My #MeToo moment happened too early….

My #MeToo moment came decades too early

My 14 year old sister, Andrea, used to make a small amount of pocket money babysitting.  I did the same thing.  But the men I babysat for drove me home asking me innocent questions about what I was doing in school.  Andrea was driven home by Professor Donald Preziosi, then of Yale University, and he parked and raped her.  He and his wife believe that she seduced him.  She was 14.  He was much older.  Apparently he suffered from “blue balls” because his  wife, Patricia Getz Preziosi, was pregnant with their daughter, Alexandra.  My sister, Andrea, had been baby-sitting for their toddler son, Tarquin Preziosi.

Andrea told her story and was reviled by the people of the Wooster Square neighborhood in New Haven for making moves on the husband of a pregnant woman.  He, evidently, could not help himself.  These 14 year old girls are always in charge of the situation.  My father and mother were going to call the police but Andrea coldly said that she would kill herself if they did.  Furthermore, my parents held out hope that Donald Preziosi would marry Andrea—based on their own feudal fantasy, no doubt.  My father, the chauvinist, believed that Andrea was now a “fallen woman”.  In any event, she did end up killing herself when Preziosi broke up with her.  My father almost immediately died of a fatal stroke (he was 54 years old) and my mother began a painful downward trajectory.  That’s the kind of thing that happens when your 14 year old daughter has been so unwise as to seduce a much older professor.

Professor Donald Preziosi went on to have a successful career.  He has taught at Yale, MIT, Cornell, SUNY/Binghamton, University of York in the UK, and UCLA, where he is a retired emeritus.  He’s received accolades for his pioneering feminist approaches to the history of art.

I knew that my sister, Andrea, now dead, was unlikely to be the only teenager he would rape.  So decades ago  I called the police in New Haven, Ithaca, and Los Angeles.  I was brushed off. Because the girl was dead, they believed that no real crime existed.  The police in New Haven said that since he had moved, they could not do anything.  The police in Ithaca and LA said that since the crime had taken place in New Haven, they could no nothing.  This was a long time ago.

And those liberal professors?  I wrote to every member of the Art History professoriate at UCLA including the Dean and the Chair via email when that became viable.  Only one person bothered to respond, saying simply that “your email has shed light on a mysterious colleague”.

Do you know Donald Preziosi?  Has he been near your daughter?  Right now he lives in Marina Del Rey at the so called “Marina City Club” along with his most recent enabler, Claire Joan Farago, who is actually only 7 years younger than he is.

This is paydirt for a paedophile!  Having a victim who obligingly  kills herself.

I am disgusted by all of those people who aided and abetted that sham doctor, Nasser.  Please remember that pedophiles are not those dirty little guys slinking around alleys.  They often present as people with a Ph.D. from Harvard or an M.D.  They can be parents themselves (waving to Tarquin and Alexandra here).  They can be married (yes, thinking of you, Patricia Getz Preziosi—how much easier to blame the 14 year old babysitter than your husband).   And an entire Department of History of Art Professors—that would be you, Yale, and you, UCLA, can neglect this information.

And Donald Preziosi once whined to me that he did not get tenure at Yale because he had a 14 year old mistress!

See the picture?  Andrea is the one holding the book on the left.  I am the oldest.  And there was another, yet to be born.  It was taken only about 11 years before Donald Preziosi raped her.  Her hair was long and blonde by that point.

And if you doubt me:  It would be an illegal calumny, a slander, for me to post this with so much specific information, wouldn’t it?   The painful deaths in my family have led me to be as scrupulous as possible about the truth.



“Year’s End” by Richard Wilbur

Now winter downs the dying of the year,
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.

I’ve known the wind by water banks to shake
The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell
And held in ice as dancers in a spell
Fluttered all winter long into a lake;
Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,
They seemed their own most perfect monument.

There was perfection in the death of ferns
Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone
A million years. Great mammoths overthrown
Composedly have made their long sojourns,
Like palaces of patience, in the gray
And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii

The little dog lay curled and did not rise
But slept the deeper as the ashes rose
And found the people incomplete, and froze
The random hands, the loose unready eyes
Of men expecting yet another sun
To do the shapely thing they had not done.

These sudden ends of time must give us pause.
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
More time, more time. Barrages of applause
Come muffled from a buried radio.
The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.


Richard Wilbur, one of our last brilliant poets born in the 1920’s died in mid-October.    He wrote “Year’s End” in 1950.  So long ago.  Only yesterday.  It’s a chilling thought, but a necessary one, that we could at any moment end suddenly.   History today is filled with frequent Pompeiis in the form of gunshots and crashing cars and devastating drugs.  Few poets have written so eloquently about how precarious life is as Wilbur.

We may be “wrangling with the snow” during the “dying of the year” but we also may be dying as quickly as the pets and people of Pompeii or, more slowly, like the mammoths.   It’s important to remember this is you are in a vicious feud with your niece or uncle about who finished the milk or who grabbed too much gravy.