There’s this Old Testament story about a locust plague that I used to think of often, in my early twenties. Israel’s gone polytheistic on her theistic deity, and, by the time His punishment has taken full effect, the food’s gone. Wine’s dry. Lights are out. And, everything is full of dead, insect bodies.

“Yet even now!” a little known prophet by the name of Joel would recount Jah’s word to his wayward countrymen, “return to me with all your heart…and I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten” (Joel 2:25).

The years that PTSD ate up my life like a swarm of angry, green vermin, I used to imagine myself—small, in a blue dress—in Bible school, before the rape and rage and confusion, before the depression and years of drunken, tear-filled debauchery, and wish that I could hang my whole life on that, “even now.”

“The spirit and soul are the body and brain, which are destructible,” Ta-Nehisi writes to his son in his book, Between the World and Me. “That is precisely why they are so precious.”

I had been living with PTSD for the better part of 9 years when I started craving bacon and cottage cheese hard enough for my husband to start buying it in bulk. By the time I took a pregnancy test, the doctor said I was 8 weeks along — and showed me my baby like a tiny, kidney bean tucked away in the corner of my yolk sac.

At week 12, I found out that he did, in fact, have working kidneys, and I cried at the three inch, tiny human inside me, with the beating, butterfly heart. For a body that had returned to episodes of violence over and over and over again, it was the first time in my adult life that I was producing something — anything — that might be restorative, and I could feel the change. My breasts softened. My anger subsided. And, I started obsessively googling studies that showed pregnancy could improve PTSD.

Then, at week 26, when my baby was as big as a head of kale, a technician at Mt Sinai hit me — and him — with her blue gel wand, so she could see his stomach chambers. He jumped. And I froze — silent. Like so many times before.

When she left the room, my husband said, “We can tell them it’s not OK to do that without asking.”

“I will,” I said. But I wouldn’t. And I couldn’t.

Maladaptive: that’s what my therapist calls it. In studies with rats — which boast a close neurological match to humans — scientists have found that a pregnant rat will experience an almost complete rewiring of her brain circuitry before giving birth. By the time her babies are born, she’s bolder, sharper and more efficient, capturing her cricket prey at four times the speed of non-mom rats.

Even a rat addicted to cocaine can get straight in order to take care of her young. But put her in a cage with an aggressive, sexually charged older male rat, leave him to have his way with her, and she’ll come out at a loss. Her associative learning will suffer. Her stress hormones will spike. She’ll struggle to express maternal behaviors.

While our society fights for the recognition of a woman’s right to efficacy over her body, Sharon Dekel, principal investigator at Massachusetts General Hospital, is developing a deeper understanding of what happens if we don’t give women that recognition. Her focus is on the potential negative consequences for a women in childbirth, and, afterward, on another demographic entirely: her children.

In a 2018 study of 685 postpartum women, her research team found that women who suffer from PTSD can have difficulty bonding with their babies — a symptom with the potential to undermine aspects of child development.  

A pregnant rat will experience an almost complete rewiring of her brain circuitry before giving birth—bolder, sharper and more efficient, she can capture her cricket prey at four times the speed of non-mom rats.
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PTSD was a mystery to us before 1975, when, 479,000 cases showed up, all at once. We’d diagnose it just five years later, in 1980, and, eventually uncover one million lifetime PTSD cases from Vietnam. Later, we’d call it a “growing epidemic.”Almost 40 years later, there are as many estimated rape and assault victims as there are veterans alive in the United States, and 94% of them show signs of PTSD.

These women are at a higher risk of developing further mental disorders as a result of birth, according to Dekel. With nearly 4 million women giving birth each year, and up to 12% of them developing postpartum (PP) PTSD, PP-PTSD may be the most substantial, silent societal cost to the American woman’s loss of efficacy that we’ve ever seen.

There’s a whole lot we can’t control. We can’t go back in time and turn the tide of America’s rape epidemic. We can’t control whether a woman is young, whether there’s real risk to her baby, or whether or not it is her first pregnancy (all factors that also drive increased risk).

But in control itself we may find a solution.

Dekel’s studies show that one deciding factor with the potential to positively or negatively override almost everything else in a woman’s situation is her perception of whether or not she feels that she maintained efficacy over the birth process.

Providers would need to consider all the factors influencing her choices to create an environment where a woman is truly in charge, according to Ruth A. Wittmann-Price, an Assistant Professor in the Department of Nursing and Health at DeSales University.

In a 2004 theory entitled, “Emancipation in decision-making in women’s health care,” she purports that a woman is almost always influenced by her own empowerment and personal knowledge in a situation, the social norms that exist around her, whether or not she has opportunity for reflection and if she is operating within a flexible environment.

To develop decision science without discussion of oppression and an emancipation process in the humanistic care of women, Wittmann-Price points out, would be to deny obvious barriers to shared decision-making. And my own emancipation began with the realization that I wasn’t ready to assert myself.

In the weeks that followed, while my nursery sat full of unpacked boxes, my husband and I focused our preparation on my mental well being. In the process, I learned that my experience of assault had taught me everything I needed to know. My requests would not be honored. My consent would be assumed. The power dynamics over me would be strong. I’d feel lesser, possibly even guilty for saying what I needed. It was up to me to change that narrative, even when my brain insisted otherwise.

There are all kinds of pre-existing factors that may influence how you react to a high-stress situation, according to Jim Hopper, PhD, a nationally recognized expert on psychological trauma. It starts with what he calls the hardwired, evolutionary stuff, that can predispose reflexive responses. Then, there’s your prior learning history, your childhood, how you dealt with aggressive and dominant people growing up, socialization and habit based prior learning.

In an environment like birth, they have the power to influence everything. The day I went into labor, they were all there — the reflex, the learning history, the socialization and the knee jerk responses. But in the small, sacred space between my disorder and identity, I found enough dissonance to use my voice. Through it, I developed my three most poignant memories of that day.

The most powerful is when I met my son — perfect, and purple, with a head full of thick, black hair. I had been pushing for three hours when his head and left shoulder finally ripped through my episiotomy, and I pulled the rest of him out of me and into my arms.

I love you. I love you. I love you. And I had never felt a love like that.

The second was labor hour eight, when I called out our epidural safe word: pineapple. My husband I had developed it based on a mutual understanding that in order to try for a non-medicated birth, I’d need to yell for an epidural without actually meaning it. Under no circumstances was he to agree to giving me one, unless I said the word.

We’d tossed around other words: pumpernickel (too long), coffee (too common), and watermelon (too much red puke in my recent past). Ultimately, pineapple it was.

Pineapple: put a needle of ropivacaine hydrochloride in my god damn spine, and do it now.

I’d said my safe word three times, and requested she turn the pitocin off twice, by the time my midwife, buried in the corner in a rousing game of Tetris, slowly said, “I think we’re here to have a baby, and we don’t want to slow things down.” But I knew my brain, and my body. The pain of pitocin-induced contractions was driving me toward a place I couldn’t go again. A place where the world would go dark, and I’d be on my back, in pain, submitting to someone else again.

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By the time she reluctantly, slowly, moved across the room, and did what I asked, I’d involved advocates. My husband and doula, who had spent hours of deep conversation understanding my trauma cues, concerns and triggers, knew when to ensure I got results.

“Get her an epidural, now,” I heard him say.

“Turn the pitocin off — she’s asked you multiple times,” my Doula added.

“She can contract on her own. Let her do it.”

When I heard the beep of the machine turning off behind me, the pain I was feeling, six hours into hard contractions, didn’t improve in the least. Mentally, however, I was back in charge. And somewhere, deep inside me, I felt like the most powerful woman alive.

“But to let the baby out,” writes Maggie Nelson in The Argonauts, “you have to be willing to go to pieces.” And pushing my son out put me past the brink of what I thought was physically possible.

I was told I’d get a second wind — some kind of strength I didn’t expect, especially when I saw the top of his head. But I didn’t feel anything except panic. I was going to pass out. I needed to puke. I couldn’t find the strength to push.

I have had the power siphoned from my body like a balloon blown up and let go. I have spent years picking my way with the gullied parts of me, where it no longer exists.

But I have never been more palpably aware of the power in, and over, my body than on floor 3M at Brooklyn hospital, on my back, minutes before midnight, when my midwife told me to stop breathing.

She said it like I had no other option: breathe, or birth a baby.

You’re not working hard enough (while pulling on the inside of my labia).

It’s been too long (while checking her watch).

You just don’t seem to want this (looking at me).

Poor kid, he’s got such a headache (looking at him).

I argued—on my back—insisting I needed air. Needed more time. Needed help.

Inside, feeling like I’d failed—like I didn’t love him enough to get him out. Like all the other women in the world knew how to give birth, but not me.

Human memory is a sensory experience, writes Bessel van der Kolk, a Boston-based psychiatrist noted for his research in the area of post-traumatic stress. And when a nurse grabbed my foot, I wasn’t in the delivery room anymore.

I was 21. And, someone else had their hand on my foot. Someone else was tucking it under their arm. And, someone else was telling me to be quiet, while they had their way with me, in ways I’d been trying to forget ever since.

Sexual assault is horrific in its own right. But it should be understood in the broader context of what causes long-term trauma in the body, which typically has two things in common: loss of empowerment and loss of human connection—i.e. being treated as an object—according to Hopper.

Inside I felt like I’d failed—like I didn’t love him enough to get him out. Like all the other women in the world knew how to give birth, but not me.
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I felt both, in that moment. But I did what I wished I would have done, the first time. I yelled.

Get away from my foot, get my husband now, kind of yelling.

Don’t fucking touch me. I’ll push when I’m ready.

My bed a bailey, my partner and doula standing citadels, we enforced my requests.

I breathed.

I slept.

When I woke up, I ran my own fingers around my baby’s temporal bone, and noticed there something in my perineum that wouldn’t move — something that had it taunt and hard, like a rock, and not budging.

“Just cut me,” I said.

“You have room.”

“No I don’t. Do it.”

I had no way of seeing that my son’s hand was against his face, blocking his head from coming further than I’d pushed it, but that’s exactly how I would deliver him, an hour later, suckling his knuckles, heartbeat steady, on his path through my birth canal.

“I didn’t realize!” my midwife would call out. But somewhere, in the place that exists only between a woman and her body, I’d know that I did. And that I’d done what I wanted, midwives and naturalists, birth advocates and medical advisors be damned.

While there’s no concrete proof that my assertion of self in my birth kept me—a woman with almost all the risk factors of PP-PTSD—safe, Dekel points out that her studies show that a woman’s positive appraisal of her birth experience may have more to do with her mental health than the experience itself.

She’s encouraged by the fact that woman today are being screened for depression during pregnancy and postpartum, but notes we need to do more.

“Currently I don’t know of any program that focuses on empowering mothers or women prior to giving birth or postpartum,” she says. “There’s nothing routinely implemented to screen women at risk for developing PP-PTSD.”

Her hope is to that alongside others, her team can develop a more holistic approach to obstetrical care that integrates a better kind of team collaboration between psychiatry, psychology and OB department.

I still sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, mid-flashback of myself like a rat locked in a cage, while someone else has their way with me. I struggle with confusion. I wonder about efficiency. Like many women who have been sexually assaulted, I struggled at first with feeling like breastfeeding was a hostile take-over of my body.

A single sound or stirring from my son can cut through all that. Suddenly, my confusion is gone. And, in its place, a connection that feels as natural as breathing.   

I have another flashback that comes to me, increasingly often, in that place. In it, I see my husband’s teary face, looking at me, looking at my son.

“Look what you did!” he says.

“I’m just going to stitch you up,” the midwife adds, from somewhere beneath me.

I don’t have to close my eyes to feel the warmth of my son breathing on me, after that. Or, to feel the warp and weft of the needle, putting back together parts of me I used to believe were broken for good.

Aubrey — better known as “Sugar” — sat at a picnic table behind her house in Reno, sipping at a plastic bottle of root beer with one hand and taking a drag from a cigarette out of her other.

“I always wore the eight and half inch clear stilettos — not only because they match everything but because they’re the hardest to hit with,” she said. Her blue eyes rang with sadness as she recounted the past 16 years of life wending her way in and out of the legal brothels of Nevada. The smile had been wiped from her face.

“I felt like I didn’t have a choice,” Aubrey explained. “I was forced and then I stayed because I was scared to do anything else.”

Brothels are legal in all Nevadan counties with populations of 700,000 or less; this excludes Washoe and Clark counties — which include Reno and Vegas — who will vote on a brothel ban this November. Nevada is the only state in the country to allow any semblance of legal prostitution, a distinction they’ve had since 1971 when the state law sanctioned licensed brothels; right now there are 21 legal brothels scattered across seven counties in the state.

Lyon county commissioners voted last June to place a nonbinding question on the November ballot to outlaw brothels and they also agreed to abide by what the public decides this November.

The de-legalization of brothels is giving workers a long overdue platform to surface the larger more complicated issues behind their lives as sex workers, like the ongoing battle against physically and psychologically abusive brothel owners. The potential brothel ban is exceedingly divisive among Nevada residents. Supporters of the ban say that illegal sex trafficking rises in jurisdictions that legalize brothels, while opponents of the ban worry about its effects on the economy and the sex workers’ already precarious “legitimacy.”

The Nevada brothel industry profits are approximately $35-50 million annually, according to a 2012 report done by University of Nevada at Las Vegas.

I spoke with a handful of women who’ve worked in the Nevada brothels for years; many women enjoy making their own schedule, “being an intimate therapist,” and knowing that — when done right — legal brothels are safer than working on the street. “When done right” is at the crux of the problem.

These women believe that the ownership of these brothels — which is often exploitative at best and sexually abusive at worst — must fundamentally change, with safety and legal recourse for workers centered in any dialogue around the brothels.

Aubrey, a woman in her mid thirties, has been working in the industry since she was 13 years old. Her boyfriend at the time brought her home to his father, who began pimping her out around Reno illegally. When she turned 18, he began selling her to legal brothels, keeping the 50% profit she earned for herself. Her once boyfriend’s father — who’d been operating as her illegal pimp — then got her pregnant. Their daughter is now 11; Aubrey says he kidnapped her seven months ago.

She hadn’t been in contact with him for nearly ten years when he texted her out of the blue and asked where she was; she told him she was waiting outside a movie theater in Reno, not realizing he was also living nearby in the city.

She say she was standing outside the theater in downtown Reno when he pulled up, dragged his daughter into his car, and absconded with their child.

“I think they took Tiara to Mexico—that’s what I think,” Aubrey says.

Aubrey’s youngest daughter — who she had with her current boyfriend of ten years — has just started 3rd grade. “I told her no one should be able to touch you, but I realized I wasn’t even following my own guidelines,” Aubrey told me, a tear rolling down her cheek. “The more I think about it the more I realized I should always have control over my body and I didn’t know that.”

She says she has PTSD from her experiences as a sex worker and struggles to go into any public spaces without overwhelming anxiety taking over her body. She says she feels like she has a sign on her face that says “whore” and fears she might see a client anywhere she goes with her family.

Finally, four months ago Aubrey quit.

“I was with one of my regular clients and he was bending me over as I was looking at a mirror and I said, I’m done, I can’t do it! I wanted to throw up. He asked if he could finish and I said, “no. Leave, goodbye.’”

Despite her history of abuse, Aubrey is against the brothel ban and believes that decriminalizing sex work would be a good first step in protecting sex workers against exploitation. But under the men who have historically managed the brothels, she says, they shouldn’t be legal due to the sanctioned and rampant abuse the women face.

The ownership of these brothels must fundamentally change, with safety and legal recourse for workers centered in any dialogue around sex work.
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Marvin — her old boss at The Old Bridge Ranch — treated Aubrey with respect; she says he cared for the women he employed. When Aubrey eventually moved to The Bunny Ranch however — owned by the infamous late Dennis Hof — she says she grew to feel suicidal, like she didn’t own her body. Hof was found dead on Tuesday morning just two days after celebrating his 72nd birthday.

Dennis Hof owned one-third of the state’s brothels and is the best-selling author of his autobiography “The Art of The Pimp”, as well as the star of HBO’s reality show “Cathouse,” Hof had also just won the Republican primary for the state Legislature in June. Bizarrely — despite his being dead — according to Nevada law, if the deceased candidate wins an election, the office is considered vacated and must be filled by the board of county commissioners with a person of the same political party.

Vastly more disturbing than these political machinations however are the lengthy and sickening sexual assault accusations by former brothel workers on at least four occasions since 2005, including an allegation made in early September of this year.

Jennifer O’Kane — a slender woman with blue eyes and dark hair — worked in Dennis’s brothels for a few months before quitting to start her own. She says she was raped by Hof while working for one of his brothels, and now is dealing with PTSD, depression, and anxiety from her experience. I struggled to hear her on the phone as she cried throughout the entirety of our interview.

“This is slavery at its finest,” Jennifer told me. “I have nothing against prostitutes, although I’m retired now. My opinion on the brothels? I opened a brothel myself to help these girls know that they didn’t have to have sex with the owner.”

Meanwhile, Olivia, a tall red head with a mysterious demeanor explains to me that due to the stigma surrounding sex work — despite its legality — she kept her occupation from her parents. She had worked in the Nevada brothels for four years, but recently quit to become a security guard at a club in Reno.

“I’m for it and against it you know? It’s our choice, but our safety is never their priority. Especially when you are working for the Hof houses.”

Diana Foxx—a bank security worker turned sex worker—is now retired and living in Florida. She explained that her life working at the Bunny Ranch for Dennis Hof also pushed her to the brink of suicide, due to his sexual assault of her. She now does what she can to prevent other women from joining the sex work industry through advocacy work with different anti-human trafficking groups throughout Florida.

“In my mind it didn’t feel like assault because he was my pimp, and he didn’t think so either,” she said. Diana explains that to an average person, legal brothels might seem like an “empowering career choice,” but that in reality, you’re simply helping perverted men push their agendas and make a lot of money. She says that for years she prayed every night for Hof’s demise. “Please let this pimp die Lord!,” she begged. “Let him die.”

Awaken — a local faith-based non-profit organization that provides awareness about trafficking, and helps provide housing and restoration for sex trafficking victims — is one of the main forces behind this bill being on the ballot. They’re also staunchly for the brothel ban.

Jason Guinasso has been a lawyer for Awaken for eight years now and has been helping the organization foster an “educational outreach program” this past summer throughout the Clark and Washoe counties. Guinasso says he’s been traveling around different neighborhoods explaining to locals that the banning of brothels perpetuates a dangerous cycle of violence.

“Illegal trafficking is higher where legal prostitution is,” he told me. “We have commoditized females. We have said to the public that it’s OK to buy and sell women for men. We did a study on Backpage and Nevada had the highest postings in the country. Legalized brothels also impact and increase other crimes against women — domestic abuse, rape, domestic violence ending in death.”

Contrary to Guinasso’s narrative however, Pike Long, deputy director of St. James Infirmary — a peer-based health and safety clinic for sex workers in San Francisco — says that in the wake of of Bcakpage being shuttered this past April, there has been a spike in street-based sex work and screening clients has become more difficult.

“The very bill that was supposed to stop trafficking has quite literally given formerly irrelevant traffickers new life,” Long told the SF Chronicle.

All of the women I had the privilege of speaking with agreed that if managed correctly, legal brothels could be a good thing for the right person. They reminded me that the many laws and protocols that exist for safety in the workplace across the U.S. have not been instituted for sex workers to begin with and even the laws that do exist are ignored or overlooked.

For many Nevadan sex workers it’s not the ban on brothels that’s of the utmost importance. It’s the men running them and the huge power differential — in both the local communities and governments — between those in management and those that are employed as workers. And leveling that playing field requires much more than a ban.

A few days before his final confirmation hearings, during a nationally televised interview with FOX News, soon-to-be Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh was asked about Julie Swetnick’s allegation that he attended parties in high school where he touched girls “without their consent” and played a role in facilitating gang rape. Kavanaugh dismissed Swetnick’s memory by describing it as “ridiculous and like something from The Twilight Zone,” Rod Sterling’s classic science fiction series which, according to its opening sequence, took place in a “fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man.”

Kavanaugh’s comparison was unfortunately apt for how he and other men in power reacted to the recollections of Swetnick, Deborah Ramirez, and Dr. Christine Blasey Ford over the past few weeks. This was especially the case during those final hearings, when Senators on all sides of the political spectrum joined the then-nominee in suggesting that Dr. Ford’s sexual assault did not take place in the realm of normal American life—the wholesome world they all apparently live in—but rather an alternate dimension of the United States in which men violently dominate women with regularity.

This sort of illogical thinking was common on The Twilight Zone, which despite its surreal set-up was very much about the human condition. It depicted extreme scenarios like alien invasions and dystopian futures to illuminate the terror lurking in our cookie-cutter American neighborhoods; the propensity of people to bury their insecurities beneath the desire for power—with little regard for its impact on others. Or what Serling himself once described as “man’s seemingly palpable need to dislike someone other than himself.”

On the Republican side, this self-righteous perspective was maintained by bolstering Kavanaugh’s claim to being an all-American Christian kid at 16; a boy living universes away from the kind of parties where drunken teens force themselves onto classmates. In his testimony Kavanaugh painted his drinking and partying as completely normal for a young man, and Republican Senators were eager to accept and celebrate this (very) limited picture of normative white masculinity in 1982.

Meanwhile, the Democrats created their own image of Kavanaugh as an abnormally aggressive man. Men like Richard Blumenthal asked him about excessive partying, lewd yearbook quotes, and how often he drank to the point of forgetting parts of the night before, but each time Kavanaugh simply denied he did anything excessively at all. He angrily maintained that he did not live in that other dimension, but only the one where top-of-their-class young men occasionally have some beers with their bros. Kavanaugh went to great lengths to emphasize this American manliness, making sure to mention details like “Roger Clemens was pitching for the Red Sox” when asked about a booze-filled baseball trip he organized in law school.

The Senators failed to name then—even as they commended Dr. Ford’s bravery and spoke at length about what her message might mean for other survivors nationwide—the reality that “normal” American men not only like beer and baseball, but also regularly hurt women.

Senators suggested Dr. Ford’s sexual assault did not take place in the realm of normal American life, but rather an alternate dimension of the United States in which men violently dominate women with regularity.
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In fact, only 10% of American men list baseball as their favorite sport today, but a 2017 study found that 32% of college-aged men would have “intentions to force a woman to sexual intercourse” if they could get away with it. And though beer is the drink of choice for 41% of Americans, a staggering 81% of women in this country report being sexually harassed. 1 in 6 American women have survived an attempted or completed rape, the perpetrators of which are overwhelmingly men (and mostly white). All of which is to say, misogyny is at the very least as American as beer and baseball.

Yet, as Kavanaugh performed his exasperation at being linked to sexual violence, the men in the room never admitted that the scene Ford described was very familiar to them as well.

When Kavanaugh posed a threatening question back to Amy Klobuchar about her drinking habits, none of the other men chimed in to affirm that yes, they too have silently listened to, witnessed, or participated in the dehumanization of women. Men like Sen. Dick Durbin never countered the narrative that the multiple accusations against someone like Kavanaugh were “absurd,” but rather set out to prove that this straight white man, who attended elite schools and has remained in positions of power his entire life, would be unique in his behavior if he once used that power to hurt a person of another gender.

Misogyny is at the very least as American as beer and baseball.
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That is the lie—the binary of “good” and “bad” masculinity— that men so often hide behind. The same illusion, compounded and mirrored by the lie of white innocence, which carried a racist misogynist to the presidency two years ago even after he admitted to sexual assault. It’s no surprise then that President Trump himself has openly attacked the credibility of the Democratic men since the hearing, saying “I watch those senators on the Democrat side and I thought it was a disgrace. Partially because I know them…They are not angels.”

The fear men have to speak the truth about power in this country, who has it and how they got it, ultimately bolstered Kavanaugh’s “twilight zone” case for the Supreme Court. He knew it and Trump knew it. Kavanaugh’s faux-shock at being among the accused worked in the same way as Trump’s claim to “locker room talk” before it, because the other men in the room insisted on maintaining their own facade of innocence—afraid that if they spoke about patriarchy, they too might get kicked out of the club.

That is the lie—the binary of good and bad masculinity— that men so often hide behind.
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In one of the more famous episodes of The Twilight Zone, “The Monsters are Due on Maple Street,” a seemingly perfect community is whipped into frenzied paranoia by a series of strange occurrences—beginning with a power outage and a little boy’s story about shape-shifting creatures—which ultimately leads them to turn on each other in search of the monster amongst them. The episode ends with a bloody brawl on Maple Street that exposes who these people really are.

Though many powerful men have reacted to the #MeToo movement by expressing fears of a “witch hunt,” the reality is that they themselves maintain the perception that some men are monsters worth stoning, while the rest are innocent bystanders. For instance, Matt Damon—who played Kavanaugh in a Saturday Night Live skit recently—once publicly worried about the “culture of outrage” targeting his friends in power, saying “there’s a difference between, you know, patting someone on the butt and rape or child molestation.” Which, just like Trump’s worrying for “young men in America,” expresses a desire for a hierarchy of masculinity rather than a willingness to look in the mirror.

Like those on Maple Street, the men in power in Hollywood and D.C. choose to ignore the systemic issue at hand, and instead focus on preserving their own position—regardless of how it might harm their neighbors. The Democratic men of the Senate, glad to use their five minutes during the hearing to perform their “decent” masculinity, were playing the same game as Kavanaugh: a game of avoidance and imagination. It’s not that many didn’t declare that they believed Dr. Ford, but that nearly all of them were unwilling to state that they have contributed to the culture which allows such violent acts to persist.

What patriarchy promises these men in exchange for this deflection, especially the white men, is the chance to play the hero on TV again (just like “good” Will Hunting). Meanwhile, Trump and his friends can confidently call survivors liars, knowing that the men around them will never expose the actual lie of masculinity.

But what might change if we weren’t afraid to connect sexual assault to that celebrated culture of drinking “brewskis” and playing football? What if we admitted on the largest stages that Brett Kavanaugh’s allegiance to American manhood is precisely why we should be terrified of giving him more power?

Among the most harrowing moments of Dr. Ford’s testimony was when she described Mark Judge’s actions—and inaction—while Kavanaugh was assaulting her in 1982. According to her account, Judge alternatively stood by laughing, encouraging his friend, and half-heartedly asking him to stop while Kavanaugh attempted to rip off her clothes. Dr. Ford even spoke of making eye contact with Judge at one point, hoping he might intervene. Yet he did nothing.

What if we admitted on the largest stages that Brett Kavanaugh’s allegiance to American manhood is precisely why we should be terrified of giving him more power?
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As long as men are unwilling to risk being as vulnerable in front of men as Ford and Anita Hill have been, the Kavanaughs and Trumps of the world cannot truly be challenged. They can yell and demand respect, because they know that we will adhere to the rules of the game.

To look on as someone is sexually assaulted, or to remain quiet as people are dismissed for sharing their stories of assault, is a dehumanizing way of being. Yet the illusion of normalcy, and the burying of empathy, is precisely how men have long cemented their power in this country. As the narrator says at the end of that episode on Maple Street, “the tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions.” Men are well-practiced and well-rewarded in maintaining our illusions.

content warning: sexual assault

Much of my time as a teenager was spent counting down the days until my next concert. I was a five-foot, sixteen-year-old girl, and I spent all my money on floor tickets to watch my pop punk idols thrash around on stage; I maneuvered my way through the masses of sweaty men, hoping to secure a view of the band before the chaos ensued. My mom worried, and most of my friends didn’t get it, but there, with no need to impress the strangers dancing and singing along beside me, was my refuge.

I could lose control and take up space. I didn’t know how to dance and it didn’t matter. I could sweat all my makeup off and it was only proof of how much fun I had. When men pushed me, I could push back harder. I could scream until my voice went out — and I did.

That was where I felt safe — for a while.

As I grew older so did my list of unpleasant experiences and wariness of the men around me. As much as I wanted to cling to the things I loved about live music—the release, the rush, the sense of connection that breathes new life into the intimacy of listening to music—it became harder to ignore the pervasiveness of dangerous male aggression in the spaces I wanted so dearly to call home.

When men pushed me, I could push back harder.
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It was in the pit that a man looked me in the face and told me he hoped I’d get raped.

It was in the pit that a man questioned my belonging, called me “little girl,” and shoved me to the ground.

It was in the pit during a Gaslight Anthem show I’d travelled three hours to see that a man gave me one look, called me a bitch, and punched me in the face. I still remember the fear of his fist coming towards me and the hot tears that slipped out after he was ejected while I tried and failed to look unfazed. (How else would the other men know I actually deserved to be there?)

It was in the pit that I was groped. Time and time and time again.

It’s at shows and bars and DIY venues that I am harassed and interrogated by the self-appointed gatekeepers of punk who are apparently so mired in their imagined 1981 utopia that they can’t fathom a woman wearing a band t-shirt because she genuinely enjoys the music. Where men call me a bitch because I’m there for the show and not for them, or a poser because my interests or image don’t perfectly align with their expectations. Where even self-identified progressive punk bands protect their predatory friends and image rather than use their voice for the good of the community. Where popularity still outshines virtue.

In the poignant memoir Tranny, penned by the frontwoman of Against Me!, Laura Jane Grace, she breaks down the ever present dichotomies of punk politics and her experience navigating the scene as a trans woman. “Show spaces were supposed to be open to everyone regardless of age, race, class, sex, or sexual preference, but for the most part it was just white kids oblivious to the privilege they came from,” she explains. “It also became clear to me that while these were the politics heralded by the scene, often they were not actually practiced.”

For a while, I tried to avoid  these interactions by making myself smaller or dressing the part. I started watching shows from the side of the crowd for fear of getting trapped amongst men who weren’t interested in the ethics of showgoing. I followed the Guidelines of Being a Woman in the Pit: stay near a friend, definitely avoid skirts, move out of the way of men, keep to yourself, watch your drink, and accept the groping as a consequence of crowdsurfing while appearing female or queer, or being anything but a straight, while man. But unsurprisingly, none of these things made the harassment disappear.

It was in the pit that I was groped. Time and time and time again.
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I became hypervigilant and afraid; my refuge was stolen from me by the same power dynamics that threaten women on the streets, at their jobs, and even in their homes. The loss of safe spaces for uninhibited self-expression and catharsis is ultimately a loss of freedom.

One night, sitting outside our favorite dive bar after a show, my friend noted, “you know, a lot of punk dudes are really just bearded frat boys in leather jackets.” I wanted to laugh. And cry.

There’s this idea that being part of a “scene” guarantees acceptance and safety — that a community born out of guitars in basements and dive bars is somehow inherently inclusive, progressive, or just moreso than, say, a frat house. And while it’s true that punk has historically fostered community and solidarity among working class men, it’s also the genre where skinheads and known abusers run free. Even the Riot Grrrl movement failed to resonate with women that weren’t white, cisgender, and middle class.

But the (frequently ignored) reality is that people of color and queer folks have been punk all along.

Punk promises refuge from the oppressive institutions and ideologies that permeate everyday life, yet when its direction is dictated primarily by white cisgender men — as has often been the case — the same power dynamics and hierarchies that undervalue and suppress marginalized people recreate and uphold themselves. As with any subculture, the reluctance or outright refusal to acknowledge and address patterns of misogyny, racism, and transphobia only exacerbates the issue, and marginalized people are left behind, ostracized, or worse.

It's in the pit where men call me a bitch because I’m there for the show and not for them.
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But white men are not the protectors of punk — they just think they are.

Where men can voice their feelings and opinions freely, but women and queers are degraded or silenced, there is no liberation. Where concerned women are dismissed as “bitches” and “feminazis” and people of color are consistently alienated and sexualized, there is no liberation. When cis men get to choose which issues “matter,” the most vulnerable people lose.

I can’t lie and say I wasn’t or am not still attracted to the nihilistic attitude of punk; feeling lost, alone, unheard, and depressed will do that to a person. But I always thought of making music and going to shows as an outlet to express and manage those feelings of cynicism and rage—likely planted by a largely uncompassionate world — not to heighten them. I understood gigs as a space that honors solidarity — a place where I didn’t have to “prove myself.” I understood punk as community and a celebration of difference, not as an expression of self-superiority.

But it seems that I was wrong. At least, in practice. And isn’t that where it really matters?

Bad things happen in the pit. But it’s also where I found refuge as a quietly but deeply lost teenage girl harboring more rage than I knew how to manage. It was where the man who punched me in the face was almost instantly knocked to the ground by a group of men who proceeded to check in with me without commenting on my poor attempt to disguise my tears. The pit is where I desperately scanned the crowd for someone to notice I was being sexually assaulted and silently met eyes with a kind woman who stepped in and flagged down a security guard that fortunately took his job seriously enough to kick the creep out.

White men are not the protectors of punk — they just think they are.
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The pit is where most people understand that when someone falls, you help pick them up.

I don’t think many of us would willingly and repeatedly enter a situation that typically ends in bruised ribs, mysterious cuts and scratches, dehydration, and aching feet if we weren’t at least a little self-destructive, but there is a difference between the consensual physical exhaustion of the mosh pit and having your physical being threatened or assaulted. It seems that with this chosen loss of control—women love to get dirty too—the threat of real danger continues to loom.

Almost ten years later, when men challenge my music knowledge or demand a list of my favorite Dead Kennedys songs, I walk away knowing their insecurity and fragile masculinity are not my problems to manage. But when I go to shows, I’m more withdrawn. Live music is still very much a part of my life, and sometimes I still fight my way toward the stage, but sometimes it feels like I’m pushing through bodies looking for something that just isn’t there. Maybe I’ve outgrown it.

Or maybe I’m just tired.

The allegations against Brett Kavanaugh have been careful to include not only his age at the time of his alleged assault, but the fact that he was a student at Georgetown Prep. Assaults are a pandemic in our culture today, but his alleged actions speak beyond toxic masculinity and the general rape culture that holds all women hostage today. Brett Kavanaugh is a symptom of something worse. He is the fullest expression of elitism blended with misogyny that is cultivated and groomed at private, all-male institutions like Georgetown Prep.

I know because I went there.

I was proud when I was accepted as a freshman. I loved that the school dated back to 1789—  just two years after the signing of the Constitution—making our school older than modern France. Coming from a brand new public school, I marveled at the marble columns of the chapel that was built with an anonymous donation during the Great Depression.

It is a potent brew of pride that is heady stuff for a 15-year-old, and it meant the world to me to be included. I was coming from a public middle school in rural Maryland, and I loved my teachers and had an incredible education, but I had been bullied every day for my bookishness. I believed Prep’s story about itself—I was so excited to be a part of such a noble institution of scholars and athletes “committed to justice.”

As part of our orientation, we were told what an honor it is to be a “Man for Others.” I was in awe of the access to power being a Prep grad might secure for me.

I remember Justice Scalia spoke at our annual Father-Son Dinner. We sat in the gym and feasted on steak as he addressed us. He pointed out that he attended Xavier High School, which was still in our network of esteem and familiarity as a Jesuit school like ours. He laughed about his decision in determining the course of the election of George Bush over Al Gore, and said “Well, I got that right,” to thunderous applause. Brett Kavanaugh worked for George Bush during that very campaign.

I wonder at what point in his career Brett Kavanaugh felt that he would someday serve on the Supreme Court. Kavanaugh was two years ahead of Justice Gorsuch at Prep. They would have passed each other in the halls. Did they already feel confident even then that would rise to such prominence?

As a teacher now , I truly believe in the power of the growth mindset. Rather than telling a student “you are smart” or “you are good,” you should praise the effort a student invests. My education at Prep had a different tenor however. Teachers offered intermittent, lukewarm constructive feedback on our behavior, but the general message of the school was that we were already fully actualized as “Men for Others.” Largely by virtue of our parents’ being able to pay the admission ticket, we were Prep students. We were the best. We hated our rival schools and looked down on everyone else.

Kavanaugh was two years ahead of Justice Gorsuch at Prep. They would have passed each other in the halls. Did they already feel confident even then that would rise to such prominence?
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No one should walk with the certainty of their own innate goodness, least of all unformed, adolescent boys. As many lessons as we learned about how special we were, we learned even more from the lack of response to our worst behaviors.

I remember a young woman who substituted for my English class weeping as she erased “I want to fuck Ms. ________ in the ass” from the blackboard. If the boy who wrote it was disciplined, I never heard about it; his actions were never condemned. I also remember our class president getting elected on the slogan “Bleachers,” because he had “fingered” a girl beneath them. Before big games against rival schools, the “Boosters” (an elected group of cheerleaders who would get the fans going before and during games) would paper the hallways with posters with such slogans as “Beat the Pagans” when we played schools that were not religious, and “Hoya Saxa,” etc. One popular poster was a cartoon of a rabbit’s head that on closer inspection revealed a woman parting her legs. It would appear alongside other posters praising certain players or generally hyping the team. It served no other purpose and had no other meaning.

When you believe you are superior and untouchable, the least moral commit heinous crimes. The same lack of accountability that led to the rampant abuse finally being called out by the #MeToo movement, the rape of children in the Catholic Church by priests, rapes in the military and abuses by the police force—these all stem from the same corrupting sense of superiority.

I don’t think a day went by that I didn’t see a penis scrawled on a chalkboard or a desk. Everyday in the hall I would regularly see guys punch each other in the groin. I would often find myself doubled over in pain having just been punched out of nowhere. On two separate occasions I was choked until I almost blacked out. This was normal, everyday behavior. That is the culture enabled by the dangerous and passive permissiveness of “boys will be boys.” I have never been a fighter and in truth, I’m not particularly quick with words. I had very little defense. The idea of telling a teacher never crossed my mind. I’m not even certain who I would have told.  

When I was a sophomore, I was taught math by a very old priest. He was a big fan of the football team, and he would let football players sleep in class because they needed rest. He hated me, presumably for my lack of athleticism and my preference for extra-curricular activities which he deemed unmanly. He made a point of telling me that, “we get men ready for college, not art.” A student chimed in in agreement that “if I didn’t like it, I should just leave.”

No one should walk with the certainty of their own innate goodness, least of all unformed, adolescent boys.
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On another occasion, when I took exception to his taking additional points he’d taken off of one of my tests, he called me a “pussy” and punched me in the head.

I wonder how Kavanaugh, a star athlete at the school, would have been treated. I wonder what he would have said if he had been in that class with me. The image of his yearbook page that is now circulating indicate that he was inculcated in and upholding of this same cruel and misogynistic culture.

We did not have a comprehensive sexual health education at Prep. Freshmen were required to take physical education, and we had a rigorous program of units on weightlifting and other sports. One day out of every class cycle, we met with a coach who styled himself as “Doctor.” There was no textbook or curriculum. He simply shared amusing anecdotes and gave us words of wisdom such as:

“Boys, the first time you have sex, you’re not going to last long. So you should probably be drunk so you’ll last a little longer.”

There were high fives around the room. Everyone laughed. There was no discussion of how to use contraception and there was certainly no attempt to discuss what consent was.

During freshman orientation at college, I remember we were having a water balloon fight. I had gotten to know a student named Charles, and I picked him up and went to throw him in the kiddie pool of water and balloons. He cried out for me to stop, and he looked so upset and scared, I realized that I had crossed a line and I needed to rethink how to interact with other men. I felt awful—I saw in Charles a brief glimpse of the hurt and humiliation I’d felt throughout all of high school.

As an educator now, I am horrified at my memories of high school. It took me years to learn about healthy sexual relationships and healthy relationships in general. I worry about how our failures of education are perpetuating rape culture. The  statistics for sexual assaults are staggering. One in five women will be raped in their lives and more than 90% of sexual assault victims on college campuses do not report the assault. We spend more time articulating the honor code and investigating claims of plagiarism and cheating than we do the health and safety of our students, especially that of the girls and young women attending our schools.

At all-boys’ schools, when students stand shoulder to shoulder with their classmates and hear that they are called to greatness, they also internalize the absence of women from their position of privilege and power. Women are not part of the club. They are separate. They are for conquest; they are for dating; they are for marriage. Women are not peers. Some boys graduate and go on to unpack and unlearn these lessons. Others find new clubs with guarded access. They join fraternities. They go on to business schools and law firms and seek out institutions with disproportionately more men than women. Look at the gender breakdown of boardrooms everywhere. Look at the Supreme Court.

The question of the quality of sex education is vital for our schools now, and also in considering what education our current leaders have had. Has Brett Kavanaugh ever attended a course on sexual health? When would he have learned about consent? I don’t believe he learned about it at Prep. I wonder what curriculum he might have had at Yale. The world is different now than it was in ‘70s and ‘80s yet we are letting men with largely unchanged attitudes from those decades literally pass judgement on cases that define our lives and our society.

We've internalized the absence of women from their position of privilege and power. Women are not part of the club. They are separate. They are for conquest; they are for dating; they are for marriage. Women are not peers.
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Court cases demand that crimes be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt, and institutions like Georgetown Prep have honed their ability to cast shadows for almost three centuries. I will never know exactly what happened to some of the victims at my school, and we will similarly never have conclusive evidence proving guilt. That is no accident. We learned implicitly which victims were not valued by the community and therefore expendable.

The new teacher here only temporarily? Graffiti desks in her room with threats of sexual assault. The librarian who just wanted to create a quiet space for study? Mock him every day and make his life miserable. Attack the isolated and the vulnerable, but be sure to do it when there are no witnesses. It’s safe to do anything in front of your classmates and your Prep brother, of course—they will always have your back and laugh about it later.  All the while we were confident that we were “Men for Others,” confident in our goodness and the promise of great futures.

The burden of proof should not be on the victim, but sadly it is. While the legal system remains imperfect and we cannot hope for immediate change, surely we could stop rewarding alleged predators and abusers. We don’t need to know whether or not Kavanaugh is definitively guilty of any one of the many allegations being leveled against him now.

He is not a man for others; he’s a man for other men, and the women of our nation deserve better.

*This article has been edited to remove a quote from “sexologist Damian Jacob Sendler, PhD, MD” who was revealed to be a “serial fabulist.“

In October 2013, shortly after I moved to New York, a hot Londoner struck up a conversation with me in Starbucks. We had dinner that night and met up for breakfast two days later, then I followed him back to his Airbnb while he packed.

I didn’t want to get too involved because he was leaving, and I barely knew him. So, when he leaned in to kiss me, I said, “Let’s not go further than this.” When he took off my shirt, I said, “No further, OK?” He didn’t seem to listen, because he then took off my bra and started kissing my chest.

Although I didn’t agree to what was happening, I was physically getting aroused by it. Once it became clear that my attempts to stop it weren’t succeeding, I figured all I could do to make the situation less unpleasant for myself was try to enjoy the arousal I felt mounting in my body.

So I laid back and made little sighs of pleasure. It was only when he grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch that I jumped up and told him to stop. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess it’s a guy thing.”

“At least he apologized,” I thought. I didn’t want to believe I’d been violated. And because of the satisfied noises I’d just made, it was a difficult thing to convince myself of anyway. Telling myself I’d just engaged in a normal, consensual hookup, I made out with him and gave a heartfelt goodbye as he hiked his bags onto his shoulders and caught a cab to the airport.

But I returned home confused about what had just happened. I had not consented to parts of that encounter, but I had gotten pleasure out of it. I didn’t want to go that far for emotional reasons, but physically, I wanted it.

My mind raced back to that infamous line from Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines”: “I know you want it.” Perpetrators often justify sexual assault by saying the victim secretly wanted it. But did the fact that part of me desired his touch mean I had consented to it? Even if I hadn’t wanted to act on that desire?

As it turns out, many individuals describe feeling arousal and pleasure during sexual assaults. In one study—“Problems With Sexuality After Sexual Assault”—21% of women said they had a “physical response” to their assaults, and 10% felt attracted to their perpetrators. Additional research and clinical reports suggest that four to five percent of women have reported orgasm during sexual assault, but the numbers could be higher because people may not report this, according to a paper in the Journal of Clinical Forensic Medicine.

“I didn’t think of it as sexual assault for years because I had an orgasm, because I didn’t try harder to stop it when it started to feel good,” says Stephanie, a content creator in her 30s. “To this day, I call it ‘nonconsensual sex.’ And I’m a former rape victim advocate. I know what assault is. I didn’t want this to happen, I said no, I was very drunk and past the point of consent—there are so many ways I know this was assault.”

I had not consented to parts of that encounter, but I had gotten pleasure out of it.
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And it’s not just survivors themselves who discount their assaults because of their bodies’ reactions. The professionals charged with the task of helping them often do the same.

The Journal of Clinical Forensic Medicine paper quotes a doctor responding to a post in an online forum about a survivor who orgasmed during her rape by her estranged husband:

“For a woman to have an orgasm, she needs to be at least on some level, mentally and emotionally invested in the experience…Fear, repulsion and pain are not conducive to orgasm. Psychological acquiescence or complacency does not mean the woman did not enjoy the experience, and on some level, love her husband.’’

Similarly, male survivors of assault are very often doubted due to the misconception that if their penis was erect enough to have intercourse, they must have consented. I once told a sex educator about how I’d guilted an ex-boyfriend into sex, and she replied, “Guilted? Really? Was his dick hard?” 

“Survivors’ genital response has quite literally been presented as evidence in court that they ‘consented,’ even if they said no, even if they were too young to give consent,” says sexologist Emily Nagoski, PhD tells me. This type of thinking is proffered all over the media as well. In 50 Shades of Grey, Christian claims that Ana’s wetness shows how much she enjoyed a spanking that she wasn’t actually into, Nagoski points out.

Such depictions reflect a widespread myth about how sexual arousal works: that in order to be physically aroused, you have to be mentally and emotionally into the whole experience.

“‘Liking’— pleasure—is one system in our brains, the opioid system; ‘wanting’—desire—is another, mediated by dopamine; and ‘learning’—physiological response to learned cues—is a third,” explains Nagoski.

“Genital arousal is the third—a learned response, the way Pavlov’s dogs salivated in response to the bell. The salivation didn’t mean the dogs wanted to eat the bell or that they found the bell delicious. It just meant that the bell was a cue that was associated with food. Genital response can happen in response to sex-related cues, whether or not those cues are wanted or liked. I’ve been doing work related to sexual violence for over two decades, so I’ve met many, many survivors who’ve experienced arousal and even orgasm.”

In fact, because fear activates the sympathetic nervous system, increasing blood flow throughout the body—it’s possible that it could even facilitate genital arousal, according to the Journal of Clinical Forensic Medicine paper.

Sometimes, perpetrators make a calculated effort to turn their victims on. “Pedophiles often groom children for sexual assault by first using ‘appropriate’ pleasurable touching (stroking hair, rubbing a hand) and then pushing and pushing boundaries, working up to sexual assault,” educational psychologist and sex educator Kathryn Stamoulis, PhD, LMHC tells me. “I have heard accounts in which a rapist tried to give their victim pleasure, perhaps as a way to rationalize their crimes.”

It’s even common for people to have feelings for their perpetrators, especially if they’re assaulted by someone within a romantic relationship.

“It is possible for two opposing feelings to coexist: on the one hand disgust, rage, fear, or terror, and on the other, a genuine desire to merge with the assaulter, feelings of desire for them, and even longings to be taken care of by a person who seems more powerful,” psychoanalyst Claudia Luiz, PsyaD says. Sometimes, getting aroused can be a defense mechanism when the painful feelings resulting from the assault are too much to bear.

Many survivors feel as if their bodies have betrayed them for responding to unwelcome stimulation, says Nagoski. Some even view it as a moral failure to get turned on by something so horrific. “Can you imagine, walking around all day, every day, inside something that betrayed you? Needless to say, it comes as a tremendous relief for them to learn that their genital response just means something sex-related happened.”

Many survivors feel as if their bodies have betrayed them.
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Often, people don’t even realize they’ve been assaulted, since they assume their physical pleasure must be evidence of consent.

“[People] have told me about an experience from childhood or college and what they are describing is rape, but they never viewed it that way before because of the physical response they experienced,” Stamoulis explains. “In fact, some straight males have wondered if they were gay because they had a physical reaction during an assault by a male abuser.” Even when people recognize the event as an assault, they may hesitate to report it out of fear that their arousal could be used against them.

This shame, self-blame, and confusion could be avoided if we learned about the complexities of sexual violence: that it doesn’t always involve a morally unambiguous criminal who the victim despises, and the victim can experience emotions other than pure disgust.

“If, while in sex education teaching people about sexual assault, we were taught about all the varied reactions to assaults, both physical and emotional, we would normalize this and people wouldn’t have to suffer in silence,” Stamoulis says..

Sometimes, getting aroused can be a defense mechanism when the painful feelings resulting from the assault are too much to bear.
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Because I hadn’t learned about any of these aspects of sexual assault—physiological or psychological—I, too, thought my encounter that day in New York was consensual. I Facebook messaged with the man who violated my boundaries and felt a mixture of excitement and anger as he talked about potentially moving to New York and seeing me again.

But when he actually got a job offer there and proposed we meet up when he arrived, something clicked inside me. “Actually,” I replied, “what happened at your Airbnb last time wasn’t OK with me, and I’m not interested in seeing you again.”

“You’re joking, right?” he replied, as if my attraction to him made that statement unbelievable. But then, I thought back to his apology after that incident. He knew he’d done something wrong. And I wasn’t going to let him use my physical desire to eclipse that knowledge. I may have been aroused, but arousal is not consent.

No amount of blood flow to someone’s genitals should override what their mind—and mouth—is telling you.

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.

Since last week I’ve been wondering one thing: Can Black people stop giving out Skinfolk Passes to people who behave horrifically? And in particular, to predatory men?

Within the African-American community, “skinfolk” refers to other Black people — those who share your racial background. Ostensibly we share a bittersweet bond that comes from having common experiences as marginalized people.

But in the wake of the Cosby verdict and the movement to #MuteRKelly, some people have used racial solidarity to justify giving these men an absolute pardon for their actions — excusing them based on little more than the fact that they’re Black.

Due Process Is Needed For Sexual Harassment Accusations — But For Whom?
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Recently, a stunning verdict was announced: Bill Cosby was found guilty on three counts of aggravated indecent assault, an unfortunately rare conviction. Apart from a few news clips, I didn’t pay any attention to people’s reactions. Yet through the magic of social media, I found a video about the case from author and speaker Dr. Boyce Watkins: “Bill Cosby is being publicly lynched, but this Black woman is who you all will be afraid to hear.”

The first part of the title stopped me cold.

Some people have used racial solidarity to justify giving these men an absolute pardon for their actions.
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In his video, Dr. Watkins featured a YouTuber who expressed a point of view that he supported: Because of racism and inequities in the justice system, Black people are disproportionately charged for crimes and given harsher sentences than their white counterparts. It’s an argument multiple studies have supported. However, he used this evidence to draw the conclusion that, because of this imbalance, Mr. Cosby doesn’t deserve the punishment that he received.

Bill Cosby isn’t the only person people like Dr. Watkins are defending. Last Monday, the Time’s Up movement declared its support of women of color and #MuteRKelly — a campaign calling for the end of the music industry’s support of Robert “R” Kelly, an artist who has faced multiple allegations of predatory behavior throughout his career, particularly against underage Black girls.

No, Youth Is Never An Excuse For Sexual Assault
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In light of Time’s Up’s stance, Kelly shared a statement which included the following words:

“We will vigorously resist this attempted public lynching of a black man who has made extraordinary contributions to [African-American] culture.”

Overall, I’m disgusted. But I’m also confused. Why are these men and their supporters so committed to saying that they’re being “lynched” or otherwise persecuted?

In his video, Dr. Watkins made a point of recalling that lynching victims were unjustly executed for imaginary crimes, while their white attackers literally got away with murder. Therefore, according to him, as it was then, so it must be now — the Black men in question are always innocent victims of a white conspiracy.

That would make sense, if it weren’t for the fact that Mr. Cosby was held accountable according to the law. He was tried via due process — not malicious rumors. And although many of Mr. Cosby’s victims were white, Mr. Kelly’s are not. What’s the reason behind claiming “lynching” in his defense? In both cases, the evidence is there, and to compare the actions of a man (or one’s own actions), to innocent men and women being brutally murdered? That’s nothing more than a farce and a sign of how delusional you’ve become.

Let’s Expose The White Double Standard For ‘Playing The Race Card’
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I’m at a loss when it comes to understanding why these men think it’s appropriate to use this language. I can only assume that they’re panicking — it’s probably jarring for them be dethroned after years of protected status as cultural demigods, and for their fans to see that happen to men they once idolized. In an attempt to throw their supporters a last lifeline, they’ve turned to an image that will win them as much sympathy as possible. They’ve decided to lean on the most triggering idea that they can think of — the image of a Black man being lynched. And who, in their right mind, would want to see their heroes meet such a horrible fate?

It’s true that these men are not exempt from being oppressed. However it is important to note that they are still men, susceptible to misogynistic thinking and habits.

Too often, the media overlooks positive Black role models. Therefore, it’s easy to want to get behind a gifted comedian or musician. Especially ones as widely-loved as Kelly and Cosby were. As recently as this weekend, in stories about his conviction, Bill Cosby was referred to as “America’s Dad.” Fans will likely remember that R. Kelly was the “Pied Piper of R&B” — a moniker that seems especially sinister in light of his reputation.

And I know the type of world we live in. The justice system is corrupt. The school-to-prison pipeline shows no signs of slowing down, and victims of police violence become hashtags on an almost weekly basis. Yet a person’s status as a victim of oppression shouldn’t grant them immunity from suffering the consequences of their actions. It can’t and shouldn’t absolve someone from being punished for committing acts of evil. After years of being persecuted through racism and its manifestations, we, Black people, deserve a reprieve from being endangered. But Bill and Robert aren’t it.

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.

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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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