Vanity Fair's Women on Women

by Radhika Jones

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  Millennial women appear to be seeking recourse in electoral politics. To the vast majority of female millennials—nearly 70 percent—a candidate’s stance on gender equality is “extremely” or “very” important. (Among Democratic and Democrat-leaning millennial women, that number rises to 85 percent; among Republican and Republican-leaning women, it falls to 45.) “It’s important to me that candidates—male or female—put significant effort into at the very least trying to sympathize with the majority of women who know and understand the daily struggle of gender inequality,” wrote another Skimm survey respondent.

  Almost three-quarters of female millennials don’t think the Trump administration has taken adequate steps to address gender inequality during Donald Trump’s first year in office, and fewer than a quarter (24 percent) think Ivanka Trump has been an effective advocate for women’s issues in the White House. Those numbers are divided by party—61 percent of Republican-leaning millennial women do believe the Trump administration has sufficiently addressed gender inequality (among Democratic and Democrat-leaning women, just 9 percent say the same), and 63 percent of Republican-leaning millennial women do think Ivanka has been an effective advocate (only 9 percent of Democratic and Democrat-leaning women agree). Already, women on the left are mobilizing to express their dismay: of the 548 women running in House primaries, according to The New York Times, 424 are Democrats. “I think there’s a disgust,” Erin Vilardi, who runs VoteRunLead, told New York magazine in January. “There’s disgust very much about the abuse that men in power have systematically been engaging in unchecked, and disgust with the people who continue to keep those men in power.”

  The partisan nature of the debate suggests that while a strong stance on gender equality will attract Democratic voters, it could repel millennial women who see themselves as Republicans. But ignoring gender equality is unlikely to change those G.O.P. voters’ minds—if a candidate is vocally in favor of policies that address things like pay disparity and workplace sexual harassment, they’re likely to favor a whole suite of policies that are traditionally less attractive to Republicans. For most voters, then, gender equality isn’t a deciding issue, but that doesn’t mean it should be brushed under the rug. Instead, the challenge lies in making it a nonpartisan one.

  (In 2018, a record number of women, 127, were elected or appointed to serve in the 116th Congress, including more than three dozen new members.)

  WHY I DECIDED TO RUN

  Lucy McBath | April 2018

  We think of ourselves in different stages of life using many different adjectives. I have been a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, a friend. Candidate for Congress was never really part of the lexicon. Years ago, as a flight attendant with Delta Air Lines, my goals in life were much like anyone else’s in America: to be a good mother, to teach my son to be a compassionate man who would share his worth with the world, and perhaps to walk him down the aisle on his wedding day. Those simple dreams ended the day after Thanksgiving of 2012. My son, Jordan Davis, was shot and killed while sitting in the back seat of a friend’s car at a gas station, listening to music. The man who killed my son opened fire on four unarmed teenagers because he said the music was too loud. That man felt empowered by the stand-your-ground statute.

  Overnight, I went from suburban mom to activist seeking justice for Jordan. I had witnessed what happened to [17-year-old Florida high-school student] Trayvon Martin and how, bit by bit, the defense in [neighborhood watch captain] George Zimmerman’s case worked to dehumanize the young man who was walking home from a convenience store. While Jordan’s shooter was initially found guilty on three counts of attempted murder, the first-degree murder charge ended in a mistrial. In an October 2014 re-trial, however, the shooter was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison.

  Losing my son in such a senseless way fueled my lifelong commitment to community activism and my sense of the importance of political engagement, both of which run in the family. My father was the Illinois branch president of the N.A.A.C.P. for more than 20 years and served on its national board. As a child, I traveled with my family attending marches and rallies supporting the civil-rights movement and the coalitions of organizations fighting alongside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

  After losing Jordan, I became the national spokesperson and faith and outreach leader for Everytown for Gun Safety and Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America. While it was terrible at first, I’ve learned that sharing my personal story has, thankfully, made an impact. One of the most effective ways to inform and persuade people is by telling them about your first-person experience. It’s a credential I wish upon no one, but I’ve found solace and purpose through my fight. We need more common-sense solutions to difficult problems.

  In my work, I’ve shared my story with Congress, governors, legislators, pastors, voters, and neighbors. The people I’ve spoken with, particularly in Georgia, have inspired me and taught me a lot. In their homes and churches, on their doorsteps and on the phone, over and over people have said that what’s missing in politics today is leadership. Voters are looking for elected officials to have the courage to break through the blaring, divisive rhetoric and come together to forge common-sense change for the common good. In the weeks since the [school-shooting] tragedy in Parkland [Florida], we’ve all witnessed the reaction from Washington. It’s been much the same as the response after every other mass shooting.

  It’s not time to have the debate.

  Let’s wait and see.

  It isn’t the time to act.

  What has inspired me the most after Parkland is the students. These young folks are stepping up and have—quite literally—mobilized for their lives. From an early age, I taught Jordan that he possessed the power to effect change in a world where he might, as an African American, be unfairly judged thanks to preconceived biases. I’d like to think these students are making the change that he cannot.

  So, with much prayer and reflection, I’ve decided to run for Congress in my home district of Georgia’s 6th. I am running so that I may humbly offer my voice in this debate for the safety, security, and hope of prosperity for my neighbors in Georgia and across the country. I qualified to run on International Women’s Day—a happy coincidence for me considering women are often told it isn’t their “time.”

  My work moving the discussion forward in gun-violence prevention—through dialogue and, even more important, through listening—is how I will uniquely approach other important issues as well. My story doesn’t begin or even end with one subject. I am passionate about access to women’s health care; as a two-time breast cancer survivor, I know how critical it is for women to have access to preventative care, including mammograms. A more stable family—and overall society—can be measured by the health and well-being of women and children. And the economic and social advancement of women depends on coverage. On the campaign trail, I will be sharing my experience and discussing how it directly contrasts with the experience of our current member of Congress.

  As a flight attendant, I’ve met tens of thousands of Americans from all walks of life traveling for all sorts of reasons—it’s often said that the journey, and not the destination, is what matters. I know that my final destination is a reunion with my son. As for the journey, I’m constantly amazed at how my life has transformed. I am a daughter and a mother. I am a sister and a friend. I am an advocate. And now, I am a candidate. I am humbled to be all of these. There was a time when I thought my life was over. But a new path forward has opened. In sharing my story, I will embrace the journey and seek comfort in the ultimate destination.

  (McBath won her Congressional race. In 2019, she began representing Georgia’s 6th district in the U.S. House of Representatives.)

  #METOO AND ME

  Monica Lewinsky | March 2018

  How do I know him? Where have I seen him? The Man in the Hat looked familiar,
I thought, as I peered over at him a second time.

  It was Christmas Eve 2017. My family and I were about to be seated at a quaint restaurant in Manhattan’s West Village. We had just come from Gramercy Park—on the one night each year when the exclusive park (accessible only to nearby residents with special keys) opens its gates to outsiders. There had been carols. People had sung with abandon. In short, it was a magical night. I was happy.

  Amid the glow of candles and soft lighting, I strained to look again at the Man in the Hat. He was part of a small group that had just exited the main dining room. They were now gathering their belongings, likely vacating what was to be our table. And then it clicked. He looks just like . . . no, couldn’t be. Could it?

  A student of Karma, I found myself seizing the moment. Whereas a decade ago I would have turned and fled the restaurant at the prospect of being in the same place as this man, many years of personal-counseling work (both trauma-specific and spiritual) had led me to a place where I now embrace opportunities to move into spaces that allow me to break out of old patterns of retreat or denial.

  At the same moment I stepped toward the Man in the Hat and began to ask, “You’re not . . . ?,” he stepped toward me with a warm, incongruous smile and said, “Let me introduce myself. I’m Ken Starr.” An introduction was indeed necessary. This was, in fact, the first time I had met him.

  I found myself shaking his hand even as I struggled to decipher the warmth he evinced. After all, in 1998, this was the independent prosecutor who had investigated me, a former White House intern; the man whose staff, accompanied by a group of F.B.I. agents (Starr himself was not there), had hustled me into a hotel room near the Pentagon and informed me that unless I cooperated with them I could face 27 years in prison. This was the man who had turned my 24-year-old life into a living hell in his effort to investigate and prosecute President Bill Clinton on charges that would eventually include obstruction of justice and lying under oath—lying about having maintained a long-term extramarital relationship with me.

  Ken Starr asked me several times if I was “doing O.K.” A stranger might have surmised from his tone that he had actually worried about me over the years. His demeanor, almost pastoral, was somewhere between avuncular and creepy. He kept touching my arm and elbow, which made me uncomfortable.

  I turned and introduced him to my family. Bizarre as it may sound, I felt determined, then and there, to remind him that, 20 years before, he and his team of prosecutors hadn’t hounded and terrorized just me but also my family—threatening to prosecute my mom (if she didn’t disclose the private confidences I had shared with her), hinting that they would investigate my dad’s medical practice, and even deposing my aunt, with whom I was eating dinner that night. And all because the Man in the Hat, standing in front of me, had decided that a frightened young woman could be useful in his larger case against the president of the United States.

  Understandably, I was a bit thrown. (It was also confusing for me to see “Ken Starr” as a human being. He was there, after all, with what appeared to be his family.) I finally gathered my wits about me—after an internal command of Get it together. “Though I wish I had made different choices back then,” I stammered, “I wish that you and your office had made different choices, too.” In hindsight, I later realized, I was paving the way for him to apologize. But he didn’t. He merely said, with the same inscrutable smile, “I know. It was unfortunate.”

  It had been nearly 20 years since 1998. The next month would mark the 20th anniversary of the Starr investigation expanding to include me. The 20th anniversary of my name becoming public for the first time. And the 20th anniversary of an annus horribilis that would almost end Clinton’s presidency, consume the nation’s attention, and alter the course of my life.

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  If I have learned anything since then, it is that you cannot run away from who you are or from how you’ve been shaped by your experiences. Instead, you must integrate your past and present. As Salman Rushdie observed after the fatwa was issued against him, “Those who do not have power over the story that dominates their lives, power to retell it, rethink it, deconstruct it, joke about it, and change it as times change, truly are powerless, because they cannot think new thoughts.” I have been working toward this realization for years. I have been trying to find that power—a particularly Sisyphean task for a person who has been gaslighted.

  To be blunt, I was diagnosed several years ago with post-traumatic stress disorder, mainly from the ordeal of having been publicly outed and ostracized back then. My trauma expedition has been long, arduous, painful, and expensive. And it’s not over. (I like to joke that my tombstone will read, MUTATIS MUTANDIS—“With Changes Being Made.”)

  But as I find myself reflecting on what happened, I’ve also come to understand how my trauma has been, in a way, a microcosm of a larger, national one. Both clinically and observationally, something fundamental changed in our society in 1998, and it is changing again as we enter the second year of the Trump presidency in a post-Cosby-Ailes-O’Reilly-Weinstein-Spacey-Whoever-Is-Next world. The Starr investigation and the subsequent impeachment trial of Bill Clinton amounted to a crisis that Americans arguably endured collectively—some of us, obviously, more than others. It was a shambolic morass of a scandal that dragged on for 13 months, and many politicians and citizens became collateral damage—along with the nation’s capacity for mercy, measure, and perspective.

  Certainly, the events of that year did not constitute a war or a terrorist attack or a financial recession. They didn’t constitute a natural catastrophe or a medical pandemic or what experts refer to as “Big T” traumas. But something had shifted nonetheless. And even after the Senate voted in 1999 to acquit President Clinton on two articles of impeachment, we could not escape the sense of upheaval and partisan division that lingered, settled in, and stayed.

  Maybe you remember or have heard stories about how “the scandal” saturated television and radio; newspapers, magazines, and the Internet; Saturday Night Live and the Sunday-morning opinion programs; dinner-party conversation and watercooler discussions; late-night monologues and political talk shows (definitely the talk shows). In The Washington Post alone, there were 125 articles written about this crisis—in just the first 10 days. Many parents felt compelled to discuss sexual issues with their children earlier than they might have wanted to. They had to explain why “lying”—even if the president did it—was not acceptable behavior.

  The press was navigating unexplored terrain, too. Anonymous sources seemed to emerge almost daily with new (and often false or meaningless) revelations. There was a new commingling of traditional news, talk radio, tabloid television, and online rumor mills (fake news, anyone?). With the introduction of the World Wide Web (in 1992–93) and two new cable news networks (Fox News and MSNBC in 1996), the lines began to blur between fact and opinion, news and gossip, private lives and public shaming. The Internet had become such a propulsive force driving the flow of information that when the Republican-led Judiciary Committee of the House of Representatives decided to publish Ken Starr’s commission’s “findings” online—just two days after he had delivered them—it meant that (for me personally) every adult with a modem could instantaneously peruse a copy and learn about my private conversations, my personal musings (lifted from my home computer), and, worse yet, my sex life.

  Americans young and old, red and blue, watched day and night. We watched a beleaguered president and the embattled and often disenchanted members of his administration as they protected him. We watched a First Lady and First Daughter move through the year with grit and grace. We watched a special prosecutor get pilloried (though some thought he deserved it). We watched an American family—my family—as a mother was forced to testify against her child and as a father was forced to take his daughter to be fingerprinted at the Federal Building. We watched the wholesale dissection of a young, unknown woman—me
—who, due to legal quarantine, was unable to speak out on her own behalf.

  How, then, to get a handle, today, on what exactly happened back then?

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  One useful viewpoint is that of cognitive linguist George Lakoff. In his book Moral Politics: What Conservatives Know That Liberals Don’t, Lakoff observes that the connective fiber of our country is often best represented through the metaphor of family: e.g., “our Founding Fathers,” “Uncle Sam,” the concept of sending our sons and daughters to war. Lakoff goes on to argue that, “for conservatives, the nation is conceptualized (implicitly and unconsciously) as a Strict Father family and, for liberals, as a Nurturant Parent family.” Addressing the scandal itself, he asserts that Clinton was widely perceived as “the naughty child” and that, in line with the filial metaphor, “a family matter [had turned] into an affair of state.” Thus, in many ways, the crack in the foundation of the presidency was also a crack in our foundation at home. Moreover, the nature of the violation—an extramarital relationship—struck at the heart of one of humanity’s most complicated moral issues: infidelity. (You’ll forgive me if I leave that topic right there.)

  The result, I believe, was that in 1998 the person to whom we would typically turn for reassurance and comfort during a national crisis was remote and unavailable. The country, at that stage, had no consistent, Rooseveltian voice of calm or reason or empathy to make sense of the chaos. Instead, our Nurturer in Chief, because of his own actions as much as the subterfuge of his enemies, was a figurative “absent father.”