A man at a garage sale once asked how much me and my friend cost—as in, for sale. I made a joke in the moment and put him in his place. Because in the three seconds I had to discern what he’d just said, I also had to analyze myriad factors. Were we safe? Did I need to just smile? Did he seem the type to get angry or violent?

In the end, what I said wasn’t enough. But it was something. A small bit of defiance in the face of a man who thought it was okay to ask a 23-year-old woman if he could buy her and her friend. Because men (the bad ones, the wrong ones) think it’s somehow—somehow—a compliment.

It’s a wonder more women haven’t turned into The Punisher or Harley Fucking Quinn, at this point. (See, also the incredible film, Promising Young Woman.)

There are times when something happens and you speak up. There are times when something happens and you don’t. The reasons are often muddy, often a tightrope. The reasons are always valid.

There are men you’re still polite/friendly with, but who have wronged you in some way. Put their hands on you or worse. Tried to and laughed it off. And you can’t just cut them out of your life, because sometimes, you can’t. So, you play the game. The game is rigged, of course.

Because men don’t fear consequences beyond a blip on the radar of their reputation. Because a woman gets destroyed, and a man’s promising future gets put on display, like it’s a talisman against the horrors he committed—allegedly, of course.

And the thing is, the talisman works. Not always, but nearly always. And often enough, which is to say at all.

I have read about the Cornell assholes. I have been frustrated and furious about it. Because it’s not just the men who did the horrors—it’s the ones who didn’t stop it. It’s the ones who didn’t step up. It’s the ones who knew and said fucking nothing. I cannot imagine that kind of cowardice. That sheer lack of humanity. That absolute dearth of responsibility. Because I have stepped in. Because I have spoken up. And it’s hard. But it’s the right thing.

But that silence on the group chat? That silence looms so large and loud that I don’t quite know what to do with it. Because, as a woman, you know that men laugh at jokes they shouldn’t, in locker rooms and elsewhere. Men go along instead of saying one small thing that might make a difference: “Dude, that’s fucked up.”

Really, that’s all it takes to start making a difference, when someone says shit about a woman. When someone you know, either intimately or in passing, does something that is wrong. It should be called out. Not because you have a mother/sister/girlfriend. But because women are people. Because people have value.

As a woman, you know that men often just…do nothing. Say nothing. As a woman, you know that those who could step in don’t. Those who could help don’t.

But fifty-seven assholes in a group chat is a stark reminder of too much.

Out of fifty-seven people, not one of them had a single ounce of courage, compassion, or care. How? How is that possible? I shouldn’t be shocked. I know that fraternities are cesspools. I know, because friends were raped at them. I know because women were constantly warned about them. And still are.

I do not know a single woman who doesn’t have a laundry list of stories. Things that happened to her, even despite all the precautions in the world.

Because you can do all the right things, and it still won’t matter. Because the problem isn’t us. It’s the assholes.

And there fifty-seven of them in the group chat—and many, many more of them out in the world. Some of them even think they’re good guys. Some of them probably go to church, coach little league, call their mother on her birthday.

They’re your friends and your colleagues, and they’re just out in the world. It’s maddening.

And yes, they’ve reopened the Cornell case. But it’s not enough. Jane Doe did everything she could afterward, went through proper channels looking for justice. Justice was more than owed.

Two of the boys were expelled. The rest had to write essays. Like it was a book report. Like it was 1972 and they got caught smoking cigarettes. That’s not a punishment. That’s not even a slap on the wrist. It’s fucking homework.

The lawsuit alleged that the seven accused fraternity members were given the opportunity to “mitigate their conduct by submitting essays to Cornell.” Critics have seized on that line as evidence they were treated with leniency.

(New York Times)

It is evidence of leniency—gross leniency. Unthinkable leniency.

It’s simply not enough to teach women ineffective, inefficient ways to protect themselves. We are given tools, but they are paltry. Take a self-defense class. Walk with keys between your knuckles. Always park under a streetlight. Don’t take a drink from someone. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Dress this way or that way.

As if it’s something we, as women, can control. Because the reality is, we can’t. Because we’re not the ones doing harm. Because Emma Sulkowicz carried her mattress across campus over a decade ago, and nothing has changed—except maybe the assholes are emboldened.

It’s never, ever the fault of the person harmed. It doesn’t matter if you got drunk, wore a short skirt, or took a drink from someone. God, sometimes, that someone is a friend. Someone you marked safe and is anything but.

You tell yourself that you should’ve known. That you should’ve seen it, somehow. But you are not omnipotent. You do not have a crystal ball. You are not supposed to have to perfectly assess every man you meet like you’re some kind of ridiculous Doctor Strange.

And yet, we try to. We spend so much of our lives trying to stay safe. Trying to keep other people safe. And it’s not really on us, is it? And it really shouldn’t be. Because we’re not the monsters.

And yet, the monsters are everywhere.

Back in 2016, “The Persecution of Witches” came out in Uncanny magazine. I wrote it because I was angry. Later, much more recently, I wrote “The Persecution of Witches, II” (in Offerings for Ordinary Gods), because guess what? I’m still angry.