I don’t like it either.
There’s nothing to like. There was nothing to like in realizing that Woody Allen, a filmmaker I credit for much of my worldview let alone my sense of humor, is guilty- in my opinion- of molesting his daughter. There was nothing to like in realizing that Michael Jackson, who even as a rock-n-roll obsessed teenager I believed was pure magic to watch, was guilty- in my opinion- of molesting children at his ranch near Santa Barbara.
Perhaps Bill Cosby is the most unpleasant realization yet. Cosby, after all, is more than a brilliant entertainer. He has been a symbol of hope and progress for a generation and some of its most marginalized and disenfranchised members. I was never a devotee of the Cosby Show, but I enjoyed what I saw, and even as a kid I loved the fact that star and cast developed a lasting and convincing image of a loving, educated and successful American black family.
Later, as a paternal figure and blunt critic of what he considered were negative aspects of black culture, Cosby was still heavily admired. Why? Because at bottom, he was looking out for black boys and young men, wanting what was best for them as an increasingly endangered species in a cultural and socioeconomic meat grinder.
But Cosby is almost certainly guilty of a pattern of sexual violence involving the use of his influence, his victims’ relative powerlessness and lack of life experience, the brutal competitiveness of his industry, and drugs and alcohol. By my count now, no less than 15 women have accused Cosby of similar acts under similar circumstances. There is consistency. There is a pattern. Few if any of the women who have come forward- particularly recently- stand to gain anything from their allegations. They are taking on no less than an American icon; a man of grace, class, considerable power and influence. He’s a national treasure; they know well they are contributing to a national heartbreak. They know they’ll be viciously targeted in terms of their motives, their credibility, and indeed their very sanity.
There’s a very, very large chunk of an already sad and disillusioned country that doesn’t want to believe Cosby is guilty of anything. Like many people who consider sexual violence in the very system that’s supposed to address it- the one I’ve spent a career in- they’ll find a reason to believe it’s just all a big lie. That Cosby never, over three decades against more than two dozen different, unrelated women in several states, committed any crimes.
Maybe it was a misunderstanding that just happened over and over again, altering lives along the way. Maybe it’s true that women are just really vicious as a gender and don’t have a problem falsely accusing men of among the most heinous crimes imaginable. Maybe it’s really satisfying, fun and quickly profitable to turn yourself into an instant media curiosity as a victim accusing a beloved figure of rape.
Yes, and maybe the tooth fairy will leave my IRS bill under my pillow if my latest root canal fails and I need an implant.
In fact, gravity brings rain to the ground and water is wet. In fact, if the man at the center of these allegations was an ordinary plumber, or systems analyst, or cab driver or cardiologist, the belief in his guilt would be widespread and probably correct. Legally, Cosby has been convicted of nothing and found civilly liable for nothing, and it’s correct that he remain legally unburdened. But Cosby has cultivated an image both as a public figure and at times a moral scold. He’s earned this scrutiny if nothing else. It’s awful. But so is the truth, much of the time.
The reality of heroic acts is the saving grace of our existence; well-lived lives often contain blessed aspects of it. There was, as just one example, great worth to the Cosby Show far beyond the laughs and the tender moments, and it should live on regardless of Cosby’s reputation.
But heroism itself is dangerous and inconsistent with the human condition. We’re too complex for halos; they’re best left to the saints. And the songs. And the myths.