Watching the hearings the other day, I was overcome with emotion watching Dr. Ford give her testimony. I felt my heart bleed when she said that it was the laughter–the uproarious laughter of two men committing sexual assault and expressing their humour at her expense–that still stuck with her these years later. Right then, I knew without a doubt that she was telling the truth. No one who has ever been the object of scornful laughter ever forgets it.
Then Brett Kavanaugh stepped up, and a true horror show was unleashed.
As I heard Kavanaugh go on and on, ranting about the alleged leftist conspiracy against him, I was reminded of why it is that I have always had a deeply-rooted fear of straight men. I was reminded of why it is that, even as a 34-year-old man myself, I still feel a fist of anxiety clutch me every time I walk past a gathering of men. I was reminded of why it is that, as a queer man who doesn’t live up to the codes of male behaviour, I always feel like straight men might attack me at any moment with the slightest provocation.
White straight men like Kavanaugh stride through the world with a privilege which they often stubbornly refuse to acknowledge, let alone do anything to mitigate. It’s not just that they occupy a different strata of society; it’s that they literally inhabit the world in a different way. Their bodies are not subjected to the same violence as men of color, women, or queer people are, and as a result they frequently don’t even recognize the differences between their being-in-the-world and that of others who don’t share their identity. What’s more, they don’t even recognize the fact that there are people whose bodies–and whose experience of the world–is shaped by that fundamental fear.
And, speaking of violence, it’s hard not to shake the impression that straight, white men are inherently violent. It may not always reveal itself at first glance, but scratch the surface just a little, and it can erupt, with devastating results. One need look no further than Kavanaugh’s histrionics to see how quickly and explosively that male rage can erupt when it is challenged. Hearing Kavanaugh veer wildly from one accusation to the next, watching him accost and gaslight Democratic senators (particularly the women), and hearing his blatant flaunting of his privilege, I could well imagine him enacting violence against a woman.
In the two years since Donald Trump was elected, we have seen this type of toxic masculinity on full display everywhere we look. Whether it’s in the vile spaces of Twitter (and its bastard counterparts), in the streets of Charlottesville, or in the halls of power, a particularly virulent form of maleness has made it abundantly clear that it is willing, able, and eager to enforce its will through violence. And any attempt to rein it is met with even more violence. More insidiously, it is met with tears and a sense of aggrievement: how dare you say that I’m violent? How dare you say that I’m a misogynist? One need look no further than Kavanaugh’s performance on Wednesday to see a graphic illustration of that phenomenon in all of its overwrought ugliness.
Let me be clear. I absolutely believe Dr. Ford’s allegations against him, and I believed them even before I saw the two of them deliver their testimonies yesterday. But Kavanaugh has reinforced my belief that something drastically has to change about the way that we talk about and to the men in our lives. The hearing yesterday further reinforced that feeling, as I listened to Senator Lindsey Graham repeatedly refer to Dr. Ford as “Miss Ford” and, in a truly disgusting form of contempt, referred to her as a victim of both the Democrats and sexual assault (though not, pointedly, at the hands of Kavanaugh).
My only hope at this point is that we vote as many men out of office as we possibly can in 2018. I truly don’t think that anything short of stripping them of their political power will cause them to get the message. If we can finally show them that their actions have consequences, then maybe they’ll start changing their behaviour.
But honestly? I wouldn’t count on it.