For the past two years I thought I was, at least in part, deranged. When I needed comfort in the form of distraction, I watched Promising Young Woman. If you’ve not seen the film, this would seem completely innocuous–girl watches movie to ease stress. But, dear reader, Promising Young Woman is a deeply disturbing dark comedy that follows a woman, Cassandra Thomas, who goes to bars, pretending to be drunk.
Without fail, she is taken home by a man who believes her to be too drunk to refuse him. When she reveals that hey, she’s sober, she gives these predators the opportunity to admit their predatory behavior. She wants them to recognize what they’ve done. They never do.
She seeks out her best friend’s rapist, and everyone who allowed and enabled him, in an attempt to show them her perspective. She puts them in situations where they are made to feel fear and anger equivalent to what she experienced after her best friend’s assault. She wants them to understand what they’ve done. To apologize. They don’t, apart from one—the lawyer who represented the assailant, who says he can no longer sleep from the guilt of all the women he’s silenced.
This film had become a huge source of comfort for me, but I told no one. I felt shame in the comfort I took in watching the exacting of this kind of revenge–in the seeking of apology at all costs. I was confused and ashamed until I read Know My Name, a memoir written by the insanely talented writer and artist, Chanel Miller. Chanel was a victim of sexual assault on Stanford University’s campus in 2015. The case gained media attention following the release of the rapists identity—Brock Turner. Emerald Fennell, writer and Director of Promising Young Woman, gained inspiration from Chanel’s story–the title taken from American media’s depiction of rapist Brock Turner as a promising young man with an illustrious swimming career.
Know My Name is a deeply moving account of womanhood–how, even with the testimonies of those who witnessed Turner running away from Chanel that night, openly expressing his guilt, she had to go to war in court to be believed. Her DA fought brilliantly for her, rebutting the defense’s position that Chanel had been “okay“ prior to her assault with what amounted to the question how okay must one be to make rape a condonable action?
Remembering this point in the trial—how hard her DA fought for her, Chanel wrote the line, “It’s a wonderful thing, to watch myself be fought for.“ And I understood.
The comfort I find in the rage of Promising Young Woman it not sadistic. It is instead, feeling the comfort of watching myself be fought for. It is an unparalleled feeling, seeing your value reflected back at you, persistently. Without hesitation. After making myself small, after abuse and assault and harassment walking down the street in broad daylight, watching myself being fought for feels goddamn good.
I listened to Know My Name—an audiobook—read by Chanel, and I believe this is exactly how it should be heard. For 17 hours, spread out across about two weeks, I listened to Chanel‘s voice. As I listened, the fucking ceaseless self criticism and fear that my internal voice has, for 25 years spewed at me, dissolved. Her voice replaced the one telling me constantly that I am not enough. It left space in my mind for the possibility of something other than shame. It’s a wonderful thing, to hear yourself being fought for.
I don’t know how to hold on to this feeling in the absence of these women who understand, and who make that understanding known so loudly. The comfort I feel dissolves after spending enough time alone inside my head.
I lose steam easily, I always have–my anger dissolves at the slightest resistance and I am left an apologetic puddle. I feel weak. More than this, I feel excruciatingly tired. I’m so tired.
“I want to fight, while you go.“ Chanel wrote this after explaining that the reason she underwent a years-long legal battle with her rapist was for us as much as for her. She wanted promising young men to know that it wasn’t okay, what they’ve done. She wanted to afford us the opportunity to remain soft and open and comforted.
I don’t know where to put my grief or anger or fear. I don’t know how not to internalize it all, poisoning myself in the process. I don’t know where to put it, but I think maybe it is best kept in the shared experience of telling our stories–of fighting for you, while you go. When we do this, we’re able to rest for a while, comforted.
Girl Seeking Peanut Butter 