#ItWasMe: For monsters, rapists, abusers, enablers, rape-apologists, and those who aren’t sure

Content warning: this article contains graphic accounts and discussions of sexual violence and abuse.

Photo by Mihai Surdu on Unsplash

In the last year, the U.S. public has witnessed the various, often surreptitious, methods that individuals, politicians, celebrities, entertainment, and news media use to minimize, deflect, and excuse sexual violence. Last month, the nearly twenty-four hour news coverage of the Brett Kavanaugh hearings exposed the same tired yet ubiquitous rationalizations for abuse, like “he was young” and “we all make mistakes;” “she is lying;” and “men are no longer safe if we take sexual assault this seriously.” The social controversy surrounding Kavanaugh even sparked the circulation of the #HimToo hashtag which calls for sympathy for those men who claim to be falsely accused of sexual harassment, abuse, or assault.

We have listened to a slew of non-apologies for acts of sexual violence from the likes of Matt Lauer, Lewis C.K, Kevin Spacey, and famed-chef Mario Batali. These men “accept responsibility” by passively referencing “past poor behavioral choices,” failing to even mention the harm their actions have caused those they abused or harassed, or in the case of Batali, inconsiderately offering a cinnamon roll recipe (you know, in case you were reading his public apology for sexual groping looking for a “holiday inspired breakfast”).

We observed as Matt Damon implied that groping should be treated differently than rape or child molestation, the latter being worse than the former and deserving harsher punishment. While of course we should not conflate behavior, his comments reflect, as Minnie Driver aptly articulated in response, how men — “good men” — often cannot comprehend how all acts of sexual violence are harmful and how it feels to experience ever-present harassment, abuse, and sexualization.

U.S. Senator Doug Jones explained in a CNN interview that he did not believe we should continue bemoaning the accusations surrounding President Trump because “he was elected” with those allegations front and center and we need to “get on with the real issues that are facing people of this country right now.” As if, our culture of sexual violence is not a primary issue facing our country, and that our President, and his election, are not a reflection of that systemic problem.

Yesterday, I was personally reminded of the insidious ways we excuse, deflect, and minimize sexual violence when news broke that the celebrated director of a nationally-recognized speech team at Bradley University had resigned amidst an investigation into a sexual assault that occurred a decade ago. As the former graduate assistant coach on the speech team where the victim competed, I knew of this incident, which was considered by many in the speech community to be an “open secret.” The investigation into his actions only began following a #MeToo post by the victim last fall where she detailed the assault and aftermath.

Following the news of his resignation, posts from alumni or coaches of collegiate speech programs across the country began appearing on my own Facebook feed. While posts primarily expressed concern about the students who were affected by the sudden resignation, I was horrified to read comments from people I consider friends — many of whom were openly outraged two weeks ago about those apologizing for Brett Kavanaugh’s behavior 30 years ago — indicating that we all make “mistakes” in college and should not be held accountable a decade later. I watched as other friends liked and responded with heart emojis in solidarity. It was clear to me that for some individuals it was difficult, maybe even impossible, to reconcile the outrage they felt towards something as distant as a supreme court confirmation hearing, with the very intimate relationship that contextualized what they were learning may have happened close to home, with someone they know personally.

I have tried to reckon for the last year with the fact that for as many #MeToo posts as there are out there, there are also as many abusers and enablers in our everyday lives. Sometimes, they are your boyfriend or your husband. Sometimes, they are a good friend or acquaintance. They are our priests and our bosses, our neighbors and coworkers. Your coaches and mentors. Considering the scope of the sexual violence problem in our culture realized through the ubiquity of #MeToo, imprisoning every person who has sexually harassed or abused others is an impossibility — there are just far too many of them. They are everywhere — individuals we see and interact with everyday who are the subjects of #MeToo posts, have done horrible and monstrous things, and yet may not accept or envision that their actions are abusive because they have been taught to view them as normal.

Victims of abuse and harassment have also watched — often in horror — as our abusers or those who we know have abused/harassed/enabled “white knight” on social media in the wake of #MeToo or the Kavanaugh hearings — publicly taking strong stances against our culture of sexual violence without reflexivity about their own past behavior or changes in how they respond when news of accusations of sexual assault hit close to home. These are individuals who believe sexual violence is a problem — yet, they have not viewed their own actions as predatory, or at a minimum, complicit in enabling the predacious behavior of others.

But we see you. I saw him.

In 2006, I was in college and a member of a nationally competitive speech team. He was a graduate student and an assistant coach for my team. He romantically pursued me, and I willing began dating him before my senior year of college (aware of the power dynamics but believed, naively, that they would not matter). This man was an older progressive feminist who was kind, romantic, and thoughtful. He was deeply insecure in an adorable way. He was creative and a beautiful dreamer. He openly talked about how he believed in “movie love” and showered me with affection. We debated about feminism and social justice, and he treated me well.

A month into dating, his behavior shifted. He began acting controlling and possessive. He would demand that I break plans to hang out with him, and got jealous when I hung out with others. No matter how inappropriate his behavior was, I continued to tell myself that it was because he cared about me. He would constantly remind me that he believed in storybook romance and that I was a character in that narrative. I was primed to code his obsessiveness as affection.

When we were about to have sex for the first time, I asked him to go and get a condom. He begrudgingly got up, went into the other room to get a condom, came back, rustled around as if he had put it on, and proceeded to have sex with me. Something did not seem right, so I asked him, “Wait, did you put on the condom?”

“No,” he replied, “I wanted to feel what it was like to be inside you.”

I knew what he had done was wrong and non-consensual. However, at that time people were not openly recognizing his actions (called stealthing) as sexual assault. I did not know how to categorize what had happened to me. Confused and traumatized by how he had violated me (and somehow had spun a narrative that his actions were romantic or “sweet”), I ended the relationship several weeks later.

I did not report the incident. I was still questioning whether I had a right to be upset about it. After all, this man adored me and I had consented to sex with a condom. But he lied, coerced, and manipulated you. He is a good guy and is a feminist, I told myself. But he treated you like a sexual object and knowingly ignored your bodily autonomy in order to realize his own sick sexual fantasy.

Even after we broke up, his abusive behavior continued. At a competitive tournament, he followed me around despite my request that he not have contact with me. I confronted him to tell him his behavior was inappropriate and he yelled at me, accusing me of sleeping with a man I barely knew whom he had seen me speaking with.

His outburst shook me, but I had to continue traveling with him to competitions throughout that year. I tried to be outwardly nice to him in order to keep the peace, but if I showed any warmth towards him he would often take that as an invitation to engage. I tried to laugh and distance myself emotionally from what had happened. I often acted erratic. I suffered social backlash because our mutual friends did not know what had happened and believed my attitude towards him was unfair. I was attempting to unsuccessfully juggle processing my own trauma (which at that point I was not even sure if I had a right to feel), while also trying to manage my abuser’s emotional response, and our friend’s perception of the situation.

At the end of that school year, I decided to finally confront him, telling him that he had violated me and my trust, recounting how he had assaulted me months earlier. I requested that he not respond to my message and no longer speak with me. He proceeded to ignore that request, stating that, “You cannot accuse someone of sexually ‘violating’ you and not expect a response.”

“I don’t really remember that specific event,” he wrote, “most likely because I never gave it a second thought- my mind was elsewhere, imagine that!… Your interpretation of it leaves me baffled, nonetheless. The degree of maliciousness and hatred you attribute to it is astounding to me… seriously makes me feel like I’m in Salem, on trial for being a witch.”

Eleven years later, in a climate where our President frequently deploys the witch-hunt metaphor to garner sympathy for the abusive actions of himself and other powerful men, my abuser’s use of the trope to orient himself as the victim of my accusations and malice feels like an easily dismissible caricature. The me-I-am-now would have laughed at his arrogance and told him to fuck off. But back then, I did not know how to respond. I eventually caved in, and even apologized to him for making the accusation. To this day, I have yet to really forgive myself for not standing my ground and only recently have I begun coming to terms with how emotionally abusive his actions and comments were.

It might be surprising, considering my story, that I do not believe that my abuser was or is a “monster.” Individuals are capable of incredible darkness and monstrosity, even if they are ostensibly “good people.” I think my abuser is an average, white guy. I do not believe he is entirely rotten. I have seen him express what I believe to be genuine kindness. Our mutual friends, I’m sure, would be shocked to hear of his behavior towards me, some might even question my account. But he could never do that. Yet, as a privileged white man, he believed he had a right to consistently ignore my autonomy — defying my boundaries and acting as if he had a predetermined right to my body, time, and affection. His whiteness also affords him a benefit of the doubt that reinscribes his “goodness” and “niceness,” despite his monstrous actions.

I say this not to absolve him of responsibility. On the contrary, I want to urge people to shift our perceptions about who is capable of assault, and to encourage those who have committed or enabled sexual violence to accept culpability. The myth that all rapists are “monsters” suppresses the reality that most of us know our abusers. It makes it harder to accept or reconcile when someone who is loved or liked in their community commits acts of sexual violence that cause irreparable harm. But I know him, he could never do that. I believe it also contributes to why many abusers are unable to accept culpability. My abuser was a “nice guy” — so obsessed with cultural narratives of romance that when I did not give him what he thought he was owed or act how he wanted me to, he punished me or took what he wanted. When I confronted him, he was “baffled” and “astounded” that I could have anger and vitriol towards him for his abusive actions. He could recognize that I felt violated, but could not admit that he did anything wrong.

During the public outcry surrounding Senator Al Franken’s behavior and the subsequent call for his resignation, he posted an article on social media expressing sympathy for those “who may have been harmed” by Franken’s actions but cautioned against holding Franken accountable by kicking him out of the Senate because “sometimes people can make awful mistakes and can also reform and learn from mistakes.” He argued that he still welcomed Franken’s liberal ideas and advocacy after Franken atoned. I found his stance tone-deaf and self-serving for a man who has never been held accountable for or even acknowledged, in any meaningful way, the harm he has directly inflicted on me.

His posts and responses reveal the double consciousness that so many abusers or enablers enact. If my abuser had really reformed, he would have displayed far more accountability and reflexivity (publicly and privately) about how he had abused me more than a decade ago. If, in order to change society, we need victims to spill their guts on the cultural altar through #MeToo posts, where is his sacrificial offering? Where was his #ItWasMe post? When are we going to get to a point when someone does not need to be publicly accused by their victim(s) in order to apologize and make amends? This is critical, because going public is not safe or an option for everyone, particularly for women of color and other marginalized bodies, and participation in #MeToo can be, itself, an enactment of white, cis, economic, and/or heteronormative privilege.

How to admit #ItWasMe

The cultural change made possible by Tarana Burke’s #MeToo movement will not be complete if abusers and enablers do not begin to see themselves and their past behavior as unequivocally abusive or complicit. Unfortunately, humans are expertly skilled in the practice of cognitive dissonance and mental gymnastics and some abusers will never be able to reach the level of self-consciousness necessary to accept responsibility for their actions. Some do not want to. Some do not care. However, I have to believe that there are many who are not beyond hope.

Those of us who say we are committed to ending a culture of harassment, abuse, and sexual objectification should try to begin honestly accounting for our past monstrosity and complicity in a toxic culture of pervasive sexual violence by taking a “sexual inventory.” I am borrowing the phrase “sexual inventory” from recovery culture, but I think it is useful for reckoning with sexual violence and abuse, personally and culturally. Sexual inventories are a method of processing our previous behavior and actions. Sexual inventories require you to reflect on how you might have acted selfishly, coercively, inappropriately, or abusively regarding sex or how you have enabled the harassment and abuse of others. In the process, you call on yourself to acknowledge the harms you may have enacted on others, expose the behavioral and psychological patterns you need to change in yourself, and begin working towards making amends.

The scary, unavoidable truth might be that we are all complicit, in some way. Often even those of us who have been harassed or assaulted. We are conditioned to see our own abuse as normal and acceptable. Even if we have not committed predatory acts ourselves, we have likely turned the other way, enabled, denied, or qualified allegations of harassment and abuse. None of us are pure.

Despite my own trauma, when I have heard stories of abuse or sexual harassment I have not always stood up the way I know I should have or could have. I have made or laughed at foul jokes. I have publicly dismissed the feelings and experiences of at least one (now understandably former) friend who was violently attacked by a stranger. I have participated in gossip circles about a woman who publicly stated she was raped but because she was unpopular, many did not believe her. I was aware my former student was sexually assaulted by her peer but, in the aftermath, I did not do nearly enough. Do these revelations of my complicity and actions make me a monster? My actions are certainly monstrous — I know I have directly harmed others.

Exhaustive self-reflection will not, on its own, solve the problem of systemic sexual violence and abuse. Indeed, the problem itself is rooted in systems of inequality and abuse imbedded in our social fabric. But I cannot help but wonder what it would look like if at least some abusers, enablers, rape-apologists — and those who are not sure — looked ourselves in the mirror and acknowledged #ItWasMe. Perhaps, then, we might continue reckoning with and accepting the ubiquitous monstrosity, rottenness, and darkness behind every #MeToo moment.

How to complete a sexual inventory

The following is a list of questions you can ask yourself and actions you can take to start your sexual inventory. This is not exhaustive, it is just the list I started building a year ago as a grappled with my past and present. I hope it’s a start.

Take an account of all of your past sexual encounters and behavior.

• Have all sexual encounters been completely consensual?
• Have you used others in these sexual encounters? Were you selfish? Dishonest? Self-seeking?
• Have you seen or treated others as sexual objects, only viewing them as objects for your pleasure, and not as full and complete human beings?
• Did you display or enact toxic behavior such as stalking, obsessiveness, jealousy, or rage?
• Were there other power dynamics at play in sexual situations that would have kept the other person from being able to consent fully, regardless of your intentions? Were they drunk or incapacitated? Were they your employee, your student, under 18, or did you hold social or economic power that might have influenced their ability to consent?
• Have you made sexual comments or jokes towards others?
• Have you touched or groped others without their consent?
• In what ways have your sexual encounters or comments been influenced by racist, sexist, homophobic or class-based stereotypes?

Take note of how you have responded to the sexual abuse and harassment of others.

• How have you enabled and been complicit in the abuse and harassment of others?
• Have you ignored or remained silent about an instance of abuse or harassment to protect an institution, company, community, or abuser?
• Have you denied an act of abuse or harassment happened when someone accused someone else of it? Questioned it? Laughed at it? Minimized it? Ignored it?
• Do you find yourself apologizing or sympathizing with abusers? Have you covered up the actions of abusers? Attempted to explain or make excuses for their actions?
• Have you felt more sympathy for the effects accusations of sexual assault have on abusers or institutions than on victims? Do you find yourself resentful or frustrated that victims spoke up?
• Have your responses been different towards people of different races, classes, sexual orientations or genders?
• Have you been more likely to believe an accusation if the assailant is a person of color? Or if the victim is a white woman?
• Have you expressed disbelief of a victim’s narrative when the assailant was a “good” white man? Or when the victim was LGBTQ, a man, or a person of color?

Take note of how your actions (or inaction) harmed or potentially harmed others.

• Have your actions (or inactions) harmed or potentially harmed others? Emotionally? Physically? Psychologically? Professionally?
• Consider both the people you inflicted harm on through the original action and those who have been harmed in the process.
• Focus on how others experienced harm as a result of your actions (or those you have protected), not how you think you would or would not have responded to the situation or how you feel in response to it.

Reckon with your behavior.

• What about yourself do you need to reckon with or deal with in order to stop this behavior in the future?
• Are there patterns of behaviors within your inventory?
• How are those patterns and behaviors connected to something within yourself that needs to change — such as low self-esteem, unhealthy ideas about sex or romance, addiction to drugs and alcohol, lack of consciousness about your social privilege, racist stereotypes, homophobia or transphobia, or toxic expectations of masculinity and/or femininity?

Make amends.

• How can you make amends for your past actions?
• Can you make verbal amends and apologize to those you have harmed (as long as it does not bring more harm or trauma to them)?
• How can you offer an apology while de-centering yourself and your feelings? How can you, instead, center the feelings and experiences of those you have harmed?
• How can you make amends through your future actions and behaviors?
• Can you ask those who you have harmed what you can do to make amends?
• Be prepared for the reality that those who you have harmed will likely not forgive you. Making amends is not about you and getting yourself absolution or ridding yourself of guilt — it is about those you have harmed, their feelings, and their needs.