Tiger, Tiger: A Memoir [NOOK Book]


A Washington Post Notable Nonfiction Book for 2011
A Globe and Mail Best Books of the Year 2011 Title
Tiger, Tiger is a Publishers Weekly Best Nonfiction title for 2011

A Kirkus Reviews Best Nonfiction of 2011 title

One summer day, Margaux Fragoso meets Peter Curran at the neighborhood swimming pool, and they begin to play. She is seven; ...

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Tiger, Tiger: A Memoir

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A Washington Post Notable Nonfiction Book for 2011
A Globe and Mail Best Books of the Year 2011 Title
Tiger, Tiger is a Publishers Weekly Best Nonfiction title for 2011

A Kirkus Reviews Best Nonfiction of 2011 title

One summer day, Margaux Fragoso meets Peter Curran at the neighborhood swimming pool, and they begin to play. She is seven; he is fifty-one. When Peter invites her and her mother to his house, the little girl finds a child’s paradise of exotic pets and an elaborate backyard garden. Her mother, beset by mental illness and overwhelmed by caring for Margaux, is grateful for the attention Peter lavishes on her, and he creates an imaginative universe for her, much as Lewis Carroll did for his real-life Alice.

In time, he insidiously takes on the role of Margaux’s playmate, father, and lover. Charming and manipulative, Peter burrows into every aspect of Margaux’s life and transforms her from a child fizzing with imagination and affection into a brainwashed young woman on the verge of suicide. But when she is twenty-two, it is Peter—ill, and wracked with guilt—who kills himself, at the age of sixty-six.

Told with lyricism, depth, and mesmerizing clarity, Tiger, Tiger vividly illustrates the healing power of memory and disclosure. This extraordinary memoir is an unprecedented glimpse into the psyche of a young girl in free fall and conveys to readers—including parents and survivors of abuse—just how completely a pedophile enchants his victim and binds her to him.

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Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
When seven-year-old Margaux befriended 51-year-old Peter at the swimming pool, her troubled mother approved; he seemed like a good influence. Not so, as we find out in this large and eerie-sounding memoir; after an increasingly dangerous 15-year relationship, Fragoso barely escaped with her life. Sounds fascinating, though the proof will be in the reading.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429994972
  • Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
  • Publication date: 3/1/2011
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 336
  • Sales rank: 185,165
  • File size: 335 KB

Meet the Author

Margaux Fragoso recently completed a PhD in English and creative writing at Binghamton University. Her short stories and poems have appeared in The Literary Review and Barrow Street, among other literary journals.
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Read an Excerpt

1“Can I Play with You?”

Nineteen eighty-five. It was spring, and cherry blossoms fell when the wind blew hard. The gay feathers and asters were in bloom, and I smelled the sweet, dizzy scent of honeysuckle fumes, which rode on the shoulders of the wind, along with that dazzle of newly shorn pink and white cherry blossoms, and the white wisps of dandelion seed heads. It was the season of yellow jackets, those sluggish wasps that were always hanging around trashcans and soda bottles. A yellow jacket stung me on the tip of my nose when I was three, and my nose swelled to twice its size; ever since, my mother had fiercely hated them.

“Get out of here!” she yelled, waving her hand at the yellow jackets that had come, unannounced, to our picnic on the lawn at Liberty State Park with my parents’ friends Maria and Pedro, and their son, Jeff.

Poppa collected a bit of Pepsi on the tip of his plastic straw and set the straw atop our green-and-red beach blanket. The wasps all rushed to the straw and Poppa grinned.

“You see, I solve problems with common sense. They like sugar, and as long as that soda is there, they will all stay by that straw. Right, Keesy?”

Poppa began to call me Kissy (with his Spanish pronunciation he said “Keesy”) as a toddler, after he taught me to kiss his cheek goodnight and, for a while, I went around kissing everything: all my dolls and stuffed animals, even my own reflection in the mirror. Only when Poppa was pleased with me did he call me Keesy and, occasionally, Baby Bow. Whenever he was angry he didn’t call me anything; he spoke of me in the third person. Poppa rarely used my first name, Margaux (pronounced Margo), though he had named me himself, after a 1976 vintage French wine he once drank: Château Margaux. He never called my mother Cassie, and he never kissed or hugged her. I didn’t think anyone else was different until I saw other parents kiss, like Jeff’s, and to be honest, I thought they were the odd ones.

Maria was my mother’s best friend and my occasional babysitter. Jeff was seven, a year older than I. At Jeff’s house, if he agreed to play Stories, I’d agree to play G.I. Joes and Transformers. War got tiresome for me, and Jeff hated to play Ladybug and Lost Dog, because those stories didn’t include toys; these deals made our friendship possible.

Mommy and Maria were talking about the usual things mothers talk about: the benefits of vitamin C, the child snatched from Orchard Beach, the boy recently killed on a roller coaster. “Such a shame,” Mommy would say, and “God works in mysterious ways.” Mommy kept a small spiral notebook, in which she recorded, among other things, every single disaster she heard about on the radio or TV. That way, she’d always have something important to talk about whenever she called or visited friends. She referred to the notebook as her Fact Book. Poppa hated the Fact Book. Whenever my mother got sick, she started talking about starving children and other horrible things in the world. At home, she’d constantly play her album Sunshine, a chronicle of a young woman with terminal bone cancer who made tape recordings of her final goodbyes to her husband and daughter. Mommy found it romantic.

I heard Maria say that I needed more chicken and yucca in my diet, and my mother scribbled this in the Fact Book. They couldn’t decide what was more fattening: chicken or beef. Poppa, elbowing Pedro, said, “What do these women know? I know more than them. Don’t give girls too much meat or the hormones from the cow get into them. Black beans and rice, fruit, spaghetti; that is the way to go. You do not want a too skinny child, because people assume you are starving your child. But you do not want a little girl looking older. So do not give girls too much steak or pork. Seafood—okay. Boys, on the other hand, need to get strong. Sons—you feed a lot of pork. Maybe you are feeding yours a little too much pork.” Poppa smiled; he had a way of insulting people and still staying in their good graces. “Myself, I eat salad. I eat a lot of pistachio nuts and, occasionally, a papaya. Vitamin A. I am not saying your son is fat. I am saying he could afford to lose a few pounds; I hope you do not take me wrong. I tell my friends the truth. But he is a strong boy, a healthy boy, a good-looking son!”

Jeff leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Skinny-skinny chicken legs. Bock! Bock! Bock! Bock!”

“Shut up!”

“Bock! Bock!” He flailed his arms. “You run just like a chicken, too! Bock! Bock! Bock! Bock!”

Chicken legs didn’t bother me much, but when he said I ran like a chicken I slapped his face. “Shut up, fatso! You can just die and go to hell!”

Everyone looked at me, and when Maria saw my eyes, she turned away.

Poppa broke out in a grin and said, “All boys, beware of my daughter!”

“Louie!” Mommy yelled. “Don’t teach her to hit!”

A yellow jacket buzzed right by Mommy’s face and Jeff, playing hero, tried to shoo it away with a stick. He smacked the wasp, and with a loud happy whoop he charged at the other yellow jackets, whacking at them. The wasps turned on him and he dropped the stick. All the adults started yelling, and the wasps, now maddened, began to go after everyone. Yellow jackets landed on my head, arms, hands, and chest. Poppa looked me in the eyes and said, “Stand still, Keesy, stand still, or they will sting.” I felt their tiny black legs, their underbelly down. I obeyed. Poppa and I were the only ones not stung that day.


For the first seven years of my life, my parents and I lived in an orange brick building located on Thirty-second Street. Our tiny one-bedroom apartment was infested with roaches, which, despite arming himself with cans of Raid and Combat roach hotels, Poppa could not get rid of. “They come in from other people’s apartments. They come through the space under the door. The people in this building are savages. All dirty savages at this end of town. In upper Union City, it is better. Here, the drug addicts, the lowlifes. I cannot wait to get away from here.”

Poppa hated graffiti, fire escapes, the abandoned lots filled with trash, the whistling and hissing teenage boys, boom boxes, the way that people constantly littered. But he liked walking a few blocks to Bergenline Avenue to get his espresso and buttered roll (bits of it he’d hand-feed me, even allowing me to sip his espresso). He liked that most everyone spoke Spanish, because he found it extremely humiliating to mispronounce a single English word when ordering food. Back when they were dating, my mother once playfully teased him about the way he said “shoes” (choos) and he wouldn’t speak to her for the rest of the day.

Poppa never encouraged my mother and me to learn Spanish, which she thought was intentional. He didn’t want us to listen to his phone conversations. I begrudged him this. Not knowing Spanish meant you wouldn’t be able to read most of the storefronts or order at local restaurants and bodegas. In Union City, people always assumed I was from Cuba or Spain because of my light complexion, not half Puerto Rican. My mother was a mix of Norwegian, Swedish, and Japanese. I had black eyes that I assumed were from my half-Japanese grandfather, a heart-shaped face, plumpish lips, and straight dark brown hair.

When I was very little, I would punch random women riding on the bus or walking down the street, which my mother said was because I had watched her being hit by my father. She said I witnessed him break a large picture frame over her back at three, but I was too young to remember. What I do recall is that my father used to turn the lights on and off to poke fun at my mother’s mental illness. My mother, father, and I slept on a giant king bed because I had constant nightmares and was terrified of sleeping alone. To help him sleep, my father wore a piece of cloth cut from one of his old undershirts over his eyes, and I thought he looked like a bandit with his auburn beard and longish auburn hair. In the mornings, if feeling cheerful, he would tell me stories about a mischievous monkey, an evil frog, and a stoic white elephant set in Carolina, Puerto Rico, where he’d grown up. Or sometimes he’d tell me about his boyhood. He used to climb the tall coconut trees by wrapping his entire body around the tree’s rough hide and hoisting himself up by the arms, inch by inch.

My father loved to tell stories. He liked to exaggerate and use his hands. He did all the cooking and cleaning in our household, saying my mother was only capable of taking our clothes to be laundered in the basement of our building, and grocery shopping at the nearby Met; she brought the food home in a little red cart because she didn’t drive. But she always overbought and overspent, which Poppa would yell about.

Poppa was such a high-strung man that I never understood how he could tolerate a job that required him to sit still all day. He was a jeweler who specialized in design and manufacture. He also cut, set, and polished gemstones, in addition to repair work. In the eighties, jewelers didn’t have ergonomically correct workbenches and they spent all day uncomfortably hunched over.

When Poppa came home, he was so excitable he’d act like a dog let loose from its leash. Sometimes, it was a happy excitement and he’d pound Heinekens as he whipped up dinner, singing as he removed the spices from drawers and cupboards, later offering me samples of his cooking to taste on a spoon, or handing me the rice pot so I could scrape out the slightly burnt, crunchy kernels stuck to the bottom, which Poppa called “popcorn rice.” He’d touch my nose a lot, if he was feeling cheerful—his way of showing affection, since he rarely kissed me. My mother would be in the bedroom listening to her 45s of John Lennon, the West Side Story soundtrack, the Sunshine album, or Simon and Garfunkel. She wouldn’t come out until dinner was ready. She knew that as soon as he saw her, his mood would sour. Once, my mother told me she was undressing by the window and Poppa said, shutting the drapes, “You’re not a pretty baby, you’re a fat cow, and no one wants to look at you.”

Whenever Poppa came home in bad spirits, I’d scramble into the bedroom with Mommy and turn up the volume on her Gibson record player, surrounding us with pillows in a kind of mini-fort and throwing the quilt over our heads. Inside our makeshift tent, I would (even at five and six) suck on my plastic pacifier and hold close to my face a yellow stuffed dog whose gingham ear was ripped from my constant tugging. Poppa would yell about how his boss demeaned him, or about how bad the market was. Poppa was usually out of work at least once a year, since the jewelry business got slow after Christmas. After a while, his tirades would gather momentum and turn into uncontrollable rages that often lasted for hours at a time. When he was this way he was like a man possessed and we were terrified to go anywhere near him. He’d scream that we’d cursed him with a life of misery, and he would never be free again, that God couldn’t send him to hell because he was already in it, and that he wondered what he’d done to deserve being cursed with two burdens: a sick woman for a wife and a wild beast for a daughter. Often, I wished he would yell in Spanish so we couldn’t understand what he was saying.


We were still living on Thirty-second Street the summer I turned seven and had to walk several blocks to get to the Forty-fifth Street pool. It was heavily chlorinated, had dead bugs rafting on its surface, and was only about four feet deep. Older kids called it the Piss Pool. I’m ashamed to admit that I contributed to its name, nonchalantly drifting to the blue borders of the pool, casting glances to make sure no one was looking.

The pool water was a clear, light, wide-open blue that spread itself to take in my wet, bulleting body, my body with its closed fists and feet pressed together and legs arched like long fins; my mouth clenched so I could hold the air like a purse snapped shut; my mermaid self, my goldfish self, my dolphin self, myself without weight. When I rose, bursting my head up, to slurp the air, I felt my brain grow light with pleasure. After a few seconds, I would look to my mother, sitting with the big black purse strapped to her neck and shoulder. She never took it off for fear of thieves. What I did sometimes, when my private games got boring, was stand in the middle of the pool and gaze around me. When I stopped and looked about, it was as if all the people—kids in groups, mothers with tube babies, kids with plastic floaties around their arms to hold them up, boys diving by the no diving sign—leaped out from nowhere. Sound came on, all of a sudden, the sounds of splashing, shouting, whistles blowing, the sounds of birds and cars from behind the green slatted fence.

On the day I met Peter I saw two boys and their father wrestling at the other end of the pool, splashing and laughing. One of the boys was very handsome. He was the smaller of the two, maybe about nine or ten, skinny, with longish brown bangs. He wasn’t just handsome; he exuded happiness. There was brightness in his face and skin, supple quickness to his legs and arms and hands, and a gentle quality to his eyes and face that was rare for a boy. His older brother looked happy too, but not with that same vividness.

Their father had bowl-cut sandy-silver hair with sixties bangs like a Beatle. He had full lips, a long, pointy nose that might have looked unattractive on someone else, but not on him, and a strong, pert chin. When he looked in my direction, I saw that his eyes were vigorously aquamarine. He smiled at me, his face full of lines—on his forehead, by his eyes, and around his jaw. I knew he must be old, to have lines and graying hair and loose skin on his neck, but he had so much energy and brightness that he didn’t seem old. He didn’t even seem adult in the sense of that natural separateness adults have from children. Children understand the distance between themselves and adults the way dogs know themselves to be separate from people, and though adults may play children’s games, there is always that sense of not being alike. I think he could have been lined up with a hundred men of similar build and disposition and I could have pulled him out from that line, and asked, “Can I play with you?”

I crossed the length of the pool and asked just that. He answered, “Of course,” and then immediately splashed my face, frolicking with me as though I were his own child. I splashed the boys’ faces and they mine, for these boys didn’t seem to mind playing with someone so much younger and a girl to boot. At one point the handsome boy gently dunked my head, and when I rose, I laughed so hard that for a moment it seemed all I could hear was my own laughter. Then the father lightly took me under the arms and whizzed me around, laughing like a big kid. When he stopped, the world was off balance and a strange burst of white flooded his features, like a corona.


Later, when the lifeguards called everyone out of the pool for closing, the father, whose name was Peter, introduced us to a sweet-looking Hispanic woman named Inès, who had been wading by herself in the shallowest part of the pool while we played. Peter teased her about her need to be close to the pool’s edges and joked to my mother and me that Inès was nervous about things no one thought to worry about, such as going on carousels or riding a bicycle. Inès had an awkwardly pretty face, drowsy, sun-lined eyes, long curly hair that started out dark but midway changed to a dyed apricot shade, and the mild, disoriented look of a wild fawn. She had purple press-on nails; two had gone missing, and the rest had tiny black peace signs painted on them.

Peter told us everyone’s names: the older boy, Miguel, looked about twelve or thirteen and the younger boy, Ricky, only a couple of years older than I was. By the end of the day I’d forgotten all the names but I remembered the first letters of the parents’ names: P and I. I kept thinking of them, P and I, and their promise to invite my mother and me to their house. A few days passed and nothing happened, so I forgot them.

I might have permanently forgotten, except for some vague stamp of joy that the incident left on me. We were in Poppa’s 1979 Chevy when Mommy said they had called her up, or, rather, Peter had called.

“We’re invited to go to their house. Isn’t that nice?” When Poppa said nothing, she continued. “Peter and Inès. And the boys, Ricky and Miguel. Miguel and Ricky. Such nice boys. Well-behaved boys, not rough at all. Such a nice family.”

“Their house? It is around here?”

“Not far. On the phone, Peter said Weehawken, right where it meets Union City. I just wanted to run it by you. See what you think?”

“About what?”

“Going there. On Friday while you’re at work.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I thought I’d run it by you.”

“I don’t care. These people are not ax murderers, right?”

“They’re a very nice family. Very nice people. A lovely family.”

“Everything is so nice to you. Everyone is so nice. Everything is so lovely.”

“So it’s set, then,” said Mommy. “For Friday at noon.”

TIGER, TIGER Copyright © 2011 by Margaux Fragoso

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 53 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 53 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 6, 2011

    Simply breathtaking

    This book blew me away. It's gut-wrenching, dramatic, and impossible to put down. It made me cry. It made me open my eyes to this serious issue. If you have kids or will have them, you need to read this!

    3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 6, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    More shock then story

    I was very interested in reading this memoir, as I am a fan of memoirs and I am a student at Binghamton University, where the author recieved her PhD.

    I read a number of reviews on this book, most of which were very accurate when they discuss the stilted writing style that occupies the majority of the book.

    Fragoso is telling the story of her repeated molestations and fourteen year relationship with a man that has repeatedly abused children. In Fragoso, he finds a perfectly malleable eight year old who he controls and warps. Fragoso starts her story at the very beginning, outlining her family life and her first meetings with her molester. In writing this, she attempts to capture a childs voice and viewpoint, which unfortunately rings false. At times, her descriptions are overly flowery and many of her similes and metaphors are simply unrelateable and outlandish. The author has a lot of trouble with realistic conversations, some of this may be due to the fact that she was piecing conversations together from memory and diaries, but her dialogue does not read naturally. It seems that a close editing would have really helped this book.

    The book achieves a more congruent flow once she reaches her teen years. Fragoso does have a tendency to drop in information rather late in the book that would have been helpful earlier on, and at times she goes over and above introducing characters that are extraneous.

    I think the author's purpose of the book, to shed light on an incident that had remained secret for so long, was executed. To me, the most interesting and well written parts of the book were the Prologue and the Afterword, both told in her contemporary voice. I think the whole memoir would have been much stronger if she had written it in her contemporary voice with flashbacks or analysis of what had occurred.

    Obviously, due to the subject matter, this book will be read and discussed in a number of arenas, so for that fact alone, it is certainly worth the read.

    Hopefully the author's future books will allow more of her voice to be heard, rather than the voices of her past.

    3 out of 9 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 7, 2011

    Touching story

    I enjoyed this memoir- it is hard to gind books so eye-opening while at the same time still stories. Sometimes it was a little hard to stomach... but it was honest and held a lot of truth.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 23, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    You won't put it down

    Fragoso gets caught in vice between her mentally abusive father and a pedophile with highly practiced manipulative skills.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 8, 2011

    A unique breakthrough

    It's rare to see the experience of sexual abuse told from the young woman's perspective. That alone makes this a profound and important work. What makes it truly amazing is that we too can experience all the varied emotions that it leaves in its wake. Many girls have to face abuse alone and in silence so it's great to see someone confront it with courage and strength.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 5, 2012

    I loved the book with the detailed and at times my stomach becam

    I loved the book with the detailed and at times my stomach became tied in knots and I would pause than find myself opening it back up to continue to read it. I found myself reading Tiger Tiger until the end. Truly can understand at a child's point how this predator was actually someone she looked up too. Of course, the predator was so manipulative. I hoped that she would just stop wanted to see him,however, because of her family situation. Well I don't want to spoil the memoir. It's for sure an eye opener. Would recommend it. I feel the editing for this book was great.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 11, 2013



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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2013

    Very good

    Impossible put down

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 26, 2013


    Pounces biteing it on the neck and killing it

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  • Posted February 17, 2013

    more from this reviewer

    What Amy Hammel-Zabin did in Conversations With a Pedophile, (by

    What Amy Hammel-Zabin did in Conversations With a Pedophile, (by bringing her readers into the mind of a Pedophile), Dr. Fragoso does for the victim of such a predator.  Reading Dr. Fragoso’s account of the years she spent enthralled with a “caring” older (by 43 years) man is the stuff of nightmares, horror stories made so, and drastically compounded by, the fact of what she speaks was her reality. Few books have caused as intense reactions within me than those I experienced as I read this first person account of a victim of childhood sex abuse.
    When Margaux Fragoso was 7-years-old, while she and her mother were in a park near her home, a man (Peter, who is older than her father) asked if he could join in her play.  Within a year of that meeting, he commits his first violation of his new, trusting friend.  For the next nine years he took advantage of her father’s volatility and her mother’s mental illness to repeatedly violate the young Margaux. After his health became such that he could no longer harm her sexually, he continued to manipulate her into being convinced that he was the only one who could truly love her. It was only with Peter’s death that the author found the freedom to write of this relationship and to see what had actually occurred within that connection.
      The book is a revelation of the experience of sex abuse.  The process Dr. Fragoso details is a classic example of what a victim of sex abuse becomes in order to survive this trauma.  She speaks graphically of some of her abuse and her internal processes, as well as her world-view, as they developed in response to the harm done to her, are difficult to grasp unless one has some experience of this kind of pain.
    Yet, because of an open writing style and ease of expression the reader has the ability to grasp some of this experience without having to face the author’s peril.
    My best friend (and wife) noted my dark mood the week I was reading this book, so deeply was I affected by its content.  By turns, I was angry, sickened, filled with dread, hopeful, hopeless, helpless and empowered as I progressed through its pages.  In my profession, I have sat with numerous victims of sexual abuse; I have heard their pain, witnessed their courage and admired their strength.  After this book, I feel a deeper sense of appreciation of these individuals.  To see how many of them have moved from “victim” to survivor to thriving in overcoming the evil done them gives me pause to be thankful and amazed; thankful for the opportunity to journey with them and amazed at these heroes. Fortunately, Dr. Fragoso did not remain a victim of her abuse. She overcame this trauma to earn a Ph.D. and to write a book that is a much needed resource.
    This book needs to be required reading for anyone in, or preparing for, the counseling or other helping profession.  It supports the research of the predatory behavior of Pedophiles; offers, both directly and by suggestion, how to protect children from such people, imparts insight into many of the behaviors of those who have been the prey of such individuals and gives first-hand (of a fashion) experience of sitting with those harmed.  Anyone who chooses to read this book needs to be aware of the pain they will experience as they “witness” the harming of a child.  
    This is NOT a book for children, it is a MUST read for anyone who has the responsibility to protect children. 

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 4, 2012

    more from this reviewer

    An amazing memoir of the author's youth and adolescence and her

    An amazing memoir of the author's youth and adolescence and her relationship with her friend, the pedophile. That's right. FRIEND!
    In this book Ms Fragoso does the unthinkable. She brings us inside her relationship with Paul, a friend to Margaux's mother and herself, who groomed her from age eight to become a sexual partner for himself at the time almoast 60!
    Probably the most chilling aspect is that Paul is not your drooling, raincoat wearing, pervert. He places himself in the path of this family, an abusive father, mentally ill mother and fragile Margaux herself. She wants love from an adult she can depend on.
    What she gets is a form of attention, which she experiences as love that Paul insinuates himself in her life to the point Margaux believes in their mutual love, that an uncaring world would never understand and so must be kept secret.
    Mom, Dad and just about every adult in this story seems not to see (or acknowledge) the terrible things happening to Margaux. Yes of course the sex games, but also Margaux's depression, confused self image and ultimate belief that she will marry Paul and live happily ever after!
    But like almost any relationship built upon lies and deception, it begins to unravel. And Margaux remains a dedicated friend to Paul until the climax where she becomes painfully aware of the awful truth of the relationship.
    Margaux writes this tale in brutal first person remembrance. No one is spared, no detail is too gruesome as to be avoided. Eventually she comes to terms with her past and starts building a life of her own, college, husband and family. But there is never the day of reckoning for the pedophile. He sickly, slickly gets away without societal judgement and sanction of his acts. There is no big payoff. No conclusion. And that only makes this scarier ans more plausible still.

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  • Posted April 30, 2012

    So entrapping

    So entrapping

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