Cry Baby

Beware the Tears of an Asshole

This is a photo of Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh crying his face off at a job interview in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee on September 27, 2018.

Few of us can forget the crushing low of that day. When it was over, it felt like we had all witnessed an unspeakable act of violence, and then were forced to watch as the perp walked free. All on live TV. The rage was paralyzing. Personally, I became psychopathic; as I drove to pick up one of my kids that evening I considered running over a random man who was crossing the street. I’m not actually sure what stopped me.

Now, years — and untold degradations of women’s rights — later, this wet, crying mug is all I remember from that painful day. Scrunched and blotched. Strained and pained. I wonder how he thinks back on this hot-faced moment. Does he think he was a big man, despite the tears? Or does he wish to god he hadn’t cried, his voice cracking like a pubescent boy? Does he wonder, as he changes into his squash whites in the locker room, if Gorsuch thinks he’s a total pussy? Clarence Thomas probably does; he went through the same process (hijacked by a woman’s pesky accusations) without so much as a wince. Cool as a cucumber.

Christine Blasey Ford, the woman who was assaulted by Brett Kavanaugh at a John-Hughes-esque house party in July of 1982, just released a memoir, One Way Back, which details the havoc he has put her through over the past 40+ years. Like a set of torturous bookends, he has maligned both ends of her adult life; she’s had no choice but to live inside the margins of his entitled, psychotic temperament. And now, despite her bravery to testify not once but twice with the writing of this memoir, I fear we’ll soon see how easy it is to dismiss a woman’s story that becomes an obstacle in the path of an ambitious man. Again. 

“Man Upheld by Existing Power Structure” is not a notable headline. What is notable, however, is how many powerful men actually advance their careers by balling their eyes out like little babies, and what happens as a result. 

This photo shows an obvious truth: Brett Kavanaugh is a cry baby. He’s the one you remember from grade school; even the kid who peed in his pants was of a higher social order than the one who cried during the four square game. They were the worst. You remember — the tattler, the whiner, the brat. The one you wanted to absolutely pummel, and possibly did.

Humans cry as a way to manage pain — but, specifically, to have their needs met. Think of hunger, physical agony, or a Kathy Bates monologue in Fried Green Tomatoes. Most people cry and feel better. But here’s how it plays out for psychopaths like Brett Kavanaugh: he gets that little catch in his throat and his nose starts to sting. Without any way to control it, breathing becomes irregular and mucus starts to flow. (This is standard issue crying, by the way.) But then, there’s some Lamaze-style breathing to try to blow the feelings out of his system. A look of sheer panic. The feelings aren’t going away. Then lip quivering, chin wrinkling. The bad thoughts start compounding in his brain: I’m having emotions! Somebody help me! And then — now that the crying train has left the station — tears flow. Voice strains. The embarrassment is unavoidable. It feels like someone’s hands are around his throat and he has to fight back. So, as an act of self defense (and to cover up his shame) he gets angry. He unleashes some weapons-grade hostility at whoever brought about this episode and makes the crying their fault. Note: his needs will be met only by showing enough anger. Only then does he feel better; and (notably) the rage makes him appear strong.

Classic cry baby! With a psychotic adult twist.

So, what makes Brett Kavanaugh, a man who has an all-access pass to power, cry? Brett was told he was supposed to win — and he not only believes it, he thinks he deserves it. The child of powerful parents, Brett was being groomed for the kind of life available only to (male) beltway insiders. From a young age, he expected to be anointed without incident. And, out of nowhere, BAM!. Thwarted! Losing the spelling bee, the 50-yard dash, beer pong, a clerkship. Ambushed by someone smarter, better, faster, stronger. More popular. Or, worst of all, a woman.

 I’m gonna tell my dad on you! He probably said, sniveling. You’ll be sorry! So began many of his tantrums, I’d guess. Without the wherewithal to stop, tears would slide down his shiny face. Daddy would be told; needs would be met. All would be well.

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In 1974, an album came out that blew the minds of kids like me: Free to Be You and Me. Sitting cross-legged on the library floor, we’d listen to it as a class a couple of times a year well into the 1970s. It was a highlight of my otherwise monotonous education. On the crackly library record player with a built-in speaker, we learned that girls could be proud of being girls. That we didn’t have to do housework. That there were men out there as cool as Alan Alda, but that we didn’t have to marry them. That it was ok for boys to have dolls, and that it was ok for them to cry. These radical songs and stories were presented as truths — even though they stood in stark contrast to what we saw around us when we went back to our dreary, conventional classroom. For those few moments in the library, a utopia existed; and it became the thing I imagined I could create in my own life.

To a large extent, that has happened; I’ve filled my life with friends who are of the Free to Be You and Me ilk. They are absolutely the most incredible people and I’d braid their hair, too, if they’d let me. In fact, the girls who I sat with on that library rug (and acknowledged knowingly throughout the album) became the archetype for every single amazing female friend I’ve been lucky enough to have in my life. 

But, the boys? In my conservative-leaning, suburban Chicago public school, they were not enlightened about emotions or anything else. I’ll never know if John V., or Randy R., or Jim T., or Mike M., or Rodney A. or Scott L. (all complete assholes, all capable of the exact kinds of assaults that were perpetrated by Brett Kavanaugh) were actually helped by the classic song, It’s Alright to Cry during those library sessions. Did they have a soft spot for Rosey Grier, the 300-pound, 6’5” NY Giant defensive lineman who sang that having feelings was alright, even for a boy? I like to think they did, even if it was forgotten as they chased me home from school, or lifted up my skirt, or pushed me to the floor in the middle of music class. Grier is an overlooked hero of the 1970s. He also published a book about needlepoint for men, and was generations ahead of his time helping men get in touch with their feelings. Yes, their feelings — which isn’t the same as using feelings as a cudgel to get what you want. Perhaps Rosey Grier’s song made some small difference. Or perhaps it just made the girls believe that men would ever actually admit to being vulnerable. As if.

On September 27, 2018, a few amazing friends came over to my house to watch Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony. This is a picture of us holding up bottles of Coke — in solidarity — because of the Coke she drank during her testimony. It was an emotional day. We cried, we screamed. We thought At last! Someone is telling the truth about what happens. And then we watched Brett Kavanaugh scrunch up his lips and ball about how his father kept a fucking calendar and used to tell stories from it at Christmastime (wtf?). And we saw Chuck Grassley’s shriveled testicle of a face having sympathy for the dumb little cry baby. Everything went back to business as usual; I became briefly homicidal.

And Christine Blasey Ford became another victim of a crime that apparently was never committed.

It’s hard for men to fathom this fact: many, or possibly most, of the women you know have suffered, physically, at the hands of men. But, women do know this fact. It’s the thing we acknowledge when we look at each other, knowingly. It’s what we’re saying when we tell each other to be careful. Or are you ok? We don’t walk down streets that are dark. We hate getting into elevators. We don’t like parking garages. We don’t take the stairs in weird buildings. We lock the doors. We avoid being in rooms alone with men — without respect to age, or race, or whether we know them or not. We fear men because we have a reason to fear them. We have learned this through personal experience.

The testimony of September 27, 2018 was just another dark alley that we didn’t manage to get down. The exoneration of Kavanaugh by the Chuck Grassley’s and the Ted Cruz’s was their way of saying if he’s guilty of this, then we’re guilty of what we’ve done, too. Which, while not a notable headline, would be a briefly uncomfortable thing to explain to their constituents. Best for them was keeping the no-tell power structure in tact.

The thing that continues to concern me, however, are those tears. That’s because Kavanaugh’s ugly cry was more than just a run of the mill male tantrum, it was just the beginning of a lifetime’s worth of judicial revenge. It will take a long time for Kavanaugh to put on his squash whites with dignity — at least until Clarence Thomas takes that RV ride in the sky — and in the mean time, Kavanaugh must make it clear that he’s the big man on the bench. He’ll live down that humiliating job interview by staying mad and not disappointing daddy. He’ll act like a big strong boy. And this time, he won’t take his hand off of a woman’s mouth until he has his needs met; at the very least, he’ll make damn sure it’s her who does the crying.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! xox