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Melissa Petro is a journalist and author of Shame on You: How to Be a Woman in the Age of Mortification.
In September, when Mohamed Al-Fayed, the late former owner of high-end London department store Harrods, was exposed by the BBC as a known predator who had spent years sexually abusing staff members, a primary line of inquiry raised by the press was: How did he get away with it? When the story first broke, the BBC reported Mr. Al-Fayed had 20 alleged victims; since then, the number has risen to more than 400. Publication after publication after publication has described the allegations as “shocking,” but I’d surmise the case is not even mildly surprising to anyone paying attention to how our world actually works.
Every woman I know, and probably most men, too, are well aware that honest and hard-working women are customarily preyed upon and taken advantage of by wealthy and powerful men in the workplace, and that the depravity of these men is often overlooked or enabled by the people around them. A recent Canadian example is the allegations levied against billionaire Frank Stronach, founder of Magna International, who has been accused of using his wealth and power to sexually exploit women in the workplace.
Many of us have experienced it for ourselves. Lured into a private space by the promise of a job, or a promotion, or preferential treatment, we know intimately what it’s like to be subjected to crude come-ons and inappropriate touching until we either flee or succumb out of fear.
It’s happened to me at least twice. The first time, I was in my 20s and at the start of my career when a professor and well-respected poet insulted my writing before offering private instruction in exchange for sex. Humiliated and enraged, I created an excuse to leave just as soon as I could, and promptly dropped his course. The second time, nearly 10 years later, the editor of a highly regarded publication that had just offered me a position as a recurring columnist thought it appropriate to e-mail me a pointed question about my past sex life. Again, I felt compelled to walk away from a professional opportunity. In both instances, I found a way to blame myself for the behaviour of these men, and I felt ashamed, wondering (incorrectly) if I’d somehow encouraged either of them in their actions. That shame, in turn, affected my sense of self and influenced my choices in tragic and regretful ways. For years after that professor propositioned me, I set aside my ambitions to become a writer.
As one of Mr. Al-Fayed’s victims, who alleges she was raped by him at the age of 16, put it to the BBC: The event “changed the course of [her] life and career entirely.”
“It has affected so many areas of my life,” she continued, “but having to live with the deep shame of what happened to me so young, being paranoid at night walking by myself, not trusting men in any form of an even slightly vulnerable situation, are to name but a few.”
Mr. Al-Fayed’s case has been described as one of the worst examples of corporate sexual exploitation the world has ever seen, a dramatic and repulsive illustration of how one man can stop a woman’s career dead in its tracks and derail her life. But there are also subtler and seemingly less significant examples of gender-based shaming that occur every day, and that reflect and reinforce the insidious ways in which shame serves to control and undermine women.
For women especially, shame blocks the path toward freedom and autonomy by cajoling us into making choices that may not serve us in the long run. We might leave jobs that would have been good for our careers, if it means we don’t have to confront or work alongside our harassers. We might remain in romantic relationships that offer little more than financial stability or social standing, for fear of being judged for losing proximity to either. We might decide to deliver babies “naturally,” to avoid the shame of taking an “easier way out” of labour, even when doing so can pose a mortal risk. We might stay home rather than breastfeed or pump in public because we fear the shame of exposing our bodies (if we then switch to formula, we might feel additional shame in being told that “breast is best”). We might choose to skip certain activities, such as swimming or going to the gym, to avoid wearing body-conscious items and to push away the shame of having our physical appearance judged by others.
Whether it’s having to see someone who harassed you at your workplace, or catching sight of your cellulite when you climb into the shower, the physiological reaction to the shame that may arise is the same. Our hearts beat faster and our body temperature rises. Time slows down and the brain scrambles to protect itself from the perceived threat. Ask me on a bad day how I feel about my career and I am flooded with feelings of failure and a desire to disappear. Even though I am relatively accomplished in my field, shame tells me that it’s not enough. Sure, I might have gotten a book deal, but the actual writing is just not very good, negative self-talk says, echoing the very words of that awful professor I encountered.
Some people argue that there’s such a thing as positive shame, and that shame promotes social cohesion and encourages members of a tribe to obey the rules for a common good. Shame may “work” in the sense that it will elicit a behaviour change in the short term, but it isn’t an effective strategy for producing meaningful changes in behaviour – and, according to researchers, it can actually end up causing more harm than good. This is especially true for women, who all too often are held to higher moral standards, while men who do far worse walk away scot-free.
This year’s U.S. presidential election provided a perfect example. Throughout his campaign, Donald Trump – who is a convicted felon, was found liable for sexual abuse by a New York jury (and has faced many other such accusations by multiple women) and is currently under investigation for treason – was barely held back by any of his previous transgressions and coasted on a wave of support to secure both the Republican nomination and the American presidency. And yet his female opponent, Democratic nominee Kamala Harris, was derided as a “childless cat lady,” was accused by Mr. Trump of having only secured the nomination because her party wanted to be “politically correct,” and was repeatedly subject to gross, false rumours that she jump-started her career by sleeping with a politically influential married man. It was as if the two candidates’ “crimes” were comparable, and in the end, none of what Mr. Trump has done really mattered to the American electorate, who welcomed him back in for a second term.
No, all this shame is not positive, nor is it accidental. Women continue to take on a disproportionate amount of unpaid household labour – we cook, clean and manage our homes in addition to our careers, collectively struggling to ignore the message that it’s our responsibility to “have it all.” We do it all, but still feel it’s never enough – shame tells us so.
Uninterrogated shame profoundly affects one’s sense of self, subconsciously influencing one’s choices and behaviours, and underwriting the stories we tell ourselves and others about our experiences. But there is a way to fight back.
Shame resilience begins with an ability to notice the shame, process it and then let it go – without letting it change how we view ourselves. This is how we grow through shame, rather than allow it to control us. This is how it begins. But it does not end here. If we want to get a grip on how shame affects us individually, we must come to understand the way shame and shaming operate on a global scale. We must embolden women to come forward and share their unsettling experiences. And collectively, we have to stop pretending to be shocked by the things they tell us.