The men on my friend list were silent
The frustrating male silence in response to Trump’s sexism and admittance of assault.
Although Donald Trump was the catalyst, this isn’t about him.I don’t know Donald Trump. I don’t want to. This is about all the other men. Men I know.
In early October, after the Hollywood Access tapes leaked and assault accusations began to roll in, presidential candidate Donald Trump was exposed as the sexist we all knew he was. (Why did we even need a tape, honestly?) With every non-apology that came from the man himself and each instance of backlash faced by his accusers, women of all political persuasions, across America, took to social media. We couldn’t keep quiet, and we weren’t interested in choking down our anger anymore. We were outraged, and it was time everyone knew. Brave and emboldened, victims of sexual assault started writing about their experiences, about why they’d never talked about it before, about how a few minutes of “boys being boys” had affected and continues to affect their lives.
On one hand, I knew that reading their stories would trigger me. But I also felt like they deserved to be heard, because they were being brave in a way I never had. I spent hours pouring over articles and posts and tweets from other women, feeling the knot in my chest tighten with each word. Their stories were upsetting, humiliating, and so, so familiar. The way they wrote down their stories in a chronological, factual way broke my heart. The fact that some of their stories started before they were really able to understand what had happened to them made my stomach churn. I cried when Michelle Obama stood up and, visibly shaken, spoke the exact things I was feeling with much more eloquence than I will probably ever have in my entire life. My female friends were sharing articles, sharing their stories, and crying over Michelle Obama’s speech with me. We were all hurting together.
I spent nights on my couch unable to sleep because I was thinking back on times when I had been assaulted. I wondered about the boys and men who had assaulted me, and the ones who had assaulted my friends.
Did they even realize that what they’d done qualified as assault? Did they feel bad? Guilty? Did they try to rationalize their actions? Had they ever bragged about it to another man? Did they try to trick themselves into thinking they were good men by telling themselves “Other men do that, but not me.”
That train of thought left me feeling sick. I had to force myself to stop.
But what about the other (hopefully) decent men I knew? How did the outrage expressed by women all over the country make them feel?
What did they think about the idea that Trump’s comments were “just locker room talk”? Had they ever heard that sort of talk from other men? If so, did they shut it down? Report it?
Did they, as men who don’t assault women, feel insulted by the implication that all men behave this way? (What ever happened to #NotAllMen ?)
I read an article here and there authored by men who were upset, but I wanted to hear from the men I knew. I wanted to hear about their outrage. I wanted to feel reassured that the men I knew were just as rocked by the DISGUSTINGLY COMMON stories women all over were finally sharing. That they would never allow that sort of talk or behavior to happen in their presence. That I could trust them.
So I waited.
In the days following the scandal, I sifted through my feeds and visited the Facebook and Twitter accounts of men I knew, but who were probably being filtered out because of algorithms. And here’s what I found:
SILENCE.
Deafening silence.
Of all the men I am connected to via social media, there was literally only ONE who went out of his way to make a separate post denouncing Trump’s comments and expressing his solidarity with women who were baring their scars for everyone to see.
ONE.
Why didn’t they say anything? Was their silence a quiet admission to similar comments or behaviors? Did they not wonder about their women friends, coworkers, and family members? Had none of the women in their lives trusted them with stories of assault (because every man knows a woman who has been assaulted, whether he’s heard about it or not)?
I’d gone looking for some ray of hope, but came away feeling even more triggered. I thanked the one man who said something. The silence of all the others crushed me.
See, in the aftermath of the election, Trump’s comments will eventually just be a footnote in history books years from now. “Trump lost because of some uncouth comments about women.” The stories these women have shared will fade into the background.
But a victim’s pain does not fade into the background.
The victims never forget, even though we desperately wish we could. And we know that other women and girls will join our ranks. And we will remember who spoke up for us, and who we learned we cannot trust.
Silence is the root of rape culture. When men are silent about the role that their socialization plays in rape culture, they are complicit in its continuance. When men are silent, they are telling women that we should also be silent. When men are silent, they are telling women not to trust them. When men are silent, our sons never learn any better, and our daughters learn that being vocal is pointless.
It is not up to the victims to solve the issue of rape culture. We cannot stop rape and assault from happening. If we could, we wouldn’t be victims in the first place. That responsibility lies with the ones who have allowed it to pervade our society and become normalized.
Please speak up, men. Be proactive and set an example. Tell everyone that you do not and cannot abide sexual assault and talk of sexual assault as normal, acceptable, or unavoidable. Say something.
The women and girls in your life are waiting to hear it.
The men and boys in your life need to hear it.
“The only thing evil men need to triumph is for good men to do nothing” -Edmond Burke
