The first few days after the verdict, I make good use of Megan Hart’s standard advice for dealing with trolls: Mock, block, and roll. If anyone knows how to deal with wounded MRAs on the internet, it’s Megan, with her years of outspoken advocacy.
The first time Megan retweeted one of my Oracle profiles, I screamed so loud Papi came running. I shoved my phone in his face and he screamed too. The only way the moment could have been more perfect is if he had been wearing his BRAZEN HUSSY T-shirt from Megan’s first book tour.
Hussy: a once-neutral term that meant “female head of the household.”
Ms. Lim didn’t believe me at first when I said it was a good thing the Oracle website crashed. But I was right. That one retweet brought in a ton more traffic, which equaled ad dollars for the paper. More important, it persuaded Ms. Lim to let me keep writing the profiles of survivors denied justice. Our little compromise when she told me I couldn’t write about my own sister’s case.
When I got to introduce Megan at the Seattle Women for Choice rally, Ms. Lim was in the front row, wearing a BRAZEN HUSSY T-shirt of her own. My journalism advisor disagrees with Megan on one thing—she tells me to ignore haters in the comments. But Twitter is not journalism and trolls deserve to be mocked. And then forgotten.
Most of the people in my mentions are celebrating anyway, heralding the sweep of guilty charges as a shift in our rape culture. Even the old boys clubs of Greeks and jocks rallying bail money and legal fees for poor, disadvantaged Craig Lawrence weren’t enough to keep him from facing justice.
After the first week, though, my mentions go quiet. The feminist accounts move on to organizing a march for reproductive rights and raising funds for the medical bills of a rape victim at Ohio State. Journalism accounts are focused on a missing reporter in Syria. I search familiar Husky hashtags and find almost nothing related to our case.
It’s almost like everyone has moved on, but then I get an email from Kylie, whose Oracle profile was the first one Megan Hart retweeted. The one that crashed our server.
Dear Marianne,
I heard about the verdict and I wanted to reach out. First, to explain why I ghosted you there for a few months. You did a really good job with the piece. But I never expected an article in a high school paper to get so much attention. So even though it was anonymous, I felt kind of exposed. Afraid my attacker would see it and know it was me. My girlfriend read the supportive comments to me, though, and it really helped so much to see all those people believing me. Thank you for that.
Anyway, I was so glad to see the guilty verdict in your sister’s case. I wish we could all get that justice, but seeing it when it happens gives me hope. Your sister is lucky to have your support. I hope you’re doing well and I wish you all the best in your writing and your advocacy.
Sincerely,
Kylie Hancock
“Good news?” Mom’s in my doorway, shivering in Papi’s robe.
“Yeah, one of my profile subjects wrote. Really grateful.”
She nods like she hasn’t even heard me. “Aren’t you freezing? I’m freezing.”
“Have we not figured out the deal with the thermostat? I’m wearing layers.” I tug on my sweats to show her the leggings underneath. “She had her girlfriend read her the positive comments on my article and she was really encouraged.”
“Hmm.” Mom pulls the robe tighter. “Papi and I are stumped. I called Uncle Joel. He’s going to try to swing by and look at it. I’m making chai. Do you want some?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I bite back my irritation.
But then Mom pauses as she heads back to the kitchen. “You aren’t going to keep writing those profiles now, are you? Now that it’s over?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
It’s not over. Not for Nor, who flinches at any sudden noise, who pops ibuprofen like the worst candy ever to ease her endless pain. Not for Papi, who dies a little every time Nor doesn’t feel like cooking, whose face darkens at the sight of Husky gear. It’s not over for me.
Before my irritation can grow into something bigger, I’ve got a new message in my inbox. From Megan Hart.
Hey, Em,
Greetings from Olympia, where I am banging down doors, trying to get a meeting about a statewide expansion of Seattle’s all-gender bathroom ordinance. Wish me luck.
I saw the verdict. It’s a good step. I just want to warn you not to count your chickens, or whatever the saying is. Judges have a way of taking would-be chicks and making them into a tasty omelet. This metaphor has gotten away from me. Point is, he’s guilty: HELL YES HE IS. But be prepared for all outcomes with the sentencing, okay?
Burn it all down,
MH
I’m so distracted that night, between my mom’s comments and Megan’s message, that I can barely enjoy Uncle Joel’s visit. He brings pizza, fixes the thermostat, teases Mom mercilessly while clearly adoring his little sister. But if he’d been there when Mom spilled tampons all over the street, would he have helped her? Or would he have laughed with the rest of the boys?
“Keep smashing the patriarchy, Lois Lane,” he says by way of goodbye as he leaves.
I’m pretty sure he would have laughed.
The next morning I dig through my closet—Gryffindor robe, way-too-small tap shoes, the misshapen poncho Nor made when she first learned to knit—until I find it. The deep blue Moleskine Papi gave me when I graduated from sixth grade.
“For poetry?” I’d asked. He’d carried a similar leather-bound notebook in his back pocket for as long as I could remember, jotting down scraps of verse as they came to him.
“Para lo que sea, canchita.”
For whatever I wanted.
It was my constant companion for a year. I’m sure the poetry is terrible; I’m not looking back to see. But it gave me a place to dump all my anger and confusion and emotion before it bubbled over and I got called dramatic.
I’d probably have filled it up and moved on to another except that during tech week of The Knights of the Round Table, Dustin Smalley snuck into the girls’ dressing room and stole it. I’d been made fight captain and the boys didn’t take kindly to me bossing them around.
Bossy: used to describe girls who show leadership skills.
So he stole the notebook. Took pictures of the most emotional, dramatic pages. Posted them all over.
When Papi asked where my Moleskine was, I shrugged and told him I’d outgrown it. The hurt on his face killed me, but it was better than telling him the truth. Plus I wasn’t going to stop writing. I just wouldn’t write anything that could hurt me.
I got it back, but I buried it in my closet. I let Dustin Smalley and Connor Olsen and all those small, insecure boys take poetry from me.
I’m done letting boys take anything from me.