keep away from him! We can trust the law. The judicial system is the only way to go! That’s what will take care of the kids. We’ll hold to what is right!”

And then, as quickly as she had appeared behind Rachel, to hiss into her ear, Martha was gone.

Shortly thereafter, Rachel was arrested.

Martha had, indeed, broken into the Prince’s apartments. She had with her at the time of the break-in an assortment of child pornography which she had intended to leave in the apartment, so that when legal officials saw said pornography, they would have evidence to make them believe A.S.S. was truly a pedophile. Reports of what happened vary. But a few things seem clear: A.S.S. was indeed asleep…in his bed…with one of his children. The child was naked—a fact which was, I believe, verified by the attending member of the royal guard who arrived amid the turmoil. A.S.S., himself, was only partly clothed. We can be pretty sure of that, because when Martha shot him in the leg with the weapon she had carried “for protection,” it was a shot that apparently went right through his leg, in one side and out the other—but the bottoms of his pajamas bore no such marks as one might expect from such a shot and such an injury. One pair of pajama bottoms—one leg shot clear through--lots of blood…no holes in the pj’s. Hmmmmmmm.

This story needs to end sometime, somewhere. But I begin to wonder if it will ever have an ending. Martha is in prison, and after some pretty extensive grilling and various offerings to reduce her own sentence if she would testify against Rachel, Martha refused to turn traitor and tell what she insisted would be blatant falsehood.

Rachel, after two trials, is now also in prison, convicted of conspiring with Martha to murder Prince A.S.S.

This, despite the following facts:

·       The only two people who would know if there had been a conspiracy are Rachel and Martha. Both are adamant that no such conspiracy existed.

·       Martha insists that she never considered murder—or indeed, violence of any kind. She was merely trying to plant evidence—an attempt which she now admits was foolish as well as illegal. And she adds that she carried the gun solely for protection.

·       The young prince and princess have opened up repeatedly—to their mother…to teachers…to doctors…to counselors…about the question of sexual abuse by their father—except when their father was present and they seemed to tremble from fear of that overwhelming presence. In such cases they switched to terrified denial.

·       Denials that followed the intimidating presence and the trembling have caused the very people who might otherwise have helped to snort derision and sneer that the children were coached by their mother—and that they have later withdrawn accusations.

·       Psychological and medical examination of Rachel and her children have turned up no sign of such coaching.

·       Medical doctors…psychologists…others…have found physical and emotional evidence of abuse by the custodial parent, Dear old Prince Dad, A.S.S., but have had these things ignored by the courts.

·       In Rachel’s first trial, the primary testimony for the conspiracy theory came from Rachel’s own one-time attorney, the man who had taken the custody case to family court. Whatever happened to attorney-client privilege? Oh, yes…that was why the retrial came about. That attorney’s testimony was not allowed by the appeals court.

·       In Rachel’s second trial, the primary testimony for the conspiracy theory apparently came from the legal assistant to Rachel’s family-court attorney. Huh? Isn’t that the same thing? So where is the appeals court now?

·       Rachel insists that people who testified against her told lie after lie after lie, including both her previous attorney and his legal assistant. I wonder how much pressure A.S.S. was able to bring to bear. Perhaps they were all more fond of their heads than of truth. Or was it money that changed hands? Or credit toward advancement in the kingdom?  Or?

·       Prince A.S.S., says Rachel, also lied. (I suppose he’d have to, since he was using his children for sex toys and punching bags, as well as heaping verbal and psychological abuse on them. That kind of truth would hardly have gone over well with any court—even a court in the fair land of Ichabod.)

This is merely the beginning. My gut…my soul…my spirit…my heart all say that there is reason to believe this wommon. But for the sake of others who may read this blog, I am studying. I am researching. I talk to people who have examined the children. I talk to the maternal grandmother of the children, who is presently denied contact with them, so that they have asked, hurt, “Why doesn’t Gramma have anything to do with us anymore? I talked to Rachel. I talk to other people who believe in Rachel. I talk and write to people who have known her for years.

Yup…this story should be over. Rachel should be free. Her children should be free of the man who terrorizes them in so many ways.

The story should be over.

It is not.

But one day it will be. And as surely as there is a God in heaven, the truth will out.

I believe. I must believe. God help my country if I cannot.

Follow-up: a brief explanation of the reality behind the "fairy tale"--the truth, lest we be tempted to hide truth behind symbolism.

A King Cobra--perhaps a fitting illustration for the royalty of the kingdom in the preceding fairy tale--and especially for the crown prince, A.S.S.


So.  The entry above is a fairy tale, huh?  Yup…you got it.  But Rachel—whom I named Rachel so that she could become a symbol, not just of herself and her own  situation, but of thousands of other wommon in similar situations—Rachel is a real person. She is the only wommon I actually know personally who is fighting to free her sons from an abusive father. I became aware of the others only when Dr. Joy Silberg referred—in a telephone conversation—to “thousands” of other wommon with the same problem or a similar one.



Some of the others are also in prison?

Some of the others are also in prison!

Some of the others were also convicted of crimes they did not commit?

Some of the others were also convicted of crimes they did not commit!

Fearsome fairy tales aside, I’m not inclined to denial of reality—or I don’t like to think I am.  So I want to explain some of the “fairy tale” to you. Remembering that Rachel, first and foremost, represents a united scream for help from wommon across the United States and possibly around the world, pleading for their children in abusive situations, I then can tell you that the prototype for my Rachel is Elsa Newman, presently incarcerated in the Maryland Correctional Institution for Women.

The other names, for the protection and privacy of the people involved, I don’t plan to give you. But Elsa more than insists that her own name be used. For the others, when it becomes necessary to refer to them, I will simply use the name I used in the “fairy tale.”

Perhaps more than anything, I want you to understand that this is all true, according to my research. When I tell you something that Elsa’s children said…I am quoting the precise words she gave me…or doctors wrote…or psychologists reported.

When I tell you that Elsa knew nothing of any planned adventure in the Prince’s apartments [beyond that quick, hissed whisper at a party, of course, when Elsa in her misplaced faith in the American system of justice, had whispered back, “NO! No! Don’t do that! Keep away from him. Let the legal system handle it. We can trust the justice system!”], I am reporting a point on which both Miriam and Elsa agree. And no one else really knows. No one. At all. Do they?

When I tell you that Elsa knew nothing…nada…not a damn thing…about what Miriam planned to do, I am telling you exactly what Elsa and her attorney and her mother and her friends and her advocates—and even Miriam--tell me. When I tell you that that there was no conspiracy, I am telling you what I believe, absolutely, in the deep places of my spirit, to be true.

When I tell you that Elsa was convicted of a crime that never existed, but was created by a “justice” system gone astray in the state of Maryland, I am telling you what I have verified via research and Elsa’s own pained statement the first times I wrote to her and spoke to her.

Elsa’s children have revealed incident after incident after incident of sexual abuse to her. She has, after each disclosure, written extensive notes about the precise nature of the abuse. She has noted, as well, physical abuse, and the children have spoken of “beatings” administered by Prince A.S.S. Elsa has actually heard verbal abuse—directed both at the boys and at herself.

 Elsa’s children have been examined by physicians, who report obvious signs of sexual abuse.

Elsa’s children have been examined by psychologists, who report obvious signs of sexual abuse.

Elsa’s children have been examined by social service employees—one of whom said that the children had to be lying—because nobody could shove a whole transformer toy into a little boy’s rectum. I mean…it’s just not possible is it? Therefore the boys must be lying. Therefore it is a waste of time to try to investigate any accusations against their father.

HUH? And I suppose she figured that said little boy had craned his head around, in his pain, to observe exactly what his father was shoving up his butt! And he said it was a transformer. So he had to be lying.

No possibility that dear old pedophile dad might simply be the one who was lying…might simply have said, “You know that transformer you like so well? That thing wants to sleep inside you tonight, son.” And in would go—in the hands of dear old pedophile dad--a piece of the transformer. And I’d be willing to bet it felt to the kid like D.O.P. Dad was shoving the whole damn thing in there! But the social worker who investigated it had it all figured out before she had barely begun talking to said kid. And she didn’t believe him. So she did nothing. At all. Ever. And the boy and his brother continue to suffer.

So from the fairy tale of yesterday to the explanation of today, I want to be sure you understand. “Rachel” may be everywommon. But Rachel is also a real, live, loving mother, imprisoned for a crime she did not commit—a crime  that did not even occur, for there was no conspiracy. Rachel is Elsa Newman. And she’s in a world of hurt—first for her sons; second for her own ill treatment at the hands of a legal system she trusted.