Fixating only on famous men will turn this into a farce.
A postmodern wave of mass hysteria over sexual misconduct has blown up all forms of social media. All cases featuring a high profile human, all men, now deemed detestable pigs who deserve permanent severance from the public eye. Lives ruined by contra volition. Careers blown out of the water. Battleships sunk.
It’s as though the Salem Witch Trials are back again, but instead of offing “scandalous”/”un-pious”women, men, mostly very wealthy and famous, are in the hot seat. Everyday feels like a crucifixion, only there’s no Jesus. Just tycoons of the entertainment and political industries. I am riddled with contrary questions. My reactions run the gamut.
Why are these victims refusing to move on and live out of the spotlight’s darkness?
What are the outcomes of an unlimited statute of limitations?
At some point in the near future, will handshakes be unacceptable in the workplace?
Will these stories be trivialized like everything else in our click-hungry country?
Why the fuck don’t people care when it’s a woman molesting a boy?
I was raised by strong women, I’ve fallen in love with women, I’ve befriended women. But to shut my voice down when I have firsthand experience being accosted sexually isn’t okay, especially if you tell me “You’re a man, it’s not the same; you don’t know what it’s like.” I could go “Ohhhhh…I forgot, you’re right; so that time in ’97 when I was molested by a teacher is irrelevant. Interesting. It wasn’t detrimental in some metaphysical way to my growth and development. Hmm. Interesting.” However, nothing is gained by my sarcasm, because this is serious, as we all know.
My point is that women are and can be guilty too. I’m not bringing this story up for “equality” or “justice” or anything like that. It’s just a real example to cut through the noise.
While writing several scenes for A Sunset On Mars or The Ballad of The Marionette Man, my final produced play at UCSD, I was confronted by these buried demons from my childhood. All sorts of hidden truths started pouring out, and I finally realized what had happened that night in the desert.
For the first three years of my education, I attended an Episcopal school in the Mojave Desert; I was the victim to the advances of a 5th grade teacher at the school — who was also a family friend, a nearby neighbor, and a mother of two boys. She had molested me. I know what you’re thinking… “Sexual misconduct in a religious environment?! No Way! Never saw that one coming.” This teacher had invited me to a Christmas dinner her son’s class was throwing at a middle school on the complete other side of town. She invited me right in front of my mother, to get the leverage she wanted.
It was the Heinziest spaghetti known to pasta carbohydrates, and her freak of a son guzzled his down smothered in ranch dressing. After the meal from hell, there were some games in the gymnasium. We then headed back to where my parents were eating dinner at a kid-tastic pizzeria and arcade with my other siblings.
Ten minutes into the drive back across the eternally uninviting desert valley, the teacher pulled her rice burner over along a dirt road where she proceeded to ask me, “What’s wrong? You’re so quiet. Aren’t you having a nice date night with me?” This turned into thigh rubs and a groping of my prepubescent crotch. I knew it was weird but what the fuck was I able to do about it? I’m a six-year-old kindergartener…and here’s some blonde mum slash fifth grade teacher grabbing my lil’ dinger.
I asked to be taken back to my parents, waiting for me at the fun pizzeria in this godforsaken desert. To make sure I kept my mouth shut, the teacher pulled through the pizzeria’s neighboring McDonald’s, buying me a Happy Meal, two toys, a retarded VHS featuring Ron McD on some dumb adventure in space, and a vanilla shake to top it off.
I never did tell my parents.
I’ve always found it difficult to fully 100% trust women — particularly middle aged, blonde, short hair, evil blue eyes burning with a dark mystery. But, I’m more relaxed now. There was a point in time when I’d feel a strange panic in a grocery store because I thought I saw a woman I “thought I knew,” but it was my memory trying to tell me something, almost playing a trick. You see, I was 22 years old when writing this play that sparked all of this grotesque shit. Thankfully, a memory cannot haunt me as it is like a super long time ago, for one, and two what would the point be of holding onto this sad blip of childhood? Writing these uncomfortable scenes was enough to handle the misconduct I suffered that night as a child.
Never. NEVER have I let this moment of injustice dictate who I am or who I am going to be. I’m “fine.” So why is it that some women get to take this massive stance against vile men, but never are we or they questioning their counterparts? It’s not “cool” to be hit on by a teacher, even if you’re 16 years old and obsessed with being liked and who likes who. It still messes with your psychological growth and development.
Weinstein fucked up. C.K. fucked up. Franken fucked up. Rose fucked up. Lauer fucked up. Trump fucks up every single goddamn day and has been recorded saying horrendous shit towards women — and looky there, he’s the President of the Divorced States of E-merika! This 5th grade teacher also fucked up. Justice is not served equally, and that’s in large part due to financial power/job status “security,” which as we’ve seen in the White House for e.g., does not exist. (Pretty sure there’s been more “You’re Fired” chats had in Trump’s clown car of an oval office than on the actual crap television show). But that’s just it. We as a people need to stop assuming that only people of wealth and pseudo-fame are doing these indecent acts. The money is irrelevant because the money isn’t the man and the man isn’t the money. Man is man. Woman is woman. Both are human beings.
Never. NEVER have I let this moment of injustice dictate who I am or who I am going to be.
In the days of Plato and Socrates, having sexual relations with children wasn’t frowned upon. Over time, it became socially unpopular, but nevertheless, the disease/instinct has never gone away in our species. If one person is and was able to do something, that then means all people are able to, to this day, for history repeats itself. Take for example the case of Roman Polanski — he’s caught having sex with a 13-year-old at Jack Nicholson’s house in the 70s. The girl is put in this position by her mother, who ultimately wants to make her daughter famous and live through her vicariously. What happens? Yes, Polanski is taken to trial, but the mother is accused of nothing. In this situation, she is just as wrong as Polanski, chasing pseudo-fame in the darkness of the spotlight.
I’m tired of waking up every day seeing that the news is covering another “person of influence” who’s being sent through the electrically-fused web of clashing stories and guillotined. It’s like Groundhog’s Day, with a new “celeb” each time. It is almost comedic knowing that human beings are failing themselves to such a large degree, and the news is getting so saturated with cases and stories of sexual misconduct that no one is really paying attention to reality. We’re all just hating hating hating, judging judging judging, tweeting texting emailing — communication only through a glowing screen. It’ll become part of the normal news put both in and out of context, all for the goal of a network/rag making a dollar.
As a society of intellectuals, we need to get a handle on this conversation.
By Timothy Barnett
