Here’s a confession: I feel bad for a lot of the men caught out by the #MeToo movement.
Not all of them — not Harvey Weinstein or former CBS chief executive Leslie Moonves — but the slightly less powerful, less overtly predatory schmoes whose gross behavior was tacitly accepted by those around them until, suddenly, it wasn’t.
I am not unsympathetic to those who want to begin the fraught conversation about how these men — and, now, a couple of women — might redeem themselves and re-enter public life. There’s a difference, however, between arguing that someone merits a second chance, and insisting that he didn’t do anything all that wrong in the first place, that his accusers are exaggerating, or that his humiliation makes him the real victim.
Last Friday, I appeared on “Real Time With Bill Maher.” Maher’s closing monologue was a call for Al Franken, who resigned from the Senate in January amid allegations of groping, to return to politics. It’s fair to argue that the things Franken was accused of — pretending to molest a sleeping woman while posing for a photograph, grabbing other women’s butts — aren’t irredeemable sins, and that he shouldn’t be permanently banished from politics.
Instead, Maher disparaged the credibility of the women who spoke out against Franken, and mocked their complaints. “You know, when you’re a politician, being touchy-feely is kind of part of the job,” he said.
Also this week, Harper’s Magazine published a heart-rending, confused and maddening essay by former public radio host John Hockenberry. In August 2017 — months before the Harvey Weinstein story broke — Hockenberry departed his job as host of “The Takeaway,” a morning news show on public radio.
At the time, his reason for leaving was unclear, but in December, the writer Suki Kim published a story in The Cut in which several women accused Hockenberry of sexual harassment. According to a report by WNYC, which co-produces and airs “The Takeaway,” a confidential allegation of harassment had been lodged against him before his contract was terminated, and for years, people he worked with had warned station executives that Hockenberry “bullied colleagues, creating a hostile work environment.”
Public vilification was clearly traumatic for Hockenberry. He writes of going from “someone recognized on the streets of New York City as a journalist, author, and advocate for people with disabilities” — he is a paraplegic — to a man terrified of public reproach. At some points in the essay, he takes responsibility for bad behavior toward female colleagues, some of whom he propositioned. But the most frustrating parts of “Exile” are where he casts himself as the victim of the women who spoke out against him.
Reading Hockenberry’s essay, it hit me: I feel sorry for a lot of these men, but I don’t think they feel sorry for women, or think about women’s experience much at all. And maybe that’s why the discussion about #MeToo and forgiveness never seems to go anywhere, because men aren’t proposing paths for restitution. They’re asking why women won’t give them absolution.
I’m not interested in seeing these #MeToo castoffs engage in Maoist struggle sessions to purge their patriarchal impulses. But maybe they’d find it easier to resurrect their careers if it seemed like they’d reflected on why women are so furious in the first place, and perhaps even offered ideas to make things better. What ideas? I don’t know, but they’re the ones who are supposed to be irreplaceably creative, and they’ve got time on their hands.