Are we REALLY shocked that Brett Kavanaugh, a sexual assaulter, was confirmed to the Supreme Court? Seriously?
We shouldn’t be.
Like many of you – I grew up in a neighborhood teeming with Brett Kavanaugh’s. Went to school with them. These privileged little monsters roamed the halls like pack animals, snapping our bras, sliding their hands down the back of our jeans, bullying and beating up those of us who were, in their opinion, festering at the bottom of the social totem pole: the geeks. The nerds. The brown ones. The black ones.
The female ones.
What struck me most about Kavanaugh’s incessant weeping during his testimony was that the asshole truly see’s himself as a victim – and in a twisted, sickening way, maybe he kinda is. After all, he’d never before been held accountable, let alone questioned, about his sexual assaults. I believe him when he says he has no memory of the night he straddled 15 year old Christine Ford, jammed his hand over her mouth and ripped at her clothing – why would he? For him it was fun & games. Another notch in his belt. Boys being boys. No biggie.
For her, it’s a moment forever scorched into her soul.
So why, in 1982, didn’t she report it??
For the same reason I didn’t report mine. I knew I would be blamed. I knew it was my fault. I knew I deserved it. I knew I wouldn’t be believed. I knew I stood no chance against a golden boy.
I was ashamed. Humiliated. Beaten.
I didn’t want anyone to know.
And like so many other ugly moments in my adolescence – I pretended like it never happened. Shoved it deep down & locked it away.
Survivors never really get over it – we aren’t blessed with that option. We move on the best we can.
But maybe, just maybe, we need to be teaching our daughters and granddaughters how to punch a mother fucker in the throat.