Sexual consent is critical, but can be tricky. Even when there are no differentials in power, when both parties are sober, willing, unaffected by gender roles, racial biases or societal pressures, there is always potential for human error and misinterpretation. This is especially problematic when getting explicit consent isn’t just about pleasing your partner, but also about protecting yourself. This documentary makes it all too clear that is particularly the case when it comes to the dynamics of Black men and white women where, historically, Black men and boys have been viewed as more sexually voracious and predatory. In the deeply disturbing case of Derrick Johnson and Anna Stubblefield, we see the shocking way a non-verbal, disabled Black man’s sexual abuse by his white carer could be contorted into an innocent act of misinterpretation.
The documentary Tell Them You Love Me, created by Louis Theroux’s production company and directed by Nick August-Perna, takes on his signature anti-socratic method – which allows its subjects to explain themselves without interruption and occasionally hang themselves with their own rope. We hear the tale of Derrick Johnson, who had a series of seizures as a baby. By his older brother Dr John Johnson’s account, as a toddler he was “diagnosed as mentally retarded, non-verbal with cerebral palsy”. His father left the family soon afterwards but as Derrick grew into adulthood his devoted mother and brother believed him to be striving to communicate with them. The programme’s twist in the tale comes when John begins his PhD at Rutgers University and watches Anna Stubblefield’s lecture on non-verbal disabilities and thinks her methods could unlock hidden potential in his brother, unaware that Stubblefield would soon be having “romantic” and sexual relations with his sibling.
While Tell Them You Love Me at first has a slightly dispassionate approach – with its subjects sticking to their versions of events – by the third act it begins to use the legal case to reveal wider truths about society’s ingrained prejudice. The harrowing tale of abuse is made darker by the witnesses and experts who explain that Derrick may not have had agency to consent – and who are still unable to see this educated white middle-class woman as a perpetrator of sexual violence. Dr Howard Shane appears to explain how Derrick had the mental capacity of a six- to 12-month-old child and his typed consent given via his “communication facilitator”, Stubblefield, was just her “having conversations with herself”. But he claims: “I never thought she was a predator. She truly believed what she was doing was in Derrick’s best interest.”
Even assuming that this claim to be in love comes from delusion, there is a victim in the form of young Derrick Johnson. And it’s hard to watch Dr John Johnson recount when he discovered during a nappy change that his brother had bruises, grazes and permanent scars all over his diminutive body from rough sex on a mat on Stubblefield’s office floor. Stubblefield herself remains firm in her beliefs of a loving consensual relationship despite all evidence to the contrary. When asked if she ever had any doubts, she responds: “Never.”
Tell Them You Love Me’s detailing of the way that facilitated communication for the non-verbal can be misconstrued is just as striking as a study in white privilege and white female victimhood – where good intentions are consistently assumed of Stubblefield. When Derrick’s mother, Daisy, is told by Stubblefield that she is in “a relationship” with him – and he’s now “a man in every sense of the world” – Daisy finds herself instinctively sitting on her hands lest she does something that could be used against her – causing her to be dismissed as an angry Black woman who doesn’t understand what is best for her son. Meanwhile, Stubblefield perceives herself as so non-threatening that she is, even all these years later, unable to see why leaving messages for the Johnson family saying she will “sign my name in blood so I can be with Derrick” could be interpreted as sinister.
Aside from the legal system, there is a distinct lack of people in the documentary holding Stubblefield to account. The notable exceptions are her ex-husband – who tells the court she is a “pathological liar and narcissist” – and the even-keeled Dr Johnson, who concludes: “That woman did not give a damn about my brother.” What is fascinating about the documentary is how many topics it touches upon intelligently and sensitively in less than two hours. Beyond consent, disability and race there is space given to reflect upon the nature of language, the “white saviour” complex, the purpose of justice and what constitutes unconditional love. Tell Them You Love Me might be a hard watch, but it is also a vital one.
Tell Them You Love Me aired on Sky Documentaries and is available on Now.
