Sicklit Literally Traumatized Me

I promise this isn’t turning into a Cancer Blog. Just give me a while to get it out of my system. Along with (hopefully) the actual cancer. 😛

Almost two months ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It’s stage 2, but for the first week, I didn’t know that, which made it probably the most terrifying week of my life so far.

So I started panicking, which is about what you’d expect. For starters, I immediately decided that I was going to die. Like within a year. This subsided somewhat after I learned that the cancer hadn’t spread.

But a lot of my panic was coming from some weird places. I kept experiencing intrusive thoughts about how horrible chemo and cancer in general would be, and they were VERY specific and visual thoughts.

I’ve never been close to someone going through cancer treatment. Certainly not close enough to see what happens to them. My grandfather had it when I was very little (and died of it later), but all I remember of him is that he was happy, did calisthenics every morning, and always gave me fruit to eat, so I’m guessing I don’t have much memory of his treatment.

My only exposure to what cancer and chemo are like is the media. As a child in elementary school, I remember being assigned cute picture books about kids with leukemia. Later, I read a few YA novels where cancer was a prominent theme—what folks now call “sicklit.”

Sicklit is controversial because there’s the usual uproar about kids and teens reading about topics that they’re “too young” for, as if kids and teens don’t experience sexual assault, illness, or abuse. The opposing argument is that reading these books will help young people confront these things if they have to experience them, as well as helping them empathize with others who may be experiencing them.

Usually, that’s the side of any argument about children’s media that I’d fall on. However, right now I also have to acknowledge the fact that I’ve basically been traumatized by literature about cancer meant for young people.

That entire first week, my brain was constantly re-showing me vivid scenes from books I’ve read. Excruciating bone marrow transplants. A teenager going outside at night during a thunderstorm wearing just her nightgown, hoping to catch the flu so her next chemo treatment gets delayed. A girl shocked and crying when she finds a chunk of hair falling out while she brushes it.

That last one about kills me, especially. Don’t get me wrong, losing your hair (if that’s a thing that’s important to you) would be painful no matter what, but why her shock and terror? Did nobody fucking bother to tell her that hair loss is the most common side effect of chemo? Did nobody offer to take her to a salon to get her hair buzzed or shaved, and let her pick out cute wigs and hats and feel some shred of control over the situation?

I mean, sure, it’s fiction. Of course it’s unrealistic. But it’s unrealistic in the most sensational possible way.

Don’t even get me started on teenagers with cancer meeting, falling in love, and dying. That shit made me feel guilty for even having partners right now.

The more I talked to other people, the more I realized that it wasn’t just me, and I hadn’t just read a particularly horrible set of books. My partner asked me once how it feels to get chemo, and recalled a book he’d read about a teenage girl with cancer who described it something like this: “Every drop of that poison burned as it dripped into my veins.”

I about died. Unlike (apparently) the author of that book, I actually have cancer, and I can tell you that chemo feels like absolutely nothing. It’s just like any other IV infusion. You just sit there and chill out or sleep. Yes, sometimes having an IV in your arm can cause some mild discomfort. BUT IT IS NOT SUPPOSED TO FEEL LIKE BURNING. PLEASE IMMEDIATELY TELL THE NURSE IF IT FEELS LIKE BURNING. I’m sorry for yelling but really, you need to tell your nurses and doctors if stuff hurts that’s not supposed to hurt, and how are you supposed to know it’s not supposed to hurt if you read a whole stack of books telling you in the most graphic and gratuitous ways that it does hurt?

That said, over a long period of time, chemo infusions can damage your veins. That’s why they’re not generally done through IVs anymore, but through ports. I explained this to my partner, and he said that in the book, the girl refused to have a port because it sounded weird, and her doctor didn’t try to reassure her, explain how it works, or warn her about the drawbacks of IVs for chemo. You know, informed consent. Okay then, guess we’re going for damaged veins and a hell of a malpractice lawsuit.

I’m glad my partner and I had this conversation so that he didn’t have to go into this thinking that I have to spend two hours in excruciating pain every two weeks for four straight months. Vicarious trauma in caregivers is a thing, just like the vicarious trauma I’m experiencing from reading these things that never even actually happened.

Sometimes when I talk about sensationally unrealistic portrayals of cancer treatment in YA literature, I’m told that somebody’s friend somewhere had cancer and their doctor WAS totally terrible, and their pain was not managed in any way, and they were NOT warned about obvious things like nausea or hair loss, and they WERE told to just suck it up and deal. Yeah, it happens. Some doctors are totally terrible, and until recently many cancer treatment protocols really didn’t care about side effects, and sometimes people are told to suck it up even when relief is totally available.

And it would be one thing if these types of stories effectively prepared young people to deal with such things in real life. But they don’t.

Because the way you deal isn’t by internalizing the idea that your suffering is inevitable and this is just how things are going to be. The way you deal is by learning how to advocate for yourself when possible, and developing resilience and coping skills for the rest.

That starts with knowing that 1) you can and should tell your doctor about all of the side effects and discomfort you’re experiencing; 2) you’re allowed to ask your nurses, techs, and doctors ALL of the questions you want; and 3) lots of procedures and treatments can be altered to make them more tolerable for you, but they won’t be unless you ask.

For instance, my entire treatment team knows about my medical phobia and how it works. (I should note that this phobia is improving significantly now that I have to confront it constantly.) That’s why they often have on hand ice packs and smelling salts in case I start passing out, and they usually find a way to prop my feet up to reduce the chances that that happens. I’ve been prescribed an anxiety medication that I take before procedures, including chemo, and a topical lidocaine cream, which I use beforehand to reduce the sensation of needle sticks. (It’s not that I mind the pain itself; it’s that the pain triggers the panic reaction.) My nurses know not to tell me any unnecessary details about what they’re doing, and they expect to see me put my eye mask on so I don’t see what they’re doing, either.

As a result, I don’t have to deal with uncontrollable panic attacks, and my nurses and techs don’t have to waste their valuable time waking up my unconscious ass and waiting for me to stop sobbing. All I had to do was ask.

I’m sure someone’s going to ask me if I think that authors just shouldn’t write about teenagers dying of cancer or suffering through treatment thereof, but as always, I find that question boring. No, I don’t advocate censorship. Anyone should be able to write (almost) whatever they want. Free speech. Next.

A question I find more interesting is: Do authors who write for young people have a responsibility to try to write in a way that makes their lives suck less rather than more? I think the answer is yes. And as a young cancer patient—so, exactly the person that these books are supposedly for—I can tell you that irresponsibly-written cancer narratives contributed to making my life an unbelievable living hell when I was first diagnosed. I was having flashbacks to stuff that never happened to me or to anyone else. I still do, sometimes.

So much of the pain and misery that comes with a cancer diagnosis is unavoidable. This was completely avoidable.

Of course, there’s a good chance that despite patronizing claims to the contrary, most YA novels about cancer aren’t really meant to prepare young people for anything other than fetishizing and gawking at other people’s pain. Yes, there are some that encourage empathy, too—I do think that The Fault in Our Stars is well-written in that way.

But the fact is that most young people—most people—aren’t going to get cancer. Most people are only going to know someone who does, and maybe the more painful and horrific they think the treatment is, the more they will sympathize, and the more they will help, and the more grateful they will be that it wasn’t them.

So, what I should’ve realized during that agonizing first week is that those traumatizing books were never even written for me. They stopped being for me the moment I got that phone call.

Which is too bad, because I could’ve used a book that could guide me through it. A book that’s honest about the experience of cancer, in all of its horror but also in its mundanity, its potential for nerdiness and curiosity, and even its moments of transcendent clarity. I’m never one to sugarcoat, but even I’ll admit that it’s not just some endless parade of painful side effects, hair loss, and needles. In with all of that bullshit you also get your teenage brother always hugging you super tight and not letting go until you do, and watching the people in your life come through for you in the most extraordinary ways, and having your cat insist on sitting on your surgery incision which hurts but also oh my god she really thinks she’s healing me, and dancing naked–truly naked, no cap or wig–to Christmas music while decorating the tree because it’s almost the end of the chemo cycle and I feel fine, and getting to do physical therapy in a sweet heated pool that the hospital has and floating in that pool and letting the back of your head rest in the water until you don’t hear anything anymore and it’s all OKAY for a goddamn second.

Nobody wrote that book for me. Maybe after I kick this thing, I’m going to write it myself.


A thought that occurs to me that I didn’t find a way to stick anywhere into this essay: YA novels about cancer focus disproportionately on death. I mean, yes, to state the obvious, cancer can be fatal. I don’t think we really need to belabor this point. But did you know that the 5-year survival rate for all childhood cancers combined is 81%? Did you know that the 5-year survival rate for breast cancer, which is the most common cancer, is 90%, and for prostate cancer, the second-most common, it’s 100%? These statistics are from 2006, which means that they’re probably even higher now. (Except prostate cancer. Sorry, probably not much improvement to be made on that one.)

DID YOU ALSO KNOW THAT THE HPV VACCINE PREVENTS UP TO 70% OF CERVICAL CANCERS AND THAT YOUNG ADULTS URGENTLY NEED TO KNOW THIS FACT

And how many of the cancer books I read contained even a little fucking blurb in the back about breast self-exams? Zero. A breast self-exam saved my life. I rest my case.


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Sicklit Literally Traumatized Me
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So Your Friend’s Just Been Diagnosed With Cancer

Lost? Confused? Me too. I was just as surprised to be diagnosed with breast cancer at the ripe ol’ age of 26 as most of my friends and family were.

Here are a few things I’ve learned so far about what’s helpful and what isn’t when it comes to receiving support from people. Obviously, I only speak for my own experience here, but you’d probably hear a lot of similar things from other cancer patients.


1. Read/listen carefully to what we say.

Since I draw so much of my strength from writing, I turned to it immediately when I got my diagnosis–not just to talk about my feelings and experiences, but also to express what I needed from people who wanted to help. I wrote out detailed instructions and set clear boundaries. (As did my roommate, who started a Facebook group with some of my other friends and used it to coordinate support.)

Nevertheless, both of us were often swamped with questions that could easily have been answered by reading what we’d posted. People repeatedly asked for my address, gift preferences, dietary needs, and other stuff that my roommate had clearly addressed in multiple posts. It was, honestly, really frustrating. I understand that all of this is hard and that paying attention to written text can be hard and being a human is hard. But surviving the first few weeks of a cancer diagnosis is especially hard, so please make it easier on your newly-diagnosed friend by being attentive to what they’re telling you.

2. Don’t inundate us with irrelevant and overly-specific questions about gifts.

On a related note, it was pretty overwhelming when, within the first couple days of my diagnosis, comments and messages like these started pouring in: “Is there anything I can get you? Do you need hats? What color hats? What type of yarn? Do you like letters? Would it be okay to send a card? What’s your address? What kind of food do you like? Can I send cat photos?”

I 100% understand where this is coming from. People want to help, and they don’t want to help in ways that are harmful or unwanted, so they ask lots of questions about exactly what kind of help would be welcome.

But guys. I don’t care what color hat. Those first days, when I was still waiting for all my test results, I was facing the fact that I could be dying. I could find out that it’s metastatic, that I have a few months or years left, that I’m going to have to tell my 12-year-old sister that I’m fucking dying. I wanted to take these well-meaning people by the shoulders and shake them and tell them that I don’t care what color hat.

If you’re already making/doing something specific, such as knitting a hat, it’d be more helpful to ask, “Is there anything I should keep in mind when making this for you?” That’d be a good place for me to ask you to avoid Breast Cancer Pink, for instance. (Although, again–I really don’t care about stuff like that very much right now.)

Otherwise, I’d suggest directing these questions to a caregiver, such as the person’s partner(s), family, or closest friends.

3. And about those cat pictures…

I’m going to reiterate that I’m only speaking for myself here, and not for any other survivors or anyone else living with a serious illness, but boy howdy did it ever rub me the wrong way when people immediately wanted to send cat pictures following my diagnosis. Cat pictures are nice for when you’ve had a stressful day at work or you need to forget about political news for a bit. “Sorry to hear about the cancer, here’s my cute cat” doesn’t really work.

4. No medical advice. None. Nada.

In my opinion, giving unsolicited medical advice when you are not that person’s doctor is always wrong, for a variety of reasons. However, it’s especially wrong when the medical condition in question is both deadly and very poorly understood by most laypeople. (Seriously–I’ve learned a ton about cancer these past few weeks that I never would’ve known otherwise.)

For example, someone literally tried to tell me that there’s doubt that a prophylactic mastectomy is effective for preventing breast cancer. But according to all of my doctors and all of the information I could find on reliable websites, people with a genetic predisposition to breast cancer can reduce their risk by 90% if they have that surgery. Because I have the BRCA-1 gene mutation, my risk of developing a second breast cancer within 15 years is otherwise 33%. (My lifetime risk of developing breast cancer at all was 55-65%. So yeah, I wish I’d known that and gotten the surgery years ago.)

So please do not give me advice that could literally kill me. Thanks.

5. Keep talking to us about your own life and problems.

A lot of times when someone gets diagnosed with a serious illness, people around them start feeling like they shouldn’t talk about their own (comparatively) less severe issues. Please do talk about them! I mean, obviously take your cues from the seriously ill person, but in my experience, it’s comforting to listen to friends vent about work or people in their lives or whatever. Checking in before/while dumping heavy stuff on someone is always a good idea whether they have cancer or not.

6. Resist the urge to relate our struggles to yours.

This is often an issue when someone’s talking about a shitty thing they’re going through, but when it comes to stuff like cancer, it’s especially relevant. The morning sickness you had during pregnancy is not like the nausea folks have during chemo. Your choosing to shave your head for aesthetic reasons is not like having your hair fall out because cells in your body are being destroyed. Choosing to get breast implants is not at all like having to have a mastectomy and reconstruction. And so on.

Sometimes, folks with other serious illnesses besides cancer do have very relatable experiences. (For instance, I met someone who has to have chemo because of a totally non-cancer condition.) Otherwise, just center the experiences of the person who’s going through the serious illness.

Note that I do not mean it’s wrong to simply say, “Ugh, yeah, I have nausea every day from my psych meds” or “That sounds a lot like me when I was pregnant.” Of course some cancer-related experiences are going to resemble some non-cancer related experiences.

Where comparisons fall flat is when you’re trying to comfort or reassure someone, or when they’re trying to talk about their cancer and you keep changing the subject to your pregnancy. If I’m terrified of reconstruction surgery, you’re not going to be able to reassure me by reminding me that some people (whose choices I respect but completely do not understand, by the way) choose to get implants, because that experience is going to be completely different.

7. Remember that most side effects of chemo are invisible.

Cancer patients often talk about the dreaded “chemo brain,” which is the shitty mix of mental fog, fatigue, and executive dysfunction that often happens during chemo. Just because we’re not vomiting or bedridden doesn’t mean we’re not experiencing some pretty serious side effects.

For me, this means having a lot of trouble with time management. Sometimes time seems to pass way more quickly or slowly than I would expect. I have a very hard time processing things like “when do I need to start getting ready in order to leave early enough to arrive at Thing on time.” I’m pretty much late to everything these days. The fact that I’m often so tired that standing up feels impossible doesn’t help.

I try not to keep anyone waiting for too long, but it helps a lot when people are able to be flexible.

8. Look for the less obvious ways to help.

When someone gets diagnosed with cancer, people usually gravitate towards the most obvious, visible ways to help: making meals, giving gifts, and so on. I also got tons of invitations to come hang out at someone’s place. However, the most helpful thing for anyone whose condition involves fatigue and needing to sleep, eat, or take medication on very short notice is offers to hang out near my home, not yours.

Even when people offer rides (which is very helpful, by the way), there’s always the potential discomfort of having forgotten my anti-nausea meds at home or desperately needing a nap or getting hungry in someone’s house and not knowing what to do or running out of tissues. I love offers to go to a restaurant or coffee shop near my place, or hang out at home.

A good question to ask someone is, “Is there anything you need that folks haven’t been offering to help with?”

9. Please don’t take it personally if we don’t take you up on your offers to put us in touch with your cousin/grandmother/friend-of-a-friend who has/had cancer.

Sometimes it’s helpful to talk to people who’ve been through it; sometimes it’s not. Regardless, that’s why support groups exist, as well as tons of one-on-one peer support services. I’m not really comfortable with calling a total stranger on the phone to talk about cancer, especially when it’s someone at least twice my age (which it often is).

Every cancer is unique, but the experience of young breast cancer patients in particular is often quite different from that of older people, because ours tends to be more aggressive and difficult to treat, and we tend to have less material/social resources and support than older survivors do. Many of the older survivors I talked to told me quite cheerily that they simply had surgery and were back to their normal lives soon after. That’s not at all how it’s going to be for me–I have to have chemo, then surgery, then possibly radiation, and then ten years of hormone blockers, plus being constantly vigilant for symptoms of ovarian cancer, which I’m also at increased risk for and which has no reliable early detection methods. Not super helpful to talk to people who didn’t have to deal with most of that.

10. Mind the boundaries.

There’s something about getting diagnosed with cancer, and talking about it openly, that makes some people assume that our relationship is much closer than it really is. It was weird to have people I barely know telling me that they hope I visit their city so we can hang out, or to offer help with stuff that’s honestly really personal and not at all a part of my life that I’d normally share with them. (For instance: decisions about my breasts and what to do with them.)

It’s true that there are certain boundaries that come down out of necessity when you’re going through a serious illness; for instance, my parents now know a lot more about my health, body, and lifestyle than they would’ve known otherwise. But that’s because my parents are my primary caregivers. They need to know that stuff in order to take care of me. You, random person who added me on Facebook because you like my writing, are not my primary caregiver. If you wouldn’t normally talk to me about my breasts or expect me to include you in my travel plans, don’t do it now, either.

11. Unless otherwise stated, assume that your gift/gesture is received and welcome.

In most situations, it’s rude not to reply with a “thank you” when you’ve received a gift from someone. When you’re newly diagnosed with cancer, it’s not. When people message me with “Did you ever get my package?” or “So was that hat I sent a good fit?”, the message I get is that I should’ve made sure to reach out and let them know that I received the gift and that I like it (whether or not I actually did like it), even when my days are a messy jumble of medical tests and treatments.

Personally, I take gratitude very seriously and I’m keeping a notebook of everything kind anyone does for me so that I can properly thank them later. (The key word there is LATER: when I’m not in the middle of chemo, probably.) But this isn’t something you should expect of your friend with cancer. This isn’t a normal situation, so normal rules of etiquette don’t apply. If you know that you wouldn’t be happy to give this gift or offer this help without the validation of a personalized thank you, don’t give it.

12. Assume that other people are doing what you’re doing. 

While that’s not always true, it can help you avoid doing things that are going to frustrate your friend or make their life more stressful. The previous suggestion is a good example—one person asking if I’ve received their package may be okay, but multiple people asking gets really overwhelming. One person asking for detailed instructions on how to knit me a hat isn’t that big of a deal, but providing multiple people with instructions for multiple types of knitted items is way too much.

“What if everyone behaved the way I’m behaving” is a great question to ask ourselves in many situations because it’s a reminder that it’s not just about you, and your gift, and your need to be helpful, and your anxiety that your gift wasn’t appreciated enough.

For me, there’s no such thing as too many cards and letters, or too many texts that say “No need to respond to this, but I love you and I hope your treatment is going okay.”

13. Decide what kind of support YOU want to offer, and offer it.

It’s a cliche by now that “Let me know if you need anything!” isn’t a super helpful thing to say (not that I mind it—I just take it literally), but the way to really grok that is to understand that most struggling people would rather you help in ways that YOU want to help rather than turning yourself into a put-upon martyr at our beck and call. That’s not a dynamic healthy people like.

Ask yourself what kind of help would bring you joy to offer, and what kind of help you’re good at giving. Do you like mindless household tasks? Cooking? Taking care of pets and plants? Organizing fun distractions? Being a workout buddy? Figure it out, and then offer that.

Of course, there are some tasks that need to be done even if nobody particularly loves doing them. (Some horrific things I’ve heard about post-surgery recovery come to mind.) But these tasks are for caregivers, not concerned friends. My parents will be the ones to make the noble sacrifice here, not you.

14. Comfort in, dump out.

It’s a classic for a reason.


As I’ve reflected more on what I find helpful and what I don’t when it comes to receiving support from people, it occurs to me that the most irritating, upsetting, or tonedeaf responses are also the ones that seem like they’re covering up something else. I don’t want to presume and play psychoanalyst with people (that’s from 8 to 5 and with pay only), but sometimes it’s pretty clear that the person I’m interacting with 1) doesn’t know how to react when a friend has cancer, 2) realizes on some level that they don’t know, and 3) is panicking about this.

“Can I knit you something? Do you need hats? What are your favorite colors? Do you care which type of yarn?” often seems to be masking “I’m worried about you and I have no idea what I could possibly do to help.” “So did you get my package???” is maybe actually “I sent you this thing without asking first if you needed it and now I’m feeling awkward because maybe you didn’t need it or want it.” Unsolicited medical advice often means, “Cancer terrifies me and I’m trying to believe that if I do everything right it will never get me like it did you.”

Again–not necessarily. Not all the time.

But the further I get into this whole ordeal the more it feels like honesty and openness is the way to go–just like it is in almost every other situation we find ourselves in. I would rather hear that you care about me than answer a dozen questions about exactly how you can help. I would rather one silly card with poor handwriting than The One Perfect Gift That Will Make All This Go Away–because that doesn’t exist.

Send the card. Offer the practical household help. We’re all gonna be okay.


Two great books for those interested in learning more: There’s No Good Card For This and The Art of Comforting.


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So Your Friend’s Just Been Diagnosed With Cancer

There’s Nothing “Unfair” About Al Franken’s Resignation

Personal note: I’ve been mostly absent from blogging because I have cancer. Read all about it here.

[Content note: sexual violence]

Before I begin, I’d like to state for the record: it is Okay to have sad/upset/complicated feelings about the allegations against Al Franken and his subsequent decision to step down. That’s not what this is about. In fact, when it comes to me, it is Okay to have any feelings you want about anything. That’s my promise to you.

However, when we step outside of the realm of feelings and into the territory of attributions, ethical claims, moral reasoning, and outward behavior, it’s no longer anything-goes. Even if feelings underlie it.

I particularly disagree with claims that the political consequences Al Franken is now facing are “unfair.” It think this suggests some very skewed ideas about what fairness means, and under what conditions we can be expected to be our best selves.

In general, fairness means treating people and situations equally or equitably. If we would call upon a Republican with multiple credible allegations of sexual assault to resign, we should do the same to an equivalent Democrat. It would be unfair to call upon Roy Moore to resign, but not Al Franken. (Yes, the allegations against them differ in some significant ways, and sometimes this is important, but I don’t find it particularly important here. Assaulting adults is just as wrong as assaulting children.)

In some cases, fairness also means that if we have a contract with someone, spoken or unspoken, it would be unfair for one person to hold up their end of the contract and for the other to get out of having to do the same.

For instance, if it would be unfair to agree to a haircut at a salon and then refuse to pay even though the stylist has delivered the haircut promised. It would be unfair if you and your roommate have devised a chore schedule, but your roommate never does their share of the chores and you do. It would be unfair for a friend to expect me to listen to their problems, but when I have problems, they’re always mysteriously busy. (However, contrary to popular opinion, the way to make this situation fair is not to try to force the friend to listen to your problems. It’s to scale back or end the friendship until the situation feels fair to you. Consent is a thing.)

It’s weird to hear Al Franken’s resignation referred to as “unfair.” That implies that someone out there is not holding up their end of the bargain.

What people usually mean when they say this is that it’s unfair for Franken to “have” to resign when similar Republican politicians don’t. But rather than laying the blame for this unfairness solely onto Republicans and their constituents, they lay it much more directly onto the Democrats calling for Franken’s resignation even though his counterparts don’t “have” to resign.

To me, this is a backwards and morally bankrupt way of looking at things. It presumes that if Republicans had to resign when facing similar allegations, only then would it be fair for Democrats to have to do the same. Or, on the other hand, it would be fair if Franken’s resignation caused an equivalent Republican to resign as well.

But if you have used your position of power to take advantage of others, you deserve to lose that position—not in order to get anyone else to lose theirs too, and not as a goodwill concession towards those who already have, but because you have committed a crime, and you are not a fit or safe person to serve in this position. Sexual assault is a crime. Workplace sexual harassment is a crime. These things are also morally wrong. That’s why Franken should go. Republicans have nothing to do with it.

Sure, it admittedly does suck that Republicans rarely face consequences (or face them as seriously) as Democrats do in these situations. But that’s not “unfair.” There’s no “double standard.” The reason this pattern happens is because most Democratic voters don’t want to vote for confirmed sexual predators, whereas most Republicans are quite okay with this as long as he’s anti-choice and whatnot. That’s how you get Roy Moore.

I’ve heard folks say that they wouldn’t vote for Al Franken again because it would feel too icky, but they don’t want to see him “ousted.” But the fact that you wouldn’t vote for him again is exactly why he’s leaving.

So no, this isn’t a case of “they go low, we go high.” It’s not a double standard. It’s not “being better” than the Republicans. It’s not “eating our own.” It’s simply reading the fucking room, including the writing on the wall.

And if this is unfair, the only way for us as Democratic voters to make it fair is to commit to voting for candidates whose stance we support even if they are admitted/confirmed sexual predators. Then it would be “equal.”

So there’s no “unfairness” here, but there is an injustice—the injustice of conservative indifference to sexual violence and to human suffering in general. It’s the injustice of the just world fallacy, the injustice of harmful gendered thinking, the injustice of racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, Islamophobia, and everything else in that deplorable bucket.

And while I’m on this topic, I also disagree that Al Franken handled this any differently/better than your average powerful man accused of something terrible. Aside from his decision to resign (presumably for the reasons I discussed above), his response is typical. His resignation announcement comes with no apology, and it comes only after numerous credible accusations (including photographs) have been made. It wasn’t proactive. I don’t sense any genuine regret, remorse, or understanding from him. And I wouldn’t expect it—these men know that what they’re doing is wrong. A child knows it’s wrong.

I believe it’s utterly wrong for us to heap praise on people who have kept their intentional acts of harm towards those less powerful than them hidden for years or decades, continually deny them, deny the first accusations, and finally relent when “proof” appears and everyone clamors for resignation. This isn’t remorse, it’s not “learning and growing,” and it’s not accountability. It is, again, reading the room.

And when you consider the immense risk and labor that the accusers have to take on every single time one of these powerful men is brought down (and especially when they’re not), it’s even more unfair. Aside from surviving multiple incidents of sexual harassment and/or assault, these accusers risk their careers, relationships, privacy, and whatever healing they’ve managed to do every time they speak out. Many of them face serious consequences, much more severe than Al Franken or any other powerful sexual predator. Job loss, death threats, lost friends, reliving what happened to them.

I have yet to see a powerful predator “apologize” or oh-so-graciously decide to step down before detailed accounts of their behavior are posted all over the internet and in major media outlets; before the people whose opinions and bodies they actually respect start to get uncomfortable; before the petitions circulate. That’s because they don’t want to. Al Franken didn’t want to. He doesn’t want to be accountable. He has to, because his base demands it.

I refuse to call this pathetic attempt at faking empathy “remorse.” I do not respect Al Franken. I do not thank him for his “apology.”

Call me when a predator removes himself from a powerful position without dozens of survivors having to cut themselves open and bleed for our satisfaction first. Until then, frankly, I don’t give a damn.


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There’s Nothing “Unfair” About Al Franken’s Resignation