But he’s a friend of mine. Like, I trust him — we’re tight, you know? I’m — I’m not saying I don’t believe you, I do… I just don’t know what to do.
The first time a male friend told me something like this, I wanted to scream. I remember squeezing my eyes shut, recalling the other times I fumbled for the words and the courage to tell friends that their friend had hurt me, or hurt other women. The frustration bubbled and fumed. Once again, it’d be my word against years of carpools, fist bumps, and countless inside jokes. This was a familiar kind of helplessness.
“This is exactly how rape culture gets propagated,” I accused. “Guys protecting their buddies. Prioritizing friendship over keeping women safe. You.. you act like an ally, but you’re just like them.”
And my friends would be quiet — hurt — offended even. The conversation would end. And we would go on with our lives, he in his mandated silence, and me still in search of a resolution that never came. In hindsight, I wasn’t wrong to react emotionally. But at the same time, I found it increasingly hard to fault my male friends for their response.
The #MeToo movement had taught us a lot about the power of online mass mobilization and how violent misogyny permeates the halls of power from Hollywood to D.C. We got good at condemning the Harvey Weinsteins, Donald Trumps, and Bill O’Reillys of the world: Disgusting. Evil. I hope he rots in jail.
What the movement left out was providing a clear path forward for quieter violences, or situations where survivors hesitate to go public for a litany of legitimate reasons. What comes after saying, “I believe you”? And what do we do with all the men we have cancelled — especially when they’re our friends, our family, ourselves? Reality is never quite so black-and-white.
In fact, most assault happens intracommunally: between friends, acquaintances, or lovers. It’s easy to wish death on faraway public figures or the shadows lurking in dark alleyways, but far harder to confront violence among those we love and trust. We celebrate seeing R. Kelly behind bars, but hesitate to say the same for a mentor, frat brother, or the friendly RA.
I’m not saying these moral double standards are correct (they’re not), but they show that a #MeToo movement that calls for punitive justice will only propagate fear and cover-ups among close-knit circles, creating huge incentives not to let secrets see the light of day. The cognitive dissonance of having to ‘cancel’ a trusted friend leads most men to denial, not confrontation. Even if a social network succeeds in exiling an abuser, that isolation could drive them to extremist echo chambers — the only places willing to offer scorned men a sense of dignity.
Instead, we need to re-envision accountability for people who commit violent acts. We need to locate processes of violence and transformation not only in individuals, but in entire communities that inculcate, perpetuate, and cover up misogyny. Pragmatic allyship, based on principles of restorative justice, centers actions that promote growth: not just to redeem the individual perpetrator, but to prevent future cycles of violence in the community.
Just like no one “looks like a victim,” there’s no singular profile for looking like a rapist. They could be old or young, charming or awkward, a high-powered executive or still-unemployed. No community is immune from sexual violence, and we should all be prepared to confront that fact and believe allegations against even the most beloved. Seeing sexual violence as a faraway phenomenon — something from the 80s, or only in circles of “rich white guys" — excuses us from seeing what's right in front of us.
Rape doesn’t just happen due to intrinsic moral ill: rather, it builds up from smaller forms of boundary-crossing, from dumb blonde jokes to slut-shaming to sex that’s pushy-but-technically-consensual. Most men, socialized to control, have inadvertently made the women in their lives feel unsafe. Yes, including you. The reality of living under patriarchy, racism, ableism, heteronormativity, and capitalism is that we've all internalized and contributed to violent power structures. But growth is possible for all of us — if the attitudinal and behavioral work is done to get there.
This does not mean granting forgiveness to anyone who admits wrongdoing. Survivors, if willing, should be actively involved in determining what accountability and transformation would look like. For example, entering accountability might require offenders to articulate their violent behaviors and beliefs, recognize these behaviors’ impact on the survivor and community, remove themselves from opportunities to harm, and engage in long-term and concrete rehabilitation work. It’s crucial that perpetrators don’t get away with seeing their behavior as a one-and-done incident, but rather as an attitude about power that can still be changed.
Tragedy occurs when people are too hesitant to have the awkward, messy conversations that halt rape culture in its tracks. Most violent perpetrators are Aziz Ansaris before they become Bill Cosbys, so men should foster a norm of confronting each other about toxic behavior, even if it feels weird to do so. In fact, friends who are willing to recognize the perpetrator's harmful actions can be some of the most useful allies in encouraging transformation.
More concretely, know your friends’ risk signs (e.g. drinking too much), work with them to prevent incidents, and intervene if concerns arise. Listen carefully to “girl problems” and stories of dates gone wrong: what might the woman's perspective have been? Can you offer nonjudgmental advice focused on their behavior's impact, not intention (That sucks, but do you think she felt uncomfortable when you...)? Rather than creating the fear that admission of harm would lead to a permanently ruined life, we need to invite transparency and accountability: Hey, this is what happened with the girl I met last night — I’m worried I crossed a line. Should I check on her? It’s not about green-carding bad behavior when it’s admitted, but recognizing the option for genuine repentance and redirection.
When men have been socialized their whole lives not to believe women and not to snitch on their friends, it’s no surprise that they feel lost when dealing with more proximate forms of sexual violence. I don’t expect every man to be hashtag-woke from the very beginning. Instead, real allyship is defined by the willingness to dismantle the harmful notions around sex, power, and punishment they've internalized — to check not only their privilege, but also its consequences on how they react to incidents of assault.
Ignorance is comfortable. I’m grateful you aren’t taking the easy way out.
(feb 24, 2019)
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Two related resources:
"Taking Risks: Implementing Grassroots Accountability Strategies," by CARA advocates (a restorative approach to commmunity safety from sexual violence)
This thread by K, an abolitionist activist and anti-assault advocate with Survived & Punished NY
Disclaimer: When sexual violence has occurred, the number one priority should always be facilitating safety and healing for the survivor. I did not discuss this issue as much, instead focusing this piece on the importance of restorative/transformative justice in long-term community safety.
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