Connie Chung is a record-breaking news anchor and journalist. In 1993, she became CBS Evening News' first female co-anchor and first Asian co-anchor. She was also the second woman to anchor a major network newscast in American history.
Yesterday afternoon, Ms. Chung published an op-ed in the Washington Post that added her name to the list of women saying #metoo and providing support for Christine Blasey Ford.
The op-ed was written as a letter to Dr. Ford and was titled, "Dear Christine Blasey Ford: I, too, was sexually assaulted — and it's seared into my memory forever". The original post also includes a heart-wrenching recording of Chung reading her letter aloud.
In the letter, Chung remembers when she was sexually abused 50 years ago.
The assault occurred in the 60s with Chung was in college. She explains that at the time she was still a virgin but felt as though she might choose to lose her virginity soon.
Trying to be proactive, Chung visited her life-long family doctor for some form of birth control.
She had never had a gynecological exam before, and so naturally she felt uncomfortable as she prepared to be examined.
The doctor proceeded to assault Chung.
Chung continues to explain that while she may have told one of her sisters, she did not speak out about the assault to anyone else. Later in life she would tell her husband, but she did not recollect when she chose to do so.
The letter concludes with Chung expressing fear for sharing her secret. She also addressed the attacks on Dr. Ford's memory by saying,
"I am writing to you because I know that exact dates, exact years are insignificant. We remember exactly what happened to us and who did it to us. We remember the truth forever. Bravo, Christine, for telling the truth."
The letter in its entirety is below.
"Dear Christine Blasey Ford,
I, too, was sexually assaulted — not 36 years ago but about 50 years ago. I have kept my dirty little secret to myself. Silence for five decades. The molester was our trusted family doctor. What made this monster even more reprehensible was that he was the very doctor who delivered me on Aug. 20, 1946. I'm 72 now.
It was the 1960s. I was in college. The sexual revolution was in full swing. The exact date and year are fuzzy. But details of the event are vivid — forever seared in my memory.
Am I sure who did it? Oh yes, 100 percent.
I was a cool college coed but not that cool. I was still a virgin in the '60s. I did advance to the so-called heavy petting stage, short of intercourse. I assumed that would come next.
I went to my family doctor to ask for birth-control pills, an IUD or a diaphragm.
His office was in his home, a classic Georgetown 19th-century house, creaky wooden floors with worn velvet Victorian furniture. His office was to the left of the front door, through double doors with glass windowpanes covered with tight curtains. It was a large room divided by a curtain he could draw. Half the room was his office, the other half his examination space.
Again, I cannot remember the exact date or even year. Yet I can still describe the following in detail. He drew the curtain, asking me to remove my clothes below the waist while he sat at his desk by the bay window. When I was ready, he came to the examination area and installed stirrups on one end of the cushioned examination table.
Here I was in my 20s, and I had never had a gynecological examination. I had never even seen exam stirrups before. It was extremely odd to spread my legs and dig my heels into those cold iron stirrups.
While I stared at the ceiling, his right index finger massaged my clitoris. With his right middle finger inserted in my vagina, he moved both fingers rhythmically. He coached me verbally in a soft voice, "Just breathe. 'Ah-ah,' " mimicking the sound of soft breathing. "You're doing fine," he assured me.
Suddenly, to my shock, I had an orgasm for the first time in my life. My body jerked several times. Then he leaned over, kissed me, a peck on my lips, and slipped behind the curtain to his office area.
I don't remember saying anything to him. I could not even look at him. I quickly dressed and drove home.
At the time, I think I may have told one of my sisters. I certainly did not tell my parents. I did not report him to authorities. It never crossed my mind to protect other women. Please understand, I was actually embarrassed about my sexual naivete. I was in my 20s and knew nothing about sex. All I wanted to do was bury the incident in my mind and protect my family.
My mother could not read or write English, let alone drive. From then on, I told her our family doctor lived too far away. We're not going to see him anymore.
Years later, I told my husband. When did I tell him? What year? What date? I don't remember.
When the superb reporting of the New Yorker's Ronan Farrow and the New York Times's Megan Twohey and Jodi Kantor helped touch off this intimate discussion, my dirty little secret reared its ugly head and I told anyone who would listen.
I think the doctor died almost 30 years ago in his 80s. I've driven past his home/office many times but refused to look at it. Just yesterday, I found the house on Google Maps. Seeing it again, I freaked out.
Christine, I, too, am terrified as I reveal this publicly. I can't sleep. I can't eat. Can you? If you can't, I understand. I am frightened, I am scared, I can't even cry.
Will my legacy as a television journalist for 30-plus years be relegated to a footnote? Will "She Too" be etched on my tombstone instead? I don't want to tell the truth. I must tell the truth. As a reporter, the truth has ruled my life, my thinking. It's what I searched for on a daily working basis.
Christine, I know the truth, as you do. Years ago, my husband read a novel by Rita Mae Brown called "Six of One." He told me, "There's a great line in this book. 'The advantage of telling the truth is you don't have to remember what you said.' "
I wish I could forget this truthful event, but I cannot because it is the truth. I am writing to you because I know that exact dates, exact years are insignificant. We remember exactly what happened to us and who did it to us. We remember the truth forever.
Bravo, Christine, for telling the truth."
The powerful letter has struck a chord with people everywhere.
People have so much respect for the trailblazing journalist's eloquence.
Bravo to you, Ms. Chung, for telling your truth.