The Last #MeToo
Part 1: Harvey Weinstein, a bad incident in a storage room when I was a little girl, the Shitty Media Men list, Asia Argento as fallen #MeToo figurehead.
Back in 2018, journalist and later-Real Housewives star Leah McSweeney and I started a video podcast called #MeNeither. Though not the intent, the name caused a kerfuffle, 2018 not being the time to question the rush of allegations regarding sexual misconduct.
The rush had started in October 2017, with Ronan Farrow’s piece for The New Yorker, “From Aggressive Overtures to Sexual Assault: Harvey Weinstein’s Accusers Tell Their Stories.” Within the week, actress Alyssa Milano would ask her followers on Twitter to reply “me too” if they’d been sexually harassed or assaulted, and a hashtag was born.
I was flying to New York (from Portland) a week after the Weinstein story dropped, and Matt Welch asked if I’d come on the SiriusXM show he occasionally hosted to talk about the claims against Weinstein, which seemed to be multiplying by the hour. While odds are a woman at some point in her life will have been harassed, the experience can hinge on what she considers harassment. As a teenager growing up in NYC, I was constantly catcalled by construction workers and the like, to which I would usually respond, “Good morning!” whereas my best friend would give them the finger. We metabolized the experience differently.
Being whistled at or fielding the occasional gross comment is different from the story I told Matt on the radio that day. It happened when I was eight or nine. It was a Sunday, and my mother was co-chair of the annual auction taking place on the 12th floor gymnasium of St. Ann’s School in Brooklyn Heights. It was the afternoon, and I was dispatched to the greasy spoon on street level to bring back some sodas. The place was empty but for one old guy behind the counter. St. Ann’s was a small school and we all knew this guy by name; let’s called him Alfred. I ordered the Cokes and 7-Ups, which Alfred started to dispense before asking if I could help him. A lightbulb had blown in the ceiling of the storage room, which was visible from the lunch counter; could I help him change it? I walked into the narrow room. Alfred then lifted me over his head so that his face was directly beneath my dress or shorts (I don’t recall what I was wearing). I immediately knew, this is wrong, and I started to kick and kick until he let me down. Then (remarkably?) I waited for the sodas. I brought them upstairs to my mom, who was in discussion at one end of the basketball court. When I told her I had to tell her something, she said, “In a minute, Nancy,” after which I clearly recall heading to the other end of the court, hugging my knees, and saying to myself whatever the eight- or nine-year-old vernacular equivalent is of, “Fuck this shit.” I do not remember when or how I told my parents, but I did, and Alfred was never seen at the greasy spoon again.
I recall Matt’s face as I told him this story, how sorrowful he looked, and how horrified. For me, nothing the incident left no residue, aside from remembering sitting in the gym and thinking I should have been more important than this or that wingback chair.
Within days of Farrow’s article appearing, a Google spreadsheet appeared online inviting women to anonymously name the men they alleged had sexually harassed or assaulted them. The Shitty Media Men list caused an immediate firestorm; I first saw it at a lunch directly after the SiriusXM episode. The following day, I showed the list to two fellow journalists and authors. We pored over the names during a home-cooked pasta dinner; it was shocking how many of the men we personally knew, as were some of the allegations. Could they all be true?
