Vanity Fair's Women on Women

by Radhika Jones

  As a society, we went through this together. And ever since, the scandal has had an epigenetic quality, as if our cultural DNA has slowly been altered to ensure its longevity. If you can believe it, there has been at least one significant reference in the press to that unfortunate spell in our history every day for the past 20 years. Every. Single. Day.

  The fog of 1998 has lodged in our consciousness for many reasons. The Clintons have remained pivotal political figures on the global stage. Their disparagement has been vigorously abetted by “this vast right-wing conspiracy,” as Hillary Clinton famously put it. And the Clinton presidency segued into a bitter electoral deadlock: the contested Bush v. Gore showdown, which would usher in an era so turbulent that it would leave the lessons of the Clinton years altogether murky. In succession came the unthinkable (the attacks of September 11, 2001), protracted conflicts (the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan), the Great Recession, a state of perpetual gridlock in Washington, and then the daily bedlam central to Trumpism. No matter how these subsequent events dwarfed the impeachment and subsumed our attention, maybe, just maybe, the long, unimpeded derivation of this drama, ever since, is partly the result of 1998 having been a year of unremitting crisis that we all endured but never actually resolved—a low-grade collective trauma, perhaps?

  I discussed this idea with psychologist Jack Saul, founding director of New York’s International Trauma Studies Program and author of Collective Trauma, Collective Healing. “Collective trauma,” he told me, “usually refers to the shared injuries to a population’s social ecology due to a major catastrophe or chronic oppression, poverty, and disease. While the events of 1998 in the United States do not fit neatly into such a definition, they may have led to some of the features we often associate with collective traumas: social rupturing and a profound sense of distress, the challenging of long-held assumptions about the world and national identity, a constricted public narrative, and a process of scapegoating and dehumanization.”

  Until recently (thank you, Harvey Weinstein), historians hadn’t really had the perspective to fully process and acknowledge that year of shame and spectacle. And as a culture, we still haven’t properly examined it. Re-framed it. Integrated it. And transformed it. My hope, given the two decades that have passed, is that we are now at a stage where we can untangle the complexities and context (maybe even with a little compassion), which might help lead to an eventual healing—and a systemic transformation. As Haruki Murakami has written, “When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” Who were we then? Who are we now?

  * * *

  —

  I’m so sorry you were so alone.” Those seven words undid me. They were written in a recent private exchange I had with one of the brave women leading the #MeToo movement. Somehow, coming from her—a recognition of sorts on a deep, soulful level—they landed in a way that cracked me open and brought me to tears. Yes, I had received many letters of support in 1998. And, yes (thank God!), I had my family and friends to support me. But by and large I had been alone. So. Very. Alone. Publicly Alone—abandoned most of all by the key figure in the crisis, who actually knew me well and intimately. That I had made mistakes, on that we can all agree. But swimming in that sea of Aloneness was terrifying.

  Isolation is such a powerful tool to the subjugator. And yet I don’t believe I would have felt so isolated had it all happened today. One of the most inspiring aspects of this newly energized movement is the sheer number of women who have spoken up in support of one another. And the volume in numbers has translated into volume of public voice. Historically, he who shapes the story (and it is so often a he) creates “the truth.” But this collective rise in decibel level has provided a resonance for women’s narratives. If the Internet was a bête noire to me in 1998, its stepchild—social media—has been a savior for millions of women today (notwithstanding all the cyberbullying, online harassment, doxing, and slut-shaming). Virtually anyone can share her or his #MeToo story and be instantly welcomed into a tribe. In addition, the democratizing potential of the Internet to open up support networks and penetrate what used to be closed circles of power is something that was unavailable to me back then. Power, in that case, remained in the hands of the president and his minions, the Congress, the prosecutors, and the press.

  There are many more women and men whose voices and stories need to be heard before mine. (There are even some people who feel my White House experiences don’t have a place in this movement, as what transpired between Bill Clinton and myself was not sexual assault, although we now recognize that it constituted a gross abuse of power.) And yet, everywhere I have gone for the past few months, I’ve been asked about it. My response has been the same: I am in awe of the sheer courage of the women who have stood up and begun to confront entrenched beliefs and institutions. But as for me, my history, and how I fit in personally? I’m sorry to say I don’t have a definitive answer yet on the meaning of all of the events that led to the 1998 investigation; I am unpacking and reprocessing what happened to me. Over and over and over again.

  For two decades, I have been working on myself, my trauma, and my healing. And, naturally, I have grappled with the rest of the world’s interpretations and Bill Clinton’s re-interpretations of what happened. But in truth, I have done this at arm’s length. There have been so many barriers to this place of self-reckoning.

  The reason this is difficult is that I’ve lived for such a long time in the House of Gaslight, clinging to my experiences as they unfolded in my 20s and railing against the untruths that painted me as an unstable stalker and Servicer in Chief. An inability to deviate from the internal script of what I actually experienced left little room for re-evaluation; I cleaved to what I “knew.” So often have I struggled with my own sense of agency versus victimhood. (In 1998, we were living in times in which women’s sexuality was a marker of their agency—“owning desire.” And yet, I felt that if I saw myself as in any way a victim, it would open the door to choruses of: “See, you did merely service him.”)

  What it means to confront a long-held belief (one clung to like a life raft in the middle of the ocean) is to challenge your own perceptions and allow the pentimento painting that is hidden beneath the surface to emerge and be seen in the light of a new day.

  * * *

  —

  Given my PTSD and my understanding of trauma, it’s very likely that my thinking would not necessarily be changing at this time had it not been for the #MeToo movement—not only because of the new lens it has provided but also because of how it has offered new avenues toward the safety that comes from solidarity. In 2014, in an essay for Vanity Fair, I wrote the following: “Sure, my boss took advantage of me, but I will always remain firm on this point: it was a consensual relationship. Any ‘abuse’ came in the aftermath, when I was made a scapegoat in order to protect his powerful position.” I now see how problematic it was that the two of us even got to a place where there was a question of consent. Instead, the road that led there was littered with inappropriate abuse of authority, station, and privilege. (Full stop.)

  Now, at 44, I’m beginning (just beginning) to consider the implications of the power differentials that were so vast between a president and a White House intern. I’m beginning to entertain the notion that in such a circumstance the idea of consent might well be rendered moot. (Although power imbalances—and the ability to abuse them—do exist even when the sex has been consensual.)

  But it’s also complicated. Very, very complicated. The dictionary definition of “consent”? “To give permission for something to happen.” And yet what did the “something” mean in this instance, given the power dynamics, his position, and my age? Was the “something” just about crossing a line of sexual (and later emotional) intimacy? (An intimacy I wanted—with a 22-year-old’s limited understanding of the consequences.) He was my boss. He was the most powerful man on the plane
t. He was 27 years my senior, with enough life experience to know better. He was, at the time, at the pinnacle of his career, while I was in my first job out of college. (Note to the trolls, both Democratic and Republican: none of the above excuses me for my responsibility for what happened. I meet Regret every day.)

  “This” (sigh) is as far as I’ve gotten in my re-evaluation; I want to be thoughtful. But I know one thing for certain: part of what has allowed me to shift is knowing I’m not alone anymore. And for that I am grateful.

  I—we—owe a huge debt of gratitude to the #MeToo and Time’s Up heroines. They are speaking volumes against the pernicious conspiracies of silence that have long protected powerful men when it comes to sexual assault, sexual harassment, and abuse of power.

  Thankfully, Time’s Up is addressing the need women have for financial resources to help defray the huge legal costs involved in speaking out. But there is another cost to consider. For many, the Reckoning has also been a re-triggering. Sadly, what I see with every new allegation, and with every posting of “#MeToo,” is another person who may have to cope with the re-emergence of trauma. My hope is that through Time’s Up (or, perhaps, another organization) we can begin to meet the need for the resources that are required for the kind of trauma therapy vital for survival and recovery. Regrettably, it’s often only the privileged who can afford the time and the money to get the help they deserve.

  Through all of this, during the past several months, I have been repeatedly reminded of a powerful Mexican proverb: “They tried to bury us; they didn’t know we were seeds.”

  Spring has finally sprung.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  EDITOR IN CHIEF Radhika Jones

  V.F. BOOKS EDITOR David Friend

  ASSOCIATE EDITOR Mary Alice Miller

  We gratefully acknowledge our partners at Penguin Books, including Ann Godoff, president of Penguin Press; Scott Moyers, publisher; Virginia Smith Younce, editor; Caroline Sydney, editorial assistant; Colleen Boyle, publicist; and Grace Fisher, marketing specialist.

  Editorial guidance was provided by Dale Brauner, David Gendelman, and Robert Walsh.

  We sincerely thank Chris Mitchell, Caryn Prime, Geoff Collins, and Dan Adler (Vanity Fair), Christopher P. Donnellan and Tamara Kobin (Condé Nast Business Affairs and Rights Management), and Andrew Wylie, Jeffrey Posternak, Jessica Calagione, and Mia Vitale of the Wylie Agency.

  CONTRIBUTORS

  CARI BEAUCHAMP, a Vanity Fair contributor, is an author, historian, and filmmaker, who adapted her biography of screenwriter Frances Marion into the documentary film Without Lying Down, which earned her a Writers Guild Award nomination. Her documentary The Day My God Died, about Nepal and India’s sex-trade industry, was nominated for an Emmy. Beauchamp, the author of six books, has written for Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, The New York Times, and the Los Angeles Times. She is currently the resident scholar of the Mary Pickford Foundation.

  LESLIE BENNETTS, named a V.F. contributing editor in 1988, has profiled numerous celebrities for the magazine, among them Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt, Hillary Clinton, Julianne Moore, and Jordan’s Queen Noor and Queen Rania. Her article about the sexual abuse of children by members of the Catholic clergy was nominated for a National Magazine Award. Bennetts was a longtime reporter at The New York Times, becoming the first woman at the publication to cover a presidential campaign. She is the author of The Feminine Mistake and Last Girl Before Freeway: The Life, Loves, Losses, and Liberation of Joan Rivers.

  Since 1984, V.F. writer-at-large MARIE BRENNER has written hard-hitting profiles of public figures (such as Roy Cohn and Donald Trump), retrospective pieces (Clare Boothe [Brokaw] Luce, Pamela Harriman), and investigative stories on legal, financial, and medical scandals (Bernie Madoff, Enron, the NuvaRing contraceptive). Her article on tobacco-industry whistleblower Jeffrey Wigand became the basis for the Oscar-nominated movie The Insider. Her reporting on war correspondent Marie Colvin was adapted into the 2018 feature film A Private War. Brenner is the author of eight books, including the memoir Apples and Oranges: My Brother and Me, Lost and Found.

  TINA BROWN was the editor in chief of Vanity Fair from 1984 to 1992 and of The New Yorker from 1992 to 1998. After her tenure in magazines, during which her publications won four George Polk Awards, five Overseas Press Club awards, and a slew of National Magazine Awards, she became the founding editor of Talk magazine and then The Daily Beast. She is the author of Life As a Party, The Diana Chronicles, and, most recently, The Vanity Fair Diaries. Brown, an inductee to the Magazine Editors’ Hall of Fame, runs Tina Brown Live Media.

  JANET COLEMAN, who began her career at Partisan Review and The New York Review of Books, is the author of The Compass: The Improvisational Theater That Revolutionized American Comedy; Mingus/Mingus: Two Memoirs (with Al Young); and many articles for publications such as Vanity Fair on game-changing figures in the comedy world. She is one of playwright-director Richard Maxwell’s New York City Players and a producer and host for Pacifica Radio.

  AMY FINE COLLINS, a Vanity Fair special correspondent, has been contributing to the magazine since 1990. Her beats have included style, design, larger-than-life personalities, and vintage Hollywood. She has profiled fashion legends Coco Chanel, Pauline Trigère, and Diana Vreeland, among many others, as well as golden-age movie luminaries, from Claudette Colbert to Edith Head. One of the fashion arbiters who has coordinated the International Best-Dressed List, Collins was previously style editor for House & Garden and style editor at large for Harper’s Bazaar. She is the author of, among other titles, American Impressionism and The God of Driving.

  MAUREEN DOWD, a Vanity Fair contributor, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in Commentary for her work with The New York Times. She joined the staff of the Times in 1983 and started writing her Sunday column for the newspaper in 1995. A veteran of The Washington Star and Time magazine, she has also served as the Times’s White House correspondent and as a contributor to both the Style Section and The New York Times Magazine. Dowd is the author of Bushworld, Are Men Necessary?, and The Year of Voting Dangerously.

  AMANDA FORTINI is a writer and a visiting lecturer at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, as well as a contributing editor of Elle magazine. Her work has appeared in Vanity Fair, The New York Times, The New Yorker, Rolling Stone, Paper, and California Sunday, among other publications. She has been an editor at Mirabella, The New York Review of Books, and Slate, and received a James Beard Foundation Journalism Award nomination.

  LAURA JACOBS served as a Vanity Fair contributing editor from 1995 to 2019. With a focus on culture and fashion, she has written for the magazine about film, dance, great artists of the twentieth century, and seminal mid-century American designers. She has also made a specialty of studying iconic women such as Mary McCarthy, Suzy Parker, Gypsy Rose Lee, Lilly Pulitzer, and three figures who appear in this book: Julia Child, Grace Kelly, and Emily Post. Jacobs, the author of six books of fiction and nonfiction, served as the editor in chief of Stagebill, writes for The Wall Street Journal, and is the dance critic at The New Criterion.

  MAYA KOSOFF covered technology for Vanity Fair’s Hive from 2016 to 2019. Her work has appeared in Business Insider, Slate, Inc., and Entrepreneur, and she has appeared on Good Morning America, Entertainment Tonight, CNBC’s Closing Bell, and Huffington Post Live.

  MONICA LEWINSKY is a social activist, public speaker, and a Vanity Fair contributing editor. As an ambassador and strategic advisor to the anti-bullying organization Bystander Revolution, she advocates for a safer social media environment and consults with companies concerned with online safety. Her P.S.A. with BBDO Studios, “In Real Life,” was nominated for a 2018 Emmy. Lewinsky’s 2014 V.F. essay, “Shame and Survival”—her first public examination of the Clinton scandal in nearly a decade—was nominated for a National Magazine Award.

  LUCY MCBATH is a member of the United States House of Representatives from Georgia’s 6th congr
essional district. McBath has been the national spokesperson for Everytown for Gun Safety and for Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America, and served as the faith-and-outreach leader for both organizations. In 2018, McBath was a featured speaker at the Vanity Fair Founders Fair.

  BETHANY MCLEAN, a one-time investment banking analyst at Goldman Sachs and former Fortune editor at large, is a longtime contributing editor at Vanity Fair. Her most recent book is Saudi America: The Truth About Fracking and How It’s Changing the World. Her 2001 story “Is Enron Overpriced?” was the first in a national publication to question Enron’s dealings. Following the company’s bankruptcy, McLean and Peter Elkind coauthored the book The Smartest Guys in the Room, which became the basis for the Oscar-nominated 2005 documentary of the same name.

  MAUREEN ORTH, a Vanity Fair special correspondent, has written for the magazine since 1988. She has profiled heads of state, such as Margaret Thatcher, covered the Washington political scene, and conducted in-depth investigations that brought to light allegations of sexual abuse and child abuse. She was nominated for a National Magazine Award for her story on Michael and Arianna Huffington. Orth is the author of The Importance of Being Famous and Vulgar Favors, which grew out of her reporting for the magazine and inspired the Emmy Award–winning limited series The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story.

  Prior to joining Vanity Fair in 1999, contributing editor LISA ROBINSON was a longtime music columnist for the New York Post and The New York Times Syndicate, the host of syndicated radio and cable TV programs, and edited several rock magazines. From 2000 to 2006, she produced Vanity Fair’s music portfolios. In addition to her regular “Hot Tracks” column, she has written cover stories on figures such as Beyoncé, Katy Perry, and Kendrick Lamar; major profiles on the likes of Eminem, U2, and Serge Gainsbourg; and oral histories of Motown, disco, and Laurel Canyon. She is the author of the 2014 memoir There Goes Gravity: A Life in Rock and Roll.