In the current social climate of the #MeToo movement, men are under siege. We really have it rough; all of a sudden we have to think about, like, what we say, how we’re perceived, and if we’re safe. Who lives like that?! At this point we’re lucky if we dominate just 99% of corporate culture, politics, and the world at large. It’s like we’re barely running everything anymore.

It’s not even safe for nice guys who make an innocent mistake with an unconscious lady friend. Did you know that in almost .0067% of sexual misconduct cases, dudes have had to start their WHOLE lives over? They have nothing but the clothes on their back, their privilege, and an extensive network of other privileged men to help them get by!

If you find yourself on the wrong side of a sexual misconduct accusation, use this helpful list of predator-friendly careers to get back on your feet:

• Become CEO of a company

• Become CFO of a company

• Become COO of a company

• Become an accountant

• Become a lawyer

• Become a financial planner

• Become a professional athlete

• Become an HR executive

• Become a marketing executive

• Become anything ending in “executive”

• Become a dog trainer

• Become a coach for olympians

• Become a hollywood director

• Become a hollywood producer

• Become a professional actor

• Become a professional comedian

• Become a professional musician

• Become a professional at whatever you were doing before just at a slightly different company

• Run for president

• Run for senate

• Run for governor

• Run for mayor

• Run for any political office you haven’t already run for; a simple change in title goes a long way toward making people forget you might’ve been a creep

• Start your own chapter of MPAT (Male Predators Alone Together)

• Start your own human trafficking group

• Start your own neo-nazi organization

• Join an emerging group of white entrepreneurs called “terrorists”

• Take some time to reflect and educate yourself on your own privilege. Open up a dialogue with those who can help illuminate it for you to start healing your broken point of vi…HAHAHA, just kidding! What a waste of time!

• If you’re really backed into a corner, take a deep breath…and just continue living your life like it didn’t happen. With some luck you’ll still have tons of privilege to coast on the rest of your days.

And don’t forget, it’s totally reasonable to be bitter. When you’re having a bad day find solace in the fact that your gender still controls more money, power, and influence than ANY WOMAN, EVER! Whew.

As disturbing as the past year has been, it’s been inspiring to see so many survivors of assault come forward, and to watch the #MeToo movement make international headlines. But what struck me in post after post was that the stories were largely retrospective. Few who came forward felt they could do so at the time of the incident.

It doesn’t have to be that way. If we can demystify the process — from reporting, to rights, to recovery — we can help survivors come forward earlier, and make #MeToo a movement in real time.

The statistics are not new, but bear repeating: Fewer than a third of rape and sexual assault cases are reported to the police, and those numbers plummet when the assailant is a friend or acquaintance. Fewer than 10% of all assaults see any prosecution at all.

Our legal system, campus security, human resource departments, and news media have filled assault reporting with landmines for the few who do come forward. A survivor is faced with reliving the trauma, questions about their character and motivation, and institutional sympathy for the assaulter. We don’t talk about the process openly, which only generates more fear and uncertainty, and dissuades even more of us from reporting.

Last November, I launched O.school, a trauma-informed sex and pleasure education platform, featuring free, live-streamed conversations with “pleasure professionals” — or PPs — who deal with issues of sex and sexuality. Our streams range from “How to Purchase a Sex Toy” to “Recognizing Emotional Abuse” to “Understanding Consent.” The streams are interactive, meaning viewers can chat anonymously with the PP or other participants, and each stream has active moderators to prevent harassment and trolling.

While we have always focused on pleasure education, the format has turned out to be particularly conducive to dealing with issues, like assault, that are shrouded in shame and secrecy. In stream after stream, I’ve watched as participants — sometimes for the first time — spoke freely about their own consent violations, abuse, and harassment. As importantly, I’ve watched as they’ve shared critical information about reporting and recovery.

Cavanaugh Quick, a victim advocate at the Crime Victim and Sexual Violence Center in Albany, New York, regularly accompanies survivors during the reporting process. At O.school, Cav leads a stream on forensic rape examination kits. In their stream, Cav unboxes the kit, and walks viewers through the process of reporting assault — from the contents of the kit and the location of the exam to the types of questions asked to the length of time it takes and the rights you retain.

We’ve been taught to fear the process, but watching Cav cheerfully walk through it, that process loses some of its power to intimidate. Watching Cav’s first streams, and their interactions with those in the chat, were revolutionary for me, and I saw how demystifying the process could quickly lead to increased reporting.

Of course, the hurdles to reporting aren’t limited to the process. Survivors face guilt and shame from the assault, and a fear of stigmatization from coming forward. That’s why sharing information about our complex emotional and physiological reactions to assault, or providing someone who can answer questions about their own experience with sex after trauma, can be life-changing.

We’ve been culturally trained to be silent in the face of these experiences, to only accept prescribed narratives about what does or doesn’t constitute trauma or assault. But just as everyone’s experience is different, everyone’s reaction to is also different. In order to move forward — whether that means reporting, recovering, or both — we need multidimensional spaces where we can have these discussions openly, safely, and communally. At O.school, we’ve devoted an entire channel to “Sex After,” where survivors can engage with issues surrounding assault and trauma.

While I’m heartened to see greater awareness of sexual assault finally capturing the attention of the media, many of us are already far too aware. Let’s focus on raising awareness of assault, certainly, but also on the tools there are to report it, the resources for those processing it, and the communities that can help us recover from it.

Content warning: descriptions of sexual assault

One hundred and twenty two men.

That’s how many prominent politicians, writers, musicians, filmmakers, and public figures have been publicly accused of sexual harassment and sexual assault since Harvey Weinstein left the Weinstein Company. In the last week alone, Junot Diaz joined that growing list, as did New York Attorney General Eric Schneiderman, and the Nobel Prize scandal highlighted the experiences of women working with one of the world’s most prestigious literary organizations. So I suppose that brings our list to 123.

Clearly, we are far from ending this epidemic. But finally, for once, institutions are beginning to name the behavior of the men who make unwanted remarks and unwelcome ultimatums, who expose themselves, who demand our bodies. For once, we’re learning to believe women.

The women coming forward are undeniably courageous: young and old, rich and poor, famous and unknown. And overwhelmingly, they’re thin.

But 67% of American women are plus size. So where are the fat women?

I was 15 years old, and a size 18, the first time a man told me he’d fantasized about raping me.

He told me that he longed to pin my hands behind my head, yearned to hear me tell him no. You’ll fight me off, but you’ll love every minute of it.

The women coming forward are undeniably courageous: young and old, rich and poor, famous and unknown. And overwhelmingly, they’re thin.
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I was shaken, confused, disoriented. As he spoke, every breath drained from my waiting lungs, siphoned by his certainty that I’d be grateful for his violence. You’ll love every minute of it. The life in my veins seeped from my body into the ground I wished would swallow me whole.

Over time, men’s fantasies became part of the fabric of my experience. In the years that followed, more and more men would disclose their desire to assault me. When I told one to stop, in my mid-twenties, he was taken aback. I thought you were liberated. You should be grateful.

The menacing ghost of gratitude followed me everywhere. I was queer, which meant I was expected to be sexually flexible, unfettered by boundaries and unlikely to say no, available to be posed in any scene or position needed for men’s gratification. And I was fat, which meant I should be grateful for what I got. Even if it was violent. Even if I didn’t consent.

When I finally disclosed this pattern to thinner friends, I anticipated some knowing commiseration, some tools for survival. After all, we’d spent plenty of time developing shared strategies for creepy coworkers and lecherous neighbors. But to many of them, this ravenous violence was a foreign interaction, a reason to call police, run away, tell every woman I knew, do something drastic. Desperate measures.

For my thin friends, rape fantasies were an exception, the provenance of a particularly depraved kind of man. For me, they were the rule: so commonplace as to be routine. Around fat women, seemingly any man could be that particularly depraved kind.

More troubling were the reactions from thin acquaintances. A family friend and self-proclaimed feminist, upon hearing about this onslaught of fantasies, congratulated me. Isn’t it great to be wanted? And, more troublingly, there’s a lid for every pot. As if I had been disheartened about the selection of men who would take me. As if their violence were a sign of hope. As if it were just a misguided expression of attraction.

One friend asked why I hadn’t told anyone sooner. I was surprised by her question when the answer felt so plain. Like many women before me, when I share stories of harassment, catcalling, unwelcome advances, and violence, I am met with pushback. Unlike other women, that resistance comes as a question:

Who would want to rape you?

While thin women were free to talk about sexual assault as being somehow divorced from desire — rape is about power, not sex — I didn’t have that luxury. As a fat woman, my body was seen as inherently undesirable. Any sexual attention fat women receive is treated as a windfall worthy of congratulations, an erroneous impossibility, or an out-and-out lie. Fat women are expected to be grateful for any expressions that could be mistaken for want, including assault and harassment. We are exposed to an unvarnished kind of desire, its most violent self, because we are expected to hold and nurture whatever scraps of it we’re offered.

Sometimes, our harassment takes a more menacing turn, relying on reinforcing our rejection, rather than our assumed gratitude. A fat acquaintance recently told me that, at her workplace, men openly discussed who they would and wouldn’t sleep with. She often heard her own body used as a punchline — colossally undesirable, comically unwanted. “I just wanted to work,” she said. Even when we’re unwanted, harassment still finds us.

When fat women do muster the courage to come forward about our experiences with sexual assault, we’re significantly less likely to be believed about our experiences than our thinner counterparts. While thin women face dismal rates of prosecution and conviction for their sexual assaults, fat women are often dismissed out of hand — making it open season on our bodies. The cultural belief that fat women are unlovable, that fat bodies are undesirable, offers a warm Petri dish, a hospitable home for men’s bacterial desires to grow.

It took me years to disclose my own experiences. Because, like any woman, I knew that stepping forward would mean standard denials, scrutiny, dismissals. But for all our talk about sexual assault being an act of power, not desire, as a fat woman, I knew that those statements always came with caveats, asterisks, footnotes. I knew that my body was reliably withheld, an obvious exception to the rule.

After all, who would want to rape us? We should be grateful.

Our national conversation about sexual assault and harassment has become an important flashpoint. Notably, it has been largely led by Hollywood actresses — the Jessica Albas, Salma Hayeks, and Rose McGowans known for their legendary beauty.

But in order to flourish, that conversation will have to hold space for women whose leadership we struggle to respect, whose bodies we struggle to embrace. Even those who, in our heart of hearts, we still expect to be grateful. Because if our feminism fails to acknowledge the humanity of 67% of us, who will that victory serve?

W hen I was in graduate school, I worked part-time in retail. One of my co-workers — let’s call him Jake — was a white gay man who liked to tell stories about his various dating exploits each time we had a shift together. These conversations quickly went from amusing to problematic. Jake’s tales frequently centered on his conservative rural upbringing, his “love” of black men, in part because of how “masculine” he thought they were, and how he didn’t like guys who were too “femme.” “How would your family react if you were dating someone who wasn’t white?” I asked, trying to make small talk during a lull between customers. “That would never happen,” Jake said. “Black men are for fucking; white men are for bringing home to your family.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but the frankness of his words stunned me into silence for the remainder of my shift. I later tried to make Jake aware of his racism, but he said that had nothing to do with him. He couldn’t possibly be racist because he was attracted to black men. Not long after, I quit in order to have more time to focus on my dissertation. Jake tried to reach out to me via social media. When I saw that his Instagram feed was comprised primarily of images of muscular black men, I declined to follow him back.

Jake’s attitudes are a microcosm of many of the toxic behaviors enacted by white gay cisgender men: the adulation of conventional masculinity and muscularity, the rejection of femininity as undesirable, and the sexual objectification of black and Latino men due to their supposed exoticism and hypermasculinity.

In light of the #MeToo movement and the exposure of sexual violence and misconduct in Hollywood, the federal government, and society at large, much attention has been directed towards the toxic behaviors exhibited by heterosexual men that contribute to a culture in which sexual violence and misconduct thrive. There has been little mainstream discussion of the ways white gay male culture, in particular, is rife with its own brand of toxic masculinity.

Here’s How Toxic Masculinity Is Killing Us In So Many Ways

Still, the conversation is beginning to move in positive ways. Jacob Tobia, in a recent New York Times op-ed, critiqued the film Love, Simon for portraying its lead character as “the right kind of gay” (typically masculine, not flamboyant) in contrast to the character of Ethan, a queer black gender nonconforming teen. Ethan’s story is underexplored and, as Tobia argues, his racial and gender nonconformity are presented as a foil to Simon’s average white masculinity, telling gay teens it’s okay to be gay as long as you are gay in a “respectable” way.

But I disagree with Tobia that Netflix’s reboot of Queer Eye follows this same formula. In my opinion, Jonathan Van Ness, Queer Eye’s “grooming expert” and an unabashedly femme gay man, carries the show. In contrast to Van Ness’ dynamic personality, his more masculine counterparts, such as Antoni Porowski and Karamo Brown, recede into the background. Van Ness’ expression of gayness is depicted as equally valid, not as a trope to highlight normative masculinity. Queer Eye has its problems, but foregrounding a gay man like Van Ness is a welcome change to the mainstream media’s typical representations of respectably masculine gay men. However, Van Ness’ popularity is the exception that proves the rule.

Gay male toxicity contributes both to the oppression of queer men and to the pervasive culture of violence against women (particularly any who are feminine, people of color, and/or trans) and anyone outside of the gender binary. If we are serious about eradicating sexual violence in all its forms, then we must move beyond discussions of toxic masculinity that center heterosexuality and work to name and uproot the toxic behaviors of both dominant and marginalized men alike.

The phrase “toxic masculinity,” oft-cited in social justice circles, originates from the work of psychiatrist Terry A. Kupers. Though Kupers focuses on how so-called “toxic” expressions of masculinity impact men’s mental health outcomes in prison settings, scholars and activists have found his concept more broadly applicable, particularly as a way to describe how masculinity fosters a culture rife with sexual violence.

All expressions of masculinity are not inherently toxic. Kupers differentiates between what we might refer to as “typical” masculinity — the dominant or “normal” notion of masculinity within a particular context that stipulates what it means to be a “real man” — and certain aspects of masculinity that have socially harmful, or toxic, effects. “Toxic masculinity,” he explains, “is the constellation of socially regressive male traits that serve to foster domination, the devaluation of women, homophobia, and wanton violence.” In other words, “toxic masculinity” embodies a constellation of the worst aspects of masculinity as a whole.

Because toxic masculinity is defined, in part, by expressions of homophobia, we may falsely assume that regressive male traits are the property of straight men alone. Gay, bi, or queer masculinity, because they differ from the ideal, are often positioned as inherently transgressive.

Sexual minority men, however, are still exposed to the same expectations of masculinity as all men, and can also exhibit socially regressive traits, though they may not look exactly like those expressed by their heterosexual counterparts. If toxic masculinity as a whole is based primarily on the domination of women, then gay toxic masculinity is based on stigmatizing and subjugating femmes, queer men of color, and trans men via body norms, racism, and transphobia.

Sexual minority men, however, are still exposed to the same expectations of masculinity as all men.
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Gay culture, like the dominant culture, creates a hierarchy based on norms of masculinity. At the top are those who occupy the position of what we might call the “normate gay”: those who are thin, toned, muscular, white, cis, able-bodied, and express their gender in conventionally masculine ways. Despite pervasive stereotypes that gay men are improperly feminine in comparison to straight men, gay male culture often dictates that conventional masculinity is the most desirable. This hierarchy of gay masculinity also contributes to our inescapable culture of sexual violence. Part of masculinity is domination over those deemed feminine (not solely those who possess “female” bodies), so sexual violence functions as one way to reinforce what it means to be “masculine.”

A conventionally masculine appearance is prized within mainstream gay male culture. Indeed, it is not uncommon for gay men to post images of their toned bodies and exercise routines on social media, or to express their preference for men who are “straight acting” on dating apps. Preferences for masculinity indirectly shame those whose bodies are “soft,” “curvaceous,” or “fat” — qualities associated with femininity — and position femininity as shameful and undesirable. Body shaming and policing, therefore, support the invalidation of femininity as a legitimate way of occupying the world. As someone who often inhabits gay male spaces — though I identify as queer — I witness such behaviors on a near-daily basis.

The Remarkable Intersection Of Anal Sex And Toxic Masculinity

Gay men who care about physical fitness or their appearance are not automatically toxic. It is understandable, to a certain extent, that gay men would seek to challenge the stereotype that they are feminine or “sissies” by masculinizing their bodies through diet and exercise. This challenge, however, ultimately has toxic effects by reinforcing gender norms as opposed to subverting them.

Gay men can choose to care about their appearance, or express preferences for hypothetical partners, while also working to undo the systems that oppress those who do not conform to normative standards of masculinity. Too often, gay men seek to alleviate body shame and feelings of unworthiness by disciplining their bodies and policing the bodies of others who do not conform to masculine standards of appearance. While adhering to masculine norms may temporarily mitigate the effects of oppression, conformity does little to dismantle the systems which cause it.

Gay toxic masculinity also manifests in the form of racism and transphobia. Jake, for example, fetishized black men both for their racial difference and due to the fact he saw them as hypermasculine and therefore more desirable. Racial stereotypes intersect with those of gender and sexuality to exacerbate toxic masculinity in gay male culture, primarily through sexual objectification.

Mainstream white gay male culture objectifies queer men of color who, because of racial stereotypes, are seen as desirably masculine (such as black and Latino men) and shames queer men of color who are seen as undesirably feminine (such as Asian men). Furthermore, gay toxic masculinity is often transphobic, as it invalidates the identities of transgender men who may be seen as unable to fulfill the criteria of what it means to be a “real man” because their sex assigned at birth is emphasized over their gender identity and expression.

How Can The Queerest Generation (Ever) Still Believe In Gender Roles?

The #MeToo movement, particularly through the case of Aziz Ansari, has brought to light the difference between behaviors that are illegal versus those that are socially detrimental. While some expressions of toxic masculinity may not be criminal, they are, nevertheless, harmful and speak to the necessity of a broad shift to address our current culture of pervasive sexual violence. To this end, we cannot leave white gay men’s toxic behaviors and the general toxicity of mainstream gay male culture untouched.

Some of this can be done by calling on others to change their behavior, whether by pointing out instances of gay toxic masculinity when you see them, asking both mainstream and LGBTQ media to present diverse representations of masculinity, or amplifying the voices of those who don’t conform to masculine stereotypes.

But the hardest work is internal, especially when it comes to expressing “preferences.” We often mistakenly feel that our attractions are just what they are, rather than influenced by social context. As social justice educator Beverly Daniel Tatum explains, “racism is like smog in the air.” In other words, even though we may not see ourselves as racist, if we live and are socialized in a racist society, we invariably absorb its prejudices. Jake didn’t get the idea that all black men were “hypermasculine” out of nowhere.

We cannot help but breathe in whatever toxic particles are in the air. Just as we cannot simply choose to stop breathing, we cannot exempt ourselves from exposure to racist, sexist, and queerphobic images and messaging. You can’t force yourself to be attracted to anyone, but you can interrogate the societal influences on your preferences.

We often mistakenly feel that our attractions are just what they are, rather than influenced by social context.
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Privilege and oppression do not cancel each other out. Because they are on the receiving end of homophobia, white cisgender gay men, in particular, may perceive themselves as incapable of oppressing more marginal members of the LGBTQ community. Intersectionality forces us to consider the ways we are simultaneously privileged and oppressed and to broaden the lens through which we view the world beyond our subjective experiences.

White gay men can no longer profit from the toil and labor of their queer ancestors — many of whom were trans, femmes, and people of color — without also holding themselves accountable and working to dismantle the systems that oppress those who fall outside masculine, white, cis, and able-bodied ideals. The implications of gay toxic masculinity extend beyond gay male culture and contribute to our general culture of misogyny in which women, femmes, genderqueer people, and others who don’t or can’t perform mainstream masculinity are consistently devalued and undermined, often in violent and dehumanizing ways.

If white gay men are committed to the work of our collective liberation, then they must take a hard look at their own behaviors, because their time, too, is up.

With the media focused intently on stories of sexual harassment, we might be forgetting one thing. Yes, there’s a lot of sexual harassment, but some men out there do, in fact, have stories of times they didn’t sexually harass a woman. Maybe it’s time we find those men, and maybe it’s time we tell those stories.

Here, I ask brave, upstanding men to share stories of encounters with women that did not involve sexual harassment.

“I was waiting in line at the grocery store, and I noticed the girl in front of me has a nice ass. Well, I say ‘girl’ because she was extremely sexually attractive to me — she was probably in her late twenties with a successful career, eh, if I had to guess, I’d say she ran a team of software engineers, based on the fact that I took a photo and Google-imaged her and found her Linkedin. Anyway, I stared at her ass for a long time, but whaddya know — I didn’t grab it.”
— The Hero John Monroe

“Do I have a story about not sexually harassing a woman? Ha, yeah, funny you should ask. It happened today, actually. I was walking my dog, and another woman was walking her dog, and we just walked on past each other.”
— The Venerable Mark Wallace

“Oh boy, do I have a story for you. Have I ever not sexually harassed a woman? You better believe I have. The year was 1999. I was on a bus, and I saw a lady with a great chest. Probably at least a D. But I said to myself, I said, ‘Harry, you got a wife and two daughters at home, do NOT comment on her breasts.’ And I didn’t! Although you better believe I took the seat next to her even though the whole bus was empty. And you better believe I manspreaded onto her — not in a sexual way, that’s just how I sit always.”
— Sir Harry Frederick The Brave

“Let me tell you what feminism looks like, OK? I have a new female coworker on my team at work. And she is not attractive. So I have not asked her out. Not all heroes wear capes. But I do. What do you think of my cape?”
— Feminist Icon Barry Marshall Who Is Currently Wearing A Superman Cape He Probably Bought At A Children’s Toy Store

“My brother was telling me about a time he didn’t sexually harass a woman, and I said me too! Me too! Is that what the me too movement is about?”
— The Honorable Tim Johnson The Confused

“Yeah of course I have a story about not sexually harassing a woman. I saw a pretty girl on the train, and I said, ‘hey sweet cheeks what’s your number?’ And she said — oh, wait? You’re counting that? As sexual harassment? Hm, ok, let me get back to you.”
— The Noble Andrew Harrison Who Will Go Check His Notes And Then Get Back To Me To Become The Even More Noble Andrew Harrison

“Well, there was a lady at a bar. And I was trying to talk to her for about an hour. She kept saying things like ‘stop grabbing my ass’ and ‘did you put anything in my drink?’ Ha, what a tease. Anyway, I followed her home — no, no, I’m getting to it — I followed her home, I waited outside her apartment, and then I remembered. The bartender was a woman too. And I didn’t say anything to her. This is what a feminist looks like. Well, that bartender looked like a feminist. That’s why I didn’t talk to her.”
— The Esteemed Patrick Goldman

“I’ve prepared 282 stories. Oh, wait, you want stories about times I did NOT sexually harass a woman? Let me think — uh, OK, got nothing. Sorry, I misread the email.”
— Harvey Weinstein

If you read these stories and want to share your own, please find the author of this post on Twitter and tag a woman you have not sexually harassed.

It’s no secret that Christianity has a history of mishandling sexual misconduct allegations. From the Catholic Church’s well-documented pattern of silencing child abuse victims, to evangelicals brushing aside allegations against both Roy Mooreand Donald Trump, there’s a common theme that one should not touch God’s anointed, no matter what they do. One would think secular communities that promote skepticism — a method of determining truth where beliefs are questioned until sufficient evidence is presented — would do a better job of handling sexual misconduct allegations. Yet, a recent BuzzFeed article documenting the many sexual misconduct allegations against famous physicist Lawrence Krauss, taken with the attendant responses from the atheist community, demonstrate how even skeptics have a long way to go.

To be fair, several prominent atheist organizations and activists severed ties with Krauss shortly after the article’s publication. The American Humanist Association released a statement on March 9 saying they would no longer invite him to speak at any upcoming conferences, and they are considering rescinding his 2015 Humanist of the Year Award. The Center for Inquirylikewise announced that they were suspending their association with Krauss “pending further information,” as did evolutionary biologist Jerry Coyne after doing his own investigation.

However, author Sam Harris, whose 2004 book The End of Faith first launched the so-called New Atheist movement, voiced his doubts about the accusations against Krauss on his “Waking Up” podcast, saying “there were many things obvious about [the BuzzFeed article] that suggested that we shouldn’t rush to accept all of these allegations,” and that he hoped Krauss “finds some way to redeem himself.”

The Struggle Of Women In Science Is Written In The Stars
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And Krauss isn’t the only prominent skeptic with allegations against him. News broke last week that David Silverman had been “abruptly fired” from his role as the president of American Atheists due to both financial and sexual misconduct allegations. On top of this, much has been written about the multiple accusations of sexual misconduct against Skeptic Magazine editor-in-chief Michael Shermer and historian Richard Carrier—yet they are still invited to speak at atheist and skeptic conferences.

What is most troubling about the Krauss story is how many in the atheist movement knew about his reputation before the BuzzFeed article came out, including this writer. If secular communities want to provide a better alternative to religious institutions, why didn’t anyone confront Krauss sooner? Why are Shermer and Carrier still given a platform despite having similar accusations to those levied against Krauss?

Perhaps it’s another sign that people in general are inclined to protect their beloved leaders, regardless of religious affiliation. The only difference is that while the church uses God’s grace to cover up sexual misconduct, the atheist movement uses what sociology professor Marcello Truzzi referred to as “pseudoskepticism”: denial instead of doubt, and discrediting instead of investigating.

I recently interviewed Minnesota Atheists associate president Stephanie Zvan for my Bi Any Means podcast, and I asked her if she’d made any similar observations. “I think there’s definitely an element of that,” she said. “I think there are probably a good half-dozen ways that the secular movement goes about justifying disbelieving women.” Zvan calls this use of pseudoskepticism “hyper-skepticism,” where instead of looking at all the evidence and information presented, one nitpicks tiny details that do not fit one’s preconceived ideas.

She used the example of the 2014 BuzzFeed article detailing sexual misconduct allegations against Shermer and how, despite there being “a couple of people contradicting small parts of various things in there because it’s never completely a clear-cut story,” the overwhelming evidence suggests that Shermer, according to Zvan, is a predator. “But what we get instead from skeptics,” she said, “what they’re calling ‘skepticism’ is them trying to pick apart the story of that evening and saying, ‘Well, this little tiny detail doesn’t make sense,’ as in it does make sense in their head—that it’s not the way they think the story should go. And that’s not skepticism.”

‘I think there are probably a good half-dozen ways that the secular movement goes about justifying disbelieving women.’
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Iranian atheist blogger Kaveh Mousavi recently experienced this hyper-skepticism firsthand. On March 17th, he wrote a blog post,

“Skepticism Means Believing the Victims of Lawrence Krauss,”
echoing Zvan’s criticisms of skeptics “who choose to disbelieve the victims of Lawrence Krauss, or to be silent about it, or to pretend it is a murky and unclear case and act agnostic about it.” The post received a number of negative comments including one that compared multiple independent sources making the same allegation against Krauss to multiple independent sources claiming to see Bigfoot. As Mousavi explained in a follow-up blog post, there’s a big difference between an extraordinary claim (e.g. seeing Jesus, Bigfoot, UFOs, etc.) and ordinary claims (e.g. a man groped a woman). The supernatural claims require extraordinary evidence, while the latter doesn’t.

“These hyper-skeptic dudebros are harmful to human society because they systematically defend sexual assault and fight against the rights of women. They are harmful to atheist movements and causes because they encourage tribalism instead of honest self-criticism and oversight, and harmful to skepticism itself, as they blunt this sharp tool, sacrificing it at the altar of their celebrity hero-idols.”

A common technique used in skepticism is “Occam’s razor,” a “scientific and philosophical rule that entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily which is interpreted as requiring that the simplest of competing theories be preferred to the more complex or that explanations of unknown phenomena be sought first in terms of known quantities.” For example, if a man claims to have psychic powers that enable him to talk to the dead, either he can really talk to the dead, or he is just doing mentalist cold-reading magic tricks to convince everyone he’s speaking to the dead. So far the evidence suggests he’s more likely to be doing mentalist cold-reading magic tricks.

When it comes to the allegations against Krauss, either he’s right that a bunch of women are attacking him simply because he’s famous, or he really is a sexual predator. Since studies estimate only 8 of 136 reported rape cases are false (RAINN estimates only 310 out of every thousand rapes are even reported to the police), and given the fact Coyne did his own investigation and found the accusers’ stories do add up, it’s easier to assume Krauss is a predator. So why do many skeptics doubt sexual misconduct allegations?

Even if you reason as precisely as a computer, you’re still subject to ‘garbage in; garbage out.’
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I asked this to Zvan in a short follow-up interview through email. She told me that there are two factors at work here. First, there’s people’s unwillingness to believe their heroes have done terrible things. The second is, according to Zvan, skeptics confusing critical thinking with expertise. “The people who do the best jobs of fooling themselves on sexual harassment haven’t bothered to study harassment and assault,” she said. “They may have a handful of stats picked up from a YouTube video, but even if they’re accurate, they’re no substitute for a background in the subject. Even if you reason as precisely as a computer, you’re still subject to ‘garbage in; garbage out.’”

So how can skeptics remain skeptical without silencing survivors, or automatically dismissing women’s stories? Zvan said sometimes it’s best to remain silent and listen. “Skepticism requires epistemic humility,” she said. “If you don’t know what you’re talking about, either because you don’t have the background or because you don’t have access to enough information to get a clear picture, you don’t have to shout your uninformed opinion to the world. We’re supposed to be working against ignorant pundits, not becoming them.”

A woman’s treatment for addiction shouldn’t require her silence about sexual abuse.

frankieleon/flickr

Last month, Noah Levine, author of Dharma Punx and creator of the recovery group Refuge Recovery, was accused of sexual misconduct. Levine denies that he hurt anyone, and in an email to followers, he said the encounters between him and his accuser were “mutual with clear and open communication.”Against the Stream Buddhist Meditation Society, which Levine founded, has suspended him from their organization after receiving the complaint. Has #MeToo finally come to recovery?

Levine’s accusation reveals how rape culture pervades and influences recovery — a culture where silence, discretion, and anonymity are the rule. Recovery programs rely on anonymity to make participants feel safe — that they can reveal the darkest parts of themselves and still be supported. While those rules allow some participants to build trust, they often are a gag order for rape survivors, putting women with substance use disorder at risk when they seek help for addiction.

Levine is a powerful, influential figure who has built a spiritual empire within the world of recovery. His books, which include Refuge Recovery and Against the Stream, are used to teach Buddhist principles to people seeking relief from addiction. Refuge Recovery is additionally the name of a Buddhist treatment center, also founded by Levine, and the recovery program he started. It is described as an alternative to 12-Step programs such as Alcoholics Anonymous. As a guru who has preached a message of spirituality for over a decade to millions of followers, Levine is a potent figure: Accusing him of sexual misconduct is akin to admitting you were raped by Saint Peter.

Want To Reduce Drug Use? Listen To Women Drug Users

Many women who have made an attempt to get sober have learned the hard way that recovery meetings are not the safe, sacred spaces that they’re intended to be. Every recovery group, from Narcotics Anonymous to SMART, preaches a message of inclusiveness. All are welcome. Yet, that inclusiveness — which keeps the door open to rapists and predators — isn’t truly inclusive. It is the inclusion of all, at a high cost to some.

One woman described a harrowing rape that resulted in not only victim-blaming, but also exclusion from her 12-Step community. Other women say that creepy guys, stalking, and pressure to distrust their instincts have caused them to leave meetings and try to recover on their own. Some have given up on recovery completely, and gone back to drinking and using, feeling that there’s no safe alternative. There are women-only meetings, and women-only programs, but once someone’s initial trust is broken, how many women are willing to take another risk? A woman’s sense of unease doesn’t mean the meeting will change, or the program. Victims are likely to be pushed out or punished for complaining, or told that raising concerns may alienate their attacker, who “needs recovery too.”

The culture of silence and “anonymity” that surrounds recovery is harmful to women, and allows leaders, elders, and trusted community members to prey on women with little fear of repercussions. There’s a commonly held myth that the wrongs committed before getting sober don’t count. Victims of harassment or assault are told to pray for their attackers, rather than report them. Some are encouraged to “see their part” in the attack, or try to reframe sexual assault as a spiritual gift, a gateway to growth. Levine said, “We all sort of have a different doorway to dharma or spiritual practice. Suffering is a doorway.”

For women, that doorway is often sexual assault.

Women are more likely to be raped, harassed, and abused. Women are also at higher risk of developing substance use disorder: Physiologically, addiction advances quickly in women. Also, there’s a strong, well documented connection between surviving sexual assault and substance use disorder. However, although there are some female powerhouses in the recovery world, the vast majority of recovery programs were created by men. There are fewer recovery resources designed for women, especially women from marginalized groups. (Trans women, in particular, have almost zero options for help designed specifically for them.)

Put those numbers together, and it’s unsurprising that women are less likely to recover than men. Women often describe feeling unwelcome in recovery meetings, even those like Refuge Recovery. On its website, Refuge Recovery indicates some of the measures it’s taken to create safe space for women: “Our aspiration is to provide a safe place for women that is free of stalking, lurking, geographical information, or any other technology, that could place our members in a vulnerable and/or dangerous position. Also, it is true that women thrive who have a safe place to tell their truths, to speak aloud in their creatively defined ways and to hear others do the same.” But there’s nothing about how to handle or report sexual harassment by other members — or the program’s founder.

Is Alcoholics Anonymous Really A Harmful Religious Cult?

Asking women to take a vow of silence in order to access potentially life-saving recovery is part of rape culture. The message: Keep your mouth shut, and you’ll stay sober. Speak up, and you risk relapsing. Gossip, which can help women share information about dangerous men, is discouraged. The stigma of addiction works with sexism and the stigma of sexual assault to silence the people who need help most. And it creates the ideal environment for predators: a ready-made community of vulnerable, frightened, silent women.

Allegations against Levine or any other recovery leader are not shocking, to people who have longevity in recovery. Although it’s often billed as a “safe, inclusive space,” recovery meetings do not leave rape culture at the door. Human nature and human problems, including male entitlement, toxic masculinity, and power structures that silence and punish women, are not only present, but reinforced by “group tradition” — traditions that were created by men, and largely for men. What’s surprising is that, in this case, the problem is being treated with transparency.

Whatever the implications for Levine’s personal life, this accusation should open the door for women to share their stories, demand safe spaces in recovery, and hold attackers accountable. Silence should never be the price women pay for access to recovery support. Those who perpetuate rape culture within the rooms, no matter how powerful they are, must be shown the door.

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]]> https://theestablishment.co/what-metoo-looks-like-when-youre-in-recovery-64c0ade43411/ Tue, 10 Apr 2018 15:30:47 +0000 https://theestablishment.co/?p=1658 Read more]]> A woman’s treatment for addiction shouldn’t require her silence about sexual abuse.

Last month, Noah Levine, author of Dharma Punx and creator of the recovery group Refuge Recovery, was accused of sexual misconduct. Levine denies that he hurt anyone, and in an email to followers, he said the encounters between him and his accuser were “mutual with clear and open communication.”Against the Stream Buddhist Meditation Society, which Levine founded, has suspended him from their organization after receiving the complaint. Has #MeToo finally come to recovery?

Levine’s accusation reveals how rape culture pervades and influences recovery — a culture where silence, discretion, and anonymity are the rule. Recovery programs rely on anonymity to make participants feel safe — that they can reveal the darkest parts of themselves and still be supported. While those rules allow some participants to build trust, they often are a gag order for rape survivors, putting women with substance use disorder at risk when they seek help for addiction.

Levine is a powerful, influential figure who has built a spiritual empire within the world of recovery. His books, which include Refuge Recovery and Against the Stream, are used to teach Buddhist principles to people seeking relief from addiction. Refuge Recovery is additionally the name of a Buddhist treatment center, also founded by Levine, and the recovery program he started. It is described as an alternative to 12-Step programs such as Alcoholics Anonymous. As a guru who has preached a message of spirituality for over a decade to millions of followers, Levine is a potent figure: Accusing him of sexual misconduct is akin to admitting you were raped by Saint Peter.

Want To Reduce Drug Use? Listen To Women Drug Users
theestablishment.co

Many women who have made an attempt to get sober have learned the hard way that recovery meetings are not the safe, sacred spaces that they’re intended to be. Every recovery group, from Narcotics Anonymous to SMART, preaches a message of inclusiveness. All are welcome. Yet, that inclusiveness — which keeps the door open to rapists and predators — isn’t truly inclusive. It is the inclusion of all, at a high cost to some.

One woman described a harrowing rape that resulted in not only victim-blaming, but also exclusion from her 12-Step community. Other women say that creepy guys, stalking, and pressure to distrust their instincts have caused them to leave meetings and try to recover on their own. Some have given up on recovery completely, and gone back to drinking and using, feeling that there’s no safe alternative. There are women-only meetings, and women-only programs, but once someone’s initial trust is broken, how many women are willing to take another risk? A woman’s sense of unease doesn’t mean the meeting will change, or the program. Victims are likely to be pushed out or punished for complaining, or told that raising concerns may alienate their attacker, who “needs recovery too.”

The culture of silence and “anonymity” that surrounds recovery is harmful to women, and allows leaders, elders, and trusted community members to prey on women with little fear of repercussions. There’s a commonly held myth that the wrongs committed before getting sober don’t count. Victims of harassment or assault are told to pray for their attackers, rather than report them. Some are encouraged to “see their part” in the attack, or try to reframe sexual assault as a spiritual gift, a gateway to growth. Levine said, “We all sort of have a different doorway to dharma or spiritual practice. Suffering is a doorway.”

For women, that doorway is often sexual assault.

Women are more likely to be raped, harassed, and abused. Women are also at higher risk of developing substance use disorder: Physiologically, addiction advances quickly in women. Also, there’s a strong, well documented connection between surviving sexual assault and substance use disorder. However, although there are some female powerhouses in the recovery world, the vast majority of recovery programs were created by men. There are fewer recovery resources designed for women, especially women from marginalized groups. (Trans women, in particular, have almost zero options for help designed specifically for them.)

Put those numbers together, and it’s unsurprising that women are less likely to recover than men. Women often describe feeling unwelcome in recovery meetings, even those like Refuge Recovery. On its website, Refuge Recovery indicates some of the measures it’s taken to create safe space for women: “Our aspiration is to provide a safe place for women that is free of stalking, lurking, geographical information, or any other technology, that could place our members in a vulnerable and/or dangerous position. Also, it is true that women thrive who have a safe place to tell their truths, to speak aloud in their creatively defined ways and to hear others do the same.” But there’s nothing about how to handle or report sexual harassment by other members — or the program’s founder.

Is Alcoholics Anonymous Really A Harmful Religious Cult?
theestablishment.co

Asking women to take a vow of silence in order to access potentially life-saving recovery is part of rape culture. The message: Keep your mouth shut, and you’ll stay sober. Speak up, and you risk relapsing. Gossip, which can help women share information about dangerous men, is discouraged. The stigma of addiction works with sexism and the stigma of sexual assault to silence the people who need help most. And it creates the ideal environment for predators: a ready-made community of vulnerable, frightened, silent women.

Allegations against Levine or any other recovery leader are not shocking, to people who have longevity in recovery. Although it’s often billed as a “safe, inclusive space,” recovery meetings do not leave rape culture at the door. Human nature and human problems, including male entitlement, toxic masculinity, and power structures that silence and punish women, are not only present, but reinforced by “group tradition” — traditions that were created by men, and largely for men. What’s surprising is that, in this case, the problem is being treated with transparency.

Whatever the implications for Levine’s personal life, this accusation should open the door for women to share their stories, demand safe spaces in recovery, and hold attackers accountable. Silence should never be the price women pay for access to recovery support. Those who perpetuate rape culture within the rooms, no matter how powerful they are, must be shown the door.

In the age of #MeToo, what does it mean if he insists on ordering for you?

Huy Phan/Unsplash

By Liz Posner

I n January, at the tail end of a storm of accusations of sexual misconduct by powerful men in Hollywood, Babe.net published an account by “Grace,” a woman who went on a date with actor and comedian Aziz Ansari and later described it as the “worst date of her life.” Many critics of the article derided one detail in the article that must have seemed important enough to the writer to include: “After arriving at his apartment in Manhattan on Monday evening, they exchanged small talk and drank wine. ‘It was white,’ she said. ‘I didn’t get to choose and I prefer red, but it was white wine.’”

To suggest that Grace’s lack of control over the wine they drank foreshadowed Ansari’s later abusive behavior indeed seems a bit trivial. But on closer inspection, and amidst #MeToo conversations about how so many men get away with exercising control over women, maybe this detail deserves more serious examination. It can be argued that men who choose what their dates eat and drink without first asking them what they prefer play into a wider gender power imbalance in dating. In the cases of some men, it can even be a sign of more dangerous behavior.

The ability to select what they want to order in a restaurant is a freedom most women take for granted. Historically, women sat silently in restaurants while their male companions ordered for them. As Chowhound writes, “The first female restaurant-goers would not have dreamed of ordering for themselves. Women began dining out for pleasure around the 1840s in the United States… Before this, public eating establishments consisted of taverns, inns, and men’s clubs and did not cater to women. Well-bred women always had a male companion who ordered their dinner.”

To Raise A Feminist Son, Talk To Him About Aziz Ansari

Men continued to order for women long after the 19th century. In a Quora chatroom from 2015, a woman said it was her boyfriend’s habit to order for her on occasion, and she wondered if it demonstrated “controlling” behavior. One respondent explained that this was normal male behavior until fairly recently: “I am almost 70, and when I [was] first starting dating, it was normal for a well-brought-up young man to order for a woman.”

Some self-proclaimed “old-fashioned” men still insist on ordering for women, especially early on in the courtship. Men may do this out of a sense of chivalry if they’re more familiar with the restaurant than their date and consider themselves the host. “He likes to order for people,” Zadie Smith wrote in her profile of Jay-Z for the New York Times’ T Magazine after the two dined together. “Apparently I look like the fish-sandwich type.” Jay-Z, whose most popular songs include references to misogyny and violence against women, has talked publicly about his struggles with his alpha male identity, including infidelity in his marriage to Beyonce. By no means does Jay-Z’s habit of ordering for women mean he is a bad man, nor does it imply that any man who orders for women at restaurants will necessarily exhibit toxic masculine behavior in any other capacity. But all of these actions fall under the umbrella of exhibiting male control.

Women who have been on these kinds of dates share stories amongst themselves, usually alongside the question “should I be bothered by this?” There are also some frightening stories about women whose partners insist on ordering for them at restaurants, or exercise control over their food choices in other ways. Reddit is full of such food-control stories, including one in which a man actually snatched a plate of potato salad out of his girlfriend’s hand after restricting her to a carb-free diet, claiming it was for her health. Or another about a man so controlling he “freaks out” when his girlfriend eats candy in front of him. Both women describe their partners as nutrition-obsessed, but their partners’ actions have negative impacts on their relationships, as well as the women’s relationships with their own bodies.

In a piece for Refinery29 on the topic of food control, Kathryn Lindsay writes that according to the National Domestic Violence Hotline, some red flags for abuse are “jealousy of your friends and family, isolating you from them, controlling your finances, as well as making demeaning comments, shaming you, or pressuring you into sex. Food control is not necessarily a warning sign of abuse, but it could be a symptom.”

Although man-who-opens-the-door-for-woman gets much more debate among feminists about whether or not he is sexist, man-who-orders-for-woman perhaps deserves more scrutiny. It is 2018, and surely, women should be asserting control over what they eat just as they seek to speak and be heard without being silenced, and have control over their finances and general autonomy over their own bodies. We can draw a direct parallel to reproductive rights. Controlling what a woman eats implies a desire for dominion over her body — the same kind we’re still seeing conservative men proclaim in the abortion debate.

Control over women’s bodies is a theme on the political right; in the past year alone, the Trump administration has insisted on detaining pregnant undocumented women and blocking teenagers from having abortions, while conservative legislators are doing everything they can to make it impossible for poor women to safely abort their pregnancies, even going so far as to deny women who are raped the opportunity to terminate the pregnancy.

Ordering for women at restaurants may seem like a chivalrous gesture. But unless the man has the woman’s consent, it’s just another degrading gesture pulling us back to a time when women did not make such decisions for themselves.

Of course, not every woman has a problem with men who chose their meal for them at restaurants. In a piece titled “Is Ordering For Your Lady Friend Low-Key Sexist?” Helena writes for xojane about the phenomenon: “In the long list of potentially chauvinistic stuff I’m cool with cute guys doing, ordering an entree for me during dinner is one of them. It’s weird and old-timey and therefore sort of sexy in the same way that suede elbow patches can act as an aphrodisiac. But chauvinism done sexily can only work if the dude doing it is in on his own joke.”

It’s clear that even for those women who aren’t seriously bothered by men who do this, it’s hard to deny there’s something creepy and paternalistic about it.

This story first appeared at AlterNet, and is republished here with permission.

]]> https://theestablishment.co/the-critics-of-metoo-and-the-due-process-fallacy-92870c87c0cd/ Fri, 16 Feb 2018 23:16:02 +0000 https://theestablishment.co/?p=3015 Read more]]> For many of the victims who posted their experiences as part of #MeToo, their options were internet justice or no justice at all.

By Becky Hayes

The most persistent criticism of the #MeToo movement is that advocates have abandoned due process in favor of trial by the faceless internet mob. Critics accuse the women leading the movement of pursuing “vigilante justice” or worse, a witch-hunt.

These critiques have dogged #MeToo from the beginning, and now that the backlash to the movement has reached a crescendo, we’re about to hear a whole lot more.

But don’t listen.

Social media is exactly the right place for #MeToo to play out. In fact, it’s the only place it ever could. The frequent invocation of due process ignores just how inadequate the American legal system is for protecting women against sexual violence and harassment. It is precisely because the courts of law and other traditional avenues of recourse have failed women that they’ve turned to the internet and the court of public opinion.

Due process sounds great in theory. Zephyr Teachout, former Democratic candidate for the U.S. House of Representatives in New York, defined it as “a fair, full investigation, with a chance for the accused to respond” in her recent New York Times op-ed on this topic. It’s hard to argue with that. The concept of due process is a fundamental pillar of the American justice system and one that we pride ourselves on.

The problem with #MeToo—according to its detractors—is that women have bypassed the courts, where due process rights apply, and gone directly to the public to seek out justice. The public, in turn, has rushed to judgment. Critics argue that justice can only be served by submitting these claims through the formal legal systems that guarantee basic fairness to the accused.

Social media is exactly the right place for #MeToo to play out.

We know from experience, however, that the systems currently in place to deal with complaints of sexual harassment and assault have systematically failed victims and have allowed far too many perpetrators to continue their abuse unchecked.

This is true of the nation’s criminal and civil courts, forced private arbitrations, HR department investigations, and campus tribunals. There’s no great mystery as to why. We have shorthand for these kinds of impossible-to-prove claims: “he said-she said.”

The phrase refers to the fact that all too often the only evidence in sexual harassment or assault cases is the victim’s word against the abuser’s denial. The incident of alleged abuse almost always takes place behind closed doors, so there are no other witnesses. With so little to go on these claims almost never result in a successful verdict.

And while no database tracks the outcomes of employment discrimination cases nationwide, a review of a random sampling of cases by Laura Beth Nielsen, a professor at the American Bar Foundation and Northwestern University, revealed that only 2% of plaintiffs win their cases.

Even when there are eyewitnesses, much of the mistreatment women are complaining about falls short of the legal definition of sexual harassment. There is a big gap between what the public believes is appropriate workplace behavior and what is considered egregious enough to warrant discipline, dismissal, or legal sanction under our existing guidelines and laws.

For example, did you know that your supervisor grabbing your butt at work is not enough, on its own, to sustain a claim under Title VII, the federal law that prohibits workplace sexual harassment? The Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) defines sexual harassment as “unwelcome sexual advances” that “unreasonably interfere with an individual’s work performance,” or that create a hostile atmosphere at work. Under Meritor Savings Bank v. Vinson the Supreme Court held that such conduct must be “sufficiently severe or pervasive” to “create an abusive working environment.’” As recently as 2014 a federal court dismissed the claim of an employee whose boss grabbed her butt twice in one day in front of co-workers because it was neither severe nor pervasive enough to offend the average woman according to the judge, a woman no less.

Laws protecting women from sexual misconduct are much narrower than the commentators who want to redirect all these claims into the courts seem to realize. Annika Hernroth-Rothstein argues in National Review that “[i]f sexual harassment is a crime, it should be fought not with hashtags but with the full force of the law” in a piece titled, “#Metoo and Trial by Mob.”

Sexual harassment is not, in fact, a crime. Title VII imposes only civil liability — i.e. money damages — on employers in cases of workplace misconduct. Further, only employers with more than 15 employees are covered. Employees of small businesses have no federal protection.

Due Process Is Needed For Sexual Harassment Accusations — But For Whom?

The same goes for freelancers employed as independent contractors and unpaid interns. Some state and local laws are more generous, but these are few and far between. Sexual harassment claims against anyone but employers and, under Title IX, federally funded schools are not covered at all.

Even if your claim is covered and meets the legal definition of harassment, there are still multiple barriers to seeking recourse through the courts. First, going through the formal legal system costs money. There are court fees and lawyers to pay, in addition to the time off work required.

Second, sexual harassment claims are subject to statutes of limitations — meaning that victims cannot bring these claims after a certain amount of time has passed. In many cases, these time limits are very short. The federal statute of limitations under Title VII, for example, is only 180 days, or roughly six months.

The New York State limit is three years.

Many of the claims of sexual harassment—and worse—that are coming out now as part of #Metoo are many years, and in some cases, decades old. Victims of sexual harassment often have more pressing needs in the immediate aftermath of the experience than filing a lawsuit, including dealing with the resultant trauma and, all too frequently, job loss. For these men and women there is nowhere else to go but the internet to air the grievances that have long been buried.

What Happens When Your Rape Expires? – The Establishment

The calls for due process are often tied with calls for reform to the existing laws. Reforms can take years to pass, and even when they do, they almost always apply prospectively to new claims, not retroactively. Thus, for many of the victims who posted their experiences as part of #MeToo, their options were internet justice or no justice at all.

Which would you have had them choose?

Social media has no barriers to entry. It is free and open to all. The only thing women need is an internet connection and the guts to come forward. Unlike the federal courts which are bound by the strictures of a nearly 50-year old law, the public has shown great willingness to consider the whole wide range of women’s stories that run the gamut from rape to a squeeze on the waist during a photo op.

Even better, social media has allowed for a dialogue among diverse voices about what kind of behavior is acceptable and desirable in the society we want to live in, rather than just what is legal or illegal. The recent engagement around Babe’s account of a young woman’s date with Aziz Ansari is the perfect example. That article engendered some of the most thought provoking discussions on today’s sexual politics despite the general consensus that the behavior described didn’t break any laws.

To Raise A Feminist Son, Talk To Him About Aziz Ansari

One of the unique advantages of social media that makes it particularly well suited to this movement is the incredible power of hashtags to connect women with similar stories. The men who have been brought down by the #MeToo movement have not been felled by individual women tweeting out isolated claims. In each case consequences have been visited upon abusers based on the strength of a large number of women coming forward with often nearly identical allegations that show a pattern of misbehavior.

Such is the power of #Metoo that it can aggregate the stories of women who have never met and who are separated by decades. Hashtags allow for the revolutionary possibility that sexual harassment will no longer be characterized by “he said-she said” allegations, but, as illustrated poignantly in a recent New York Times ad, “he said- she said, she said, she said,” cases, ad infinitum. (Though, of course, even one “she said” should not be dismissed.)

For all its utility, the role social media played in the #MeToo movement has also been overstated. The stories that brought down industry giants like Harvey Weinstein, Louis C.K., Mark Halperin, and others did not originate on social media platforms, but rather in the pages of the nation’s finest newspapers. The allegations were thoroughly vetted by investigative journalists bound by a code of ethics that provides its own kind of due process. Journalistic ethics require corroborating sources before going to print with a story with serious allegations such as sexual harassment. Furthermore, journalists always seek comment from the accused, giving them an opportunity to speak out on their own behalf.

Critics’ insistence on due process presupposes an answer to a still open question: What is “the point” of #MeToo? The courts are best at meting out punishment for violations already committed. What if #MeToo isn’t about punishment, or, more to the point, what if it’s about more than punishment?

What if it’s about changing the system prospectively, not seeking redress for the past? What if it’s about prevention? The author of the Shitty Media Men list wrote that her goal was to warn others about men in her industry so they could protect themselves. What if #MeToo is about catharsis and about having a long overdue conversation where we all get to have a say? What if there are a multitude of points, and very few of them are well served by the courts?

The reflexive outcry about the need for due process from #MeToo critics is not well considered. It’s time we stop telling women where, when, and to whom they can tell their own stories. If #MeToo is about anything, it’s about the end of the era of women and other victims suffering in silence.