I’ve spent the past week trying to write a story about a shitty performer I saw at a fair, and somehow the post keeps turning into an analysis of systemic misogyny and Harvey Weinstein, and ultimately leads me to a story from my past I’ve always been afraid to tell. I’m having trouble getting to the root of why all of these things feel so tied up in a ugly little knot.
So – because I might as well start somewhere – let me start with the clown.
A couple of weeks ago, we went to a Renaissance Faire with some friends who had never been to one before. We wandered around for awhile, eating deep-fried peaches and waving at witches, and I tried to explain to them why I love Ren Faires so much: because no matter how weird or awkward or unwanted you feel out there in the real world, at a Ren Faire you belong.
Which is what made what happened at the fair on Sunday so bizarre. We were watching a show – it appeared to be a children’s show, based on the fact that the guy performing was dressed like a jester, called himself “Moonie,” and was doing funny juggling tricks – when all of a sudden things got seriously weird. Over the course of 15 minutes this guy did the following (and this is just the highlights reel):
- Walked over to a woman who was taking a video of him on her phone, took her phone away, and licked it all over before inserting the entire device into his mouth, then finally removing it and handing it back to her;
- Pulled a man out of the audience, grabbed his butt, and tried to lick his face;
- Kissed an older woman he had pulled out of the crowd on her lips;
- Stopped the show, telling the children in the audience to shut the hell up.
For the grand finale, he walked over to a teenage girl sitting in the audience – she had called out a joke of some kind – and wrapped yellow duct tape around her head. Then he returned to the stage, leaving her sitting there in her Renaissance dress and bonnet with her mouth taped shut.
At that point – and this point should have come sooner – Kendrick and I took our kids by the hands, stood up from our spot in the front of the audience, and walked out. Making our way down the aisle I felt uncomfortable and a little silly, like I was calling attention to myself. Flouncing, as it were. “Was that as bad as it seemed?” I kept asking Kendrick. “Am I overreacting?”
I shouldn’t have had to ask my husband these questions. But they’re not ones I’ve ever been very good at answering for myself.
“Was that as bad as it seemed?” I’ve asked myself this in bars, in dorm rooms, in relationships. I’ve always either answered it with a shrug – don’t be dramatic – or packed it away for a later date that never came.
Which leads me to a story that I’ve been holding on to for well over a decade, and that I figure I should tell now.
I was twenty-two years old, living in Hollywood, and my friend and I met a very famous actor outside a club. Actually, to say we “met” him would be an overstatement: he was in a car with two other slightly-less-famous actors, and they called out to us and told us to get in. “We don’t even know you!” we said, giggling, because of course we recognized them and of course it was exciting to have their attention. “We’re not getting in your car.”
The very famous actor leaned towards the window: “Come on, you know who I am,” he said. “You can get in my car.”
So we got in the car. We went back to the actor’s house, and had a great time, actually, playing music and dancing in his living room. The actor and I kissed for a bit, and my friend kissed one of his friends for a bit, but that was all. By then it was late, maybe three o’clock in the morning, and we’d been drinking so we weren’t about to drive. Back in those days everyone was always crashing at other people’s houses after a night out, so we didn’t think it’d be a big deal to just take off in the morning. The actor let me borrow a shirt and shorts of his to sleep in – he was huge, a mountain of a guy, so I was positively swimming in them – and we talked some more, and kissed a little more, and I went to sleep in his bed: fully clothed, having made it crystal-clear – I thought – that all I was doing was sleeping. I thought to myself that I liked him, and it seemed like he liked me. I pictured us hanging out and eating pancakes in the morning, maybe making plans for a real date later in the week.
I woke up about three hours later because I could barely breathe: the actor was on top of me, practically crushing me with his weight, and moving around, trying to get through the layers of clothes I was wearing. His eyes were closed, and I thought maybe he was asleep, so I thumped my fists against his chest – I remember very distinctly feeling like a kitten batting at a toy, for all the effect it had on him. He stayed where he was, and I can’t remember whether I said stop, or no, or maybe just sort of kept pushing back – and then, all of a sudden, the door opened. It was the actor’s assistant, there to wake him up; he had to get to the set for his call time. She stopped when she saw me and left, closing the door behind her, but not before we made eye contact. And I am absolutely certain when I tell you that she knew. I saw it in her eyes. I also saw her disdain for me, just another drunk club girl looking to hook up with a star.
The story ends as well as it could have: The actor rolled away and either pretended to fall asleep or actually did. I got my stuff, met my friend downstairs, dug a single-serving package of Cheerios out of his weirdly overstocked cupboards, and left. I told my friend what had happened, of course, but anyone else?
Why would I?
Seriously: tell me what I could have done that would have had any impact whatsoever. Virtually the only possible real-life consequence would have been me getting blacklisted…which, by the way, is something I experienced in the wake of the It’s Always Sunny firing – the Hollywood boys’ club is a powerful machine that does an excellent job of protecting its own – but that’s a tale for another day.
That story of that actor, of course, is just one of many, many, many. But I’ve always just walked away.
I mean, I certainly don’t want to seem like I’m trying to get attention.
I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m mad today. I’m mad on behalf of the women speaking up in increasing (but not surprising) numbers; I’m mad on behalf of the ones who can’t; I’m mad for my friends and for my children and for myself. I’m mad at that stupid, misogynistic clown who made a teenage girl feel like she needed to sit there and let her mouth be duct-taped closed; I’m mad at the legions of people in Hollywood who have always known how people like Harvey Weinstein operate (and have always looked the other way); I’m mad at the men who victimized me in various ways over the years. I’m mad at myself, because I’ve spent years questioning my own experiences, and I’m smarter than that.
That’s what the clown made me realize: That we’ve learned to say nothing because we know from vast experience that there will be no consequences…but we’ve also learned to ask ourselves whether what happened really mattered all that much. We’ve written off unwanted touches as mistakes, drunken assaults as blips: events that may have made us uncomfortable, may have left us hurt or sad or damaged, but really, come on, weren’t really that big of a deal after all. “She’s just trying to get attention.” I can hear the words ringing in my ears even as I write this.
So what’s my point? I guess I’m asking you – and myself – to remember that we don’t just vote with our ballots. We vote with our words. With our dollars, with our attention, with our actions. I’d like to start voting for what I think is right – and remembering, too, that inaction is its own kind of vote.
You know how a dam breaks? It starts with a leak, and then another, and then it all comes out in a huge, raging flood.
