After Hearing the Tape (Trump/Billy Bush)
After hearing the tape (Trump/Billy Bush)
The story I don’t want to write tonight is a story of laying on a bathroom floor of white and black square tiles that float above a spine that connects to the hard shiver of even my finger bone, but not to the throb of those soft spots that I am pretty sure were also once me.
The bathtub is one of those old-fashioned ones with feet that they call clawed, only truly, they are cold painted iron, only they feel by my ears like one more thing calling me stupid, part of that black and white right-angled roar.
Almost every woman has been subject to some level of sexual assault; many of those women have been told (even if only by inhaled cultural assumptions) that it was her fault. This is particularly the case of women who were conditioned (i) to be pleasing and (ii) to use whatever looks (and complaisance) they had as part of their currency to negotiate the world.
Men like Donald Trump rely on relative wealth and power to push such women around, to take advantage of them, knowing that the women’s own concern for negative consequences made up of the feeling (self-abdicating) that it was all her fault, the feeling (true) that it happens to everyone, the feeling (sensible) that she will be smeared if she complains, the feeling in those cases where the woman continues some skewed and toxic relationship with the attacker that she should at least try to get some good out of the situation–some job, some economic benefit, some absorbed power, maybe even some form of turned tables–
An ego is a delicate thing. Women’s egos probably shatter a lot more frequently than glass ceilings. It can be hard to see clearly through all those cracks in self-esteem and self-worth. But this much we’ve got to be able to see–we cannot elect someone like this to national office.
One more of the many reasons I’m with her.
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