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Politically, for a variety of reasons, I’m a Democrat. I’m to the right of them on some criminal justice issues in particular, but basically the middle-left is where I live. What I’ve noticed from fellow Democrats over the years is more than just a sense that our policies better serve a greater number of Americans, particularly ones who are struggling, dispossessed, or outside the mainstream. Rather, I’ve sensed a conviction that Democrats really are the “good guys,” the ones truly looking out for the weaker among us, the underdog and the excluded. Our political excesses might be foolish or overprotective, but they aren’t cruel or callous as GOP excesses can be. While I recognize the self-serving nature of this rhetoric and fully understand its limits, I do think there’s a point to the claim; hence my choice in American political affiliation.
Interestingly, I don’t usually see the same kind of virtuous confidence- this sense of helping their fellow man in need- in Republicans, at least outside the religious context. Politics is this town’s industry, and I trade views regularly with Republicans. They are smart, good-hearted people for the most part and very charitable personally. I also find them not happy with but more tolerant of the suffering and inequality that freer economic dynamism brings about; they believe in equality of opportunity, not outcome. They don’t like unfair prejudice, but they also distrust liberal fixes like “political correctness.” They’re not the party of the dispossessed- they’re the party of prosperity, and those not afraid to chase after it with hard work and perseverance. So be it. My party is supposed to be the one that stands up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. Call that patronizing or call it noble; it’s what I’ve heard for years and to an extent it’s what I believe.
So why have so many Democrats and other liberals literally laughed off the accusations of sexual assault made against Al Gore by not one but three massage therapists, most notably the one in Oregon?
I want to be clear: I have no idea if the allegations are true. I’ve speculated more forcefully about the guilt of others in this space because I had more to go on. I’m aware that the National Enquirer, a tabloid, broke the story. I understand the lack of physical evidence and the decision not to pursue the Portland case. I understand why her concomitant civil case has raised eyebrows. I understand that some of what she alleged seems objectively bizarre. I’m a prosecutor at heart, but not a zealot. So I understand the concerns of those who doubt or seriously question Gore’s guilt.
What I don’t understand are some of the remarkably cruel and foolish comments coming from people on this issue, and particularly from people normally associated with the left. A blogger named Tom Scocca from Slate.com brought this up poignantly late in June when he listed a few choice comments about the Oregon masseuse from readers of TPM, or Talking Points Memo, the left-leaning blog on news and politics. It goes way beyond TPM, though; hundreds of similar ones followed the first Huffington Post article on the subject. Many insinuate that she’s a sleazebag out to shake down Gore for money. Because, you know, that happens constantly to rich and powerful men. Never mind that, as my friend Jaclyn Friedman noted in a great piece a couple of weeks ago, the vast majority of wealthy, playboy types never experience a sexual assault accusation; Tiger Woods and Eliot Spitzer, whatever else they’ve done and been accused of, haven’t been accused of anything non-consensual.
But in furtherance of this paranoia (some have suggested the accusations are a conservative plot) and in apparent support of a liberal they greatly admire, too many on the left are furthering time honored rape myths: If the complaint were valid, she would have 1) run screaming from the room immediately upon escaping his advances, 2) swiftly summoned law enforcement and related facts clearly and chronologically, 3) never considered seeking to drop charges despite immense and complex pressure most of us couldn’t imagine, and 4) presented herself from the start as a self-possessed, well adjusted, near-perfect member of the middle class or better. And of course (as Scocca highlights) there are those who insist, with a breathtaking combination of stupidity and viciousness, that a superstar like Al Gore would never have the need or desire to sexually assault some old hag massage therapist in the first place.
These are the good guys? These are who make up the party of tolerance, compassion and inclusivity? Maybe that’s only true for some of them until someone in that category accuses a powerful liberal icon of a terrible act. To be fair I’ve seen blowback from liberals and feminists in particular against this nonsense. But I’m seeing too much of it to begin with from people who claim to be better and more open-minded.
Again, I don’t know if the allegations are true. There isn’t a lot to go on from an evidentiary standpoint in the Oregon case, and the burden of proof is an unrelenting master for the prosecutor. So be it. But from a common sense standpoint, if there are three women from Tokyo to the US maintaining similar allegations, it’s at least fair to ask how often lightning strikes. In any event, using this serious accusation as a font for jokes is deeply cruel. Dismissing it with baseless assertions about “what real victims do” is foolish.
And the sentiment of “it’s gotta be false because she’s too old and ugly and he’s too cool?” Such verbal venom is exactly the reason a survivor friend of mine once told me that most women don’t report sexual assault because they’re too damn smart to do so.
I’ll call her Lucinda. She was 13, a little undersized for her age, and pretty with small, neat features and olive skin. Her English, like her Spanish, was flawless; she had grown up speaking both every day of her life. She was from a part of the South Bronx I knew only by precinct. I had been through her neighborhood, but generally at high speed and in a police car. She wore jeans that she’d marked up with a ballpoint pen, “Spanglish” messages to and from friends that defined her life and announced the things she held dear and cared about. They were things that I was a lifetime and more from understanding.
Lucinda’s uncle had been molesting her for about three years. She had vomited this simple, awful fact to her mother one night when the thought of spending hours alone with him loomed close and her ability to mask the panic at the thought of it faltered. Thankfully, her mother had done the right thing. She had called their precinct. A thorough SVU detective had taken a report, and she had sworn out a complaint. Through the labyrinth of Bronx due process the complaint had traveled, eventually landing on my desk.
It was in this way that Lucinda and I were brought together. I greeted her mother, a small, tough but kind looking woman, in Spanish as we stood in the waiting area of the Child Abuse and Sex Unit. She was gracious despite my accent and occasional grammatical errors. Then I led Lucinda alone back to my office. Her eyes were black, and moved restlessly around the room as I asked her to sit down. When they met mine, they were oddly blank. I was used to that. I maintained eye contact with her, striking a careful balance I had struggled to achieve over the years. You don’t want to bore with your eyes, especially when you’re my size. On the other hand, you don’t want to seem unfocused or uncaring.
“Lucinda,” I said. “Thanks for being here.” The blank eyes shifted to something more inquisitive. It had never occurred to her that she had any choice in the matter. They settled back to blank, and she shrugged. She looked at the floor. I waited a few seconds. Sometimes they just start talking. But Lucinda didn’t. I thought for a long moment and fished out a line I’d used many times before.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
The change was instantaneous. The look in her eyes melted- I know of no other way to describe it- from blank to two holes of pain her face. It was more than the eyes, actually. Her entire face seemed to shift and contort. She was being crushed by fear, guilt, revulsion and pain. She nodded.
“Okay,” I said carefully, and at low volume. I considered myself as I always do in professional situations with most women and children. I am tall, white, and heavy. My voice resonates naturally like a bass drum, a blessing in some courtrooms but a curse in other venues. Why someone like Lucinda would give me the benefit of any doubt is beyond me, but sometimes childhood is the prosecutor’s best weapon in child abuse cases. Sometimes they give us the testimony we ask for because they don’t yet have the wherewithal to refuse us. Sometimes they’re just willing to take leaps with us because (thank God) they haven’t yet been taught by experience not to dare.
“Do you think you can tell me about what’s been going on with your uncle?” I asked softly. She shrugged, and seemed to cave in further. It was as if I was asking if she’d consider slamming her hand in a car door for my amusement. “Just wait a few minutes,” I said. “It’s okay. I’m going to look at the file. You can look at it too, if you want later.”
There was a small, cheap radio on my desk, playing at low volume. On that day in early 2007, it was playing “Irreplaceable” by Beyonce. As I fell silent the music floated over between us. Lucinda glanced at the radio. Her head bobbed slowly as she recognized the song- the tune is catchy as hell. In a few seconds, she began to mouth the words. I let a minute or so pass.
“You know when this comes on in the clubs,” I said, again at low volume, “the girls all go like this.” I lifted my white-shirt covered arm over my head and pointed awkwardly to the left. She looked at me quizzically for a long moment. Then she smiled. And then, later, she told me.
When I consider the people in my life who have been victimized by sexual abuse or exploitation – mostly women but some men, I’ve lost count. Forget about my professional life, which by choice has been an odyssey of human horror. The sheer amount of sexual abuse I continue to encounter among people I work with, date, get to know, or re-connect with, is staggering. There is no other word for it.
Through the magic of Facebook, I’ve re-connected with dozens of people I grew up with in Northern Virginia, suburban kids whose upbringing was similar to my own in terms of demographics and social status. I relocated back to Washington, DC last year, so I’ve been able to make a couple of informal reunions. They’ve been warm and gratifying; thankfully, most of the kids I came of age with have found happiness and success in various ways, many of them in or close to Sterling Park, the development we called home. But the dark side of these reconnections has raised its head also. Mostly because they know what I do for a living, several of them have revealed to me how they, their children or someone else precious in their life were sexually abused or exploited at some point over the long years. Some of it dates back to the 1970’s and our childhood. Some of it is as recent as this year. I shouldn’t be amazed anymore. But I am.
For the sexual abuse they endured in childhood, most never told anyone. This is remarkably typical. We- those of us charged with doing something about it- find out about child sex abuse in various ways. Mostly the disclosure is accidental, meaning the child will confide in a friend who then reveals the abuse to a teacher or a parent. Some victims appear abnormally sexualized at very young ages, prompting the investigation. Rarely, someone will actually walk in on the abuse while it’s happening. But purposeful disclosure of child sex abuse, meaning a child with the wherewithal to speak up for herself and seek help, is rare. Most victims find creative ways of blaming themselves, placing the responsibility for both the abuse and ending it- on their own shoulders. If they do tell, it is often met with disbelief, denial, and a sweeping of the issue under the rug. Things are improving, but it’s still a terribly difficult thing for a non-offending parent, usually a mother, to digest the fact that a trusted man in her life is sexually abusing her children. Particularly when the abuser is her husband and the biological father of the child (a surprisingly common scenario), accepting the reality and acting appropriately is just a bridge too far.
Sexual victimization- and the accompanying self-blame- hardly ends in childhood. At every stage and in every area of my life I’ve encountered women who have been raped- although many of them either don’t characterize it that way, or at very least don’t understand that they could. This is because many of them were victimized after passing out from drinking while in the company of the person who committed the rape. Unfortunately but typically, they don’t see themselves as rape victims. They see themselves as blame-worthy participants, guilty for having drunk too much and engaging in risky behavior. Even women I know who were sober victims of an acquaintance or a boyfriend blame themselves for “getting him too riled up,” or making bad choices about where to sleep. They will tell me in the same breath that they’ve never quite gotten over what happened, but that they have only themselves to blame for bad decisions or what they think was “miscommunication,” and so they have little to complain about.
I try to be careful in these situations; it’s not my place to define another person’s experience or to insist that a woman is a victim when she doesn’t see herself as one. But then I hear them talk about how they’re still suffering so many years later. Or how they’re fine now, but college was never quite the same afterward. Or simply that the first smell of chimney smoke in late October brings the memory rushing back, and it takes a day or two to feel themselves again.
These experiences, and their aftermath, they believe almost uniformly is their fault. It is not. These crimes, they believe almost uniformly, were the work of an otherwise decent guy who just went too far. Because he was also drunk, or because she “led him on.” They are incorrect. Most rape is serial rape, and most men who rape, either through the use of their body weight, alcohol or a combination of the two, will do so again and again. They won’t hide in bushes, wear a mask or wield knives; there’s no need. Instead they’ll orchestrate a scenario and set a trap. Then they’ll play hard on the ancient myths and timeless guilt that wither the resolve of their victims to do anything but sit Sphinx-like until the misery passes. For most, it does pass, at least in large measure. And life goes on.
But then October returns, the smoke drifts, and the haunting resumes. Again.
From a recent article I wrote for Dissent Magazine:
Arizona’s controversial anti-immigrant legislation went into effect July 1, and whether you approve of it or not, you can be sure that it makes many criminals happy.
Professional predators often seek out individuals who won’t be believed if they dare to report crimes: those with mental health issues, disabilities, economic difficulties, or other actual or perceived characteristics that isolate or disenfranchise them. But few targets are more tempting to a predator than a person who simply won’t report at all. Hence, immigrant populations are great places to hunt.
Read the rest of the article at Dissent.
I am often asked by women (or people who love them) if carrying a handgun is a good deterrent to rape or other violent crime in certain circumstances. Say, an unavoidable nightly walk through a bad area as part of a commute to a class or a job. Or, as seems to happen with increasing frequency, a potentially life-threatening situation involving a stalker or a disgruntled ex. Women who are finally leaving abusive situations are at greatest risk.
Some who ask are gun enthusiasts who know me as a partisan Democrat and generally liberal guy, and expect me to react negatively so they can challenge my view. Some detest guns and are hoping I’ll placate them and confirm their belief that guns are worthless or worse when it comes to self-protection. I know a few police officers that feel exactly that way. The truth is, not surprisingly, somewhere in the middle, and so is my opinion on the matter. Would I dissuade my sisters or any other capable female I know from owning and carrying a handgun in certain situations? No. But I also know that both of my sisters understand well the difference between what a gun is and what it’s not. A gun is a sword, not a shield. Failing to fully internalize and deeply appreciate that distinction is the difference between being able to use a gun to save yourself or a loved one, and simply adding to the menace.
“The Shootist” is a magnificent film about a dying man who is part of a dying breed in the dying wild west of 1901. John Wayne’s timing- dying himself when he made it- couldn’t have been more poignant. I saw it with one of my oldest friends, Bob Bennett, who has taught me many things over the long years, not the least of which is the true nature of a firearm. With the movie as a backdrop, it was Bob who taught me when we were kids that a gun was not a thing to be hated. Or loved. It was simply a tool. But what he stressed was that, in order to use a gun to protect oneself, it wasn’t enough to understand how to maintain, safely store, aim and shoot the thing. It took willingness. Wayne’s character evaluates his success as a killer by noting that some men flinch or bat an eye before they shoot- and that he didn’t.
When a woman on a dark street decides to draw a handgun from a purse to defend herself against a would-be attacker, the split second timing might not be as crucial, but the dead-eyed willingness to kill is. And keep in mind- I’m using a woman as an example here only because women often feel more physically vulnerable for obvious reasons. The dynamics associated with the use of guns apply equally to men, and on balance I think women are probably tougher when push comes to shove.
To maintain any gun safely and properly is a heavy enough burden for anyone worthy of gun ownership. That was Bob’s first lesson. But to squeeze the trigger and kill- not stop, not hurt, not scare, but kill- requires a willingness not everyone has. Some have staved off harm by drawing and pointing guns at would-be attackers for sure. But to rely on brandishing with no intent to fire is worse than folly. It invites an attacker to use your gun first against you and then in other crimes. And for what it’s worth, people in real life don’t die like they sometimes do in television and movies, and even justified killers don’t just walk away after a few questions from sympathetic detectives. We’ve been coarsened to a large degree by CGI and illicit video uploads, so many feel as if the mystery has been taken out of violent death. But while movies and bootleg videos might seem to reduce the shock of seeing a bullet strike a human body, video does zero to prepare a killer- even a completely justified one- for the emotional, legal, financial and social life changes that soon take place and never fully subside.
So my advice is different from what many who know me would assume. Want a gun for personal protection? Do as Bob would do: Own- don’t just learn, damn it, but own- how difficult it is to maintain one properly in your home and on your person. If you’re comfortable with that considerable burden given your circumstances (kids, neighbors, the security of your car, home, etc), then shop wisely with someone who knows you and knows guns. Then attend a NRA safety course and whatever else you need to supplement it. Then take a long, unvarnished look in the mirror and ask yourself if you mean it when you tell your instructors that yes, you won’t ever draw unless you’re ready to shoot and yes, you understand that guns are for killing and not for wounding.
If you can handle all of that, and your circumstances truly merit the need for a handgun, then Godspeed and I pray you never have to use it. If you do, aim as you’ve been taught and have practiced and be ready for what comes next. If you’ve done everything correctly, it’s a far kinder fate than what the bastard you shot down had in mind for you. But it won’t be a cakewalk.
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