When I was a senior in college, I was supposed to go home with my then-boyfriend for Thanksgiving. His parents rescinded their invitation at the last minute, and I couldn’t afford a flight home on short notice. Not only was I wary of the reasons why I wasn’t allowed to go home with him — was his (white) family racist? Did they not like me? — but I also couldn’t believe my boyfriend would put me in that position.
Upset by the rejection and by the prospect of spending the holiday alone, I called my dad to vent. After my tearful explanation of what happened, my dad said:
“He’s just a kid.”
“I’ve never felt like a kid,” I replied, and it was — and still is — true. My sister and I were latchkey kids. Our parents were separated. We didn’t see my dad often, and my mom was emotionally absent. So, in a lot of ways, we raised ourselves and each other.
And besides: I was 22; my boyfriend was 20. He was only 1.5 years younger than me. If he was a kid, what did that make me?
“Well, you had an alternative upbringing,” my dad said.
“Time moves differently for women.” This is the opening line of “Youth,” our second issue of Token. In it, Natalie wrote about the ways in which women, and particularly women of color, are expected to grow up faster than men. This is not our biological destiny, she says. It is a result of the way women are socialized to bear responsibilities relinquished by boys young and old, boys who were never taught to be accountable for their behavior, or that their behavior has consequences. “Boys will be boys,” they say.
Boys will be boys, and boys are kids. Have you ever been around kids? They’re terrifying. Okay, they’re adorable, but they’re also little tyrants. They’re self-centered. They’re manipulative as fuck. They scream, hit, kick, or bite until they get what they want.
They also roughhouse, which is okay when you’re a kid because it’s hard to do much damage. They have low centers of gravity and not so far to fall, and they’re not strong enough to really hurt someone. When they do hurt someone, an apology and a bandaid does the trick. “Say sorry,” you tell them, and everyone moves on.
But eventually — theoretically, ideally — kids grow up. They learn that the universe doesn’t revolve around them, and that other people are universes unto themselves.
Boys will be boys. And sometimes men are also boys, whether they’re 17 or pushing 40. Somehow, this hasn’t stopped us from putting them in charge. The leadership of a sentient sack of id is, to some, a refreshing respite from the hard work of emotional intelligence.
In the senate hearing of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford and Brett Kavanaugh, we saw a lot of id. Kavanaugh cried, a lot, and at weird times. In a stunning, surreal moment, he pulled an I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I on Minnesota Sen. Amy Klobuchar. Lindsey Graham sputtered and his voice shook as he chastised Democrats for what he perceived as misconduct. How dare you destroy this man’s life, he screamed, apparently misunderstanding the words “destroy” and “life.” Because unlike Dr. Ford’s, Kavanaugh’s life is unlikely to change much. He’ll probably end up on the Supreme Court — for life! And he has, as he’s always had, the armor of money and maleness and whiteness to protect him.
For Kavanaugh, a life “ruined” is a life without the unfettered privilege and permission granted by his status, a life in which anything but the clearest path to one of the highest offices in the land is an abomination. That life is the end of the world.
For women, our ruin is simply the price of admission *into* the world. We’re daughters and sisters and mothers, stepping stones on men’s paths to self-actualization. We’re a means to an end, and if we get in the way of that end — usually by having the audacity to ask, nicely, for the consideration of our humanity — we’re destroying lives.
If the nine hours of questioning and testimony revealed anything, it’s that the facts of the assault are inconsequential. What’s consequential, apparently, are the lives and desires of powerful, privileged men. Kavanaugh’s innocence wasn’t based on whether or not he did it; it was based on, implicitly, whether he should be held responsible for his actions. He was only guilty or innocent to the extent it’s worth holding a man accountable for sexual assault. And apparently, for Republicans, it’s not.
It was heartbreaking to watch Dr. Ford’s measured, yet emotional testimony of what happened when she was 15, when she was just a kid. It wasn’t just the details of the assault that were chilling; it was also her deference to authority, her quiet tears, her apologies. She was a good girl. She had to be. Because her life — which in many ways is actually ruined — is measured by her actions in a way men’s lives are not. It’s not about what men do: it’s about what they would, could, and should be able to do.
As children, boys and girls alike are told the world is their oyster. But it’s not long before girls are taught that they’re the oysters. And they’d better keep themselves shut.
Here are some thoughts from women of color about alternative upbringings.
— Ari
Note: Token is a newsletter published by Natalie Chang and Ari Curtis. Subscribe here. The views represented here do not reflect the views of our employers.
