I have been watching. Not just who is speaking. I have been watching who comes running. And I have questions.When a man is believed to have been i
I have been watching. Not just who is speaking. I have been watching who comes running. And I have questions.
When a man is believed to have been insulted, disrespected, stereotyped, or treated unfairly, how quickly do other men find their voices?
How quickly do the men’s microphones turn on? Even the Black men’s. The ones usually standing against silencing. (I guess that’s not for women, though.)
How quickly do famous names arrive?
Now let me ask the question women have earned the right to ask:
When women are in danger, who comes running?
When a woman says she is being threatened, or feeling unsafe, do we gather around her with the same urgency?
When she says she has been sexually harassed, stalked, beaten, or terrorized, how many powerful people lend her their platforms?
When Black women say, “Something is happening to us,” does the cavalry ride just as hard?
Or do we even get good faith questions? No, just the accusatory kind.
What did she do?
Why was she there?
Why did she stay?
Why didn’t she leave?
Why is she bringing this up now?
Why is she so angry?
Why can’t she say it differently?
Why can’t she just be quiet?
And when Black girls are harmed, humiliated, exploited or frightened, how many grown people with enormous platforms decide that this will be the thing they cannot remain silent about?
I wonder.
Have we become better at recognizing an insult against a man than recognizing danger to a woman?
Do we defend men’s reputations with more urgency than we defend women’s boundaries?
Do we understand men’s anger more easily than women’s fear?
Why does female silence still feel like a gift or entitlement to so many people?
When a powerful man tells a woman that the best thing she can give the world is her silence, why do some people find that funny? Sophie Cunningham is literally minding her business. That’s her career. Her job. Her workspace. Intersectional analysis tells me that if you want her to “shut up” about the things that concern herâher career and safetyâyou mean it with all your heart for me too. “Woman, be silent. Hush.” Of course the crowd cheers. Been cheering on that kind of talk since the playground.
Some of these men are putting it all on the line, and this is not even their workplace. They do not work there, but they are telling an athlete who does work there to “shut up” about her concerns about her workplace conditions. Just old-school misogyny that has been out of style.
And here is another question:
Does a woman have to be likable before misogyny against her counts as misogyny?
Because that would be quite a loophole.
A woman can be wrong.
A woman can be irritating.
A woman can hold politics you despise.
A woman can say something foolish.
A woman can disagree with you.
A woman can even dislike you.
None of those things transform contempt for women into justice.
And disagreement does not suddenly make telling women to shut up progressive.
Original quote: âWatch who gets the cavalry. A culture reveals its hierarchy by whose pain summons an army and whose pain summons an interrogation.â
Maybe that is what we should be watching.
Not simply who people defend.
Watch the speed.
Watch the numbers.
Watch the volume.
Watch how quickly powerful people spend their reputations on somebody else’s behalf.
Then watch what happens when women ask for help.
Especially Black women. Because Black women know something about being everybody’s soldier and nobody’s emergency.
We have marched. Organized. Voted. Raised money. Opened our homes. Raised other people’s children. Defended communities.Built institutions. Kept churches standing. Kept movements moving.
And still, somewhere along the road, many of us learned a painful question:
If I fall, who stops marching long enough to come back for me?
That question deserves an answer.
Not because women require men to rescue us.
We have rescued ourselves and one another more times than history bothered to record.
But reciprocity tells us something about love. Solidarity tells us something about belonging.
And protection tells us something about whose vulnerability a community has decided is worth interrupting business as usual.
Original quote: âDo not tell me how deeply you value women. Show me what happens when protecting a woman costs you something.â
So perhaps the question isn’t:
Do I agree with this particular woman?
Perhaps the questions are larger.
Who is allowed to speak?
Who is expected to absorb humiliation quietly?
Whose anger is treated as evidence?
Whose fear is treated as inconvenience?
Whose dignity mobilizes powerful people?
Whose safety does?
And perhaps the most uncomfortable question of all:
When Black women need the cavalry, why does the road so often sound empty?
PS. I’ve addressed this before; I can’t understand for the life of me why men can’t use their platforms for issues that lead to community-wide health, safety, and well-being. I will never understand it. You get these mics, and you chose to use them to ridicule, mock, and tell women to “shut up.” A waste to humanity.
13 Things Black Men Could Be Using Their Mics to Talk About – WE Survive Abuse
When Giving Up Women’s Rights Is Called Progress: 15 Questions Worth Asking – WE Survive Abuse
Calling Women âHatefulâ for Wanting Safety Is Abuse Dressed in Decorum – WE Survive Abuse