A Philosopher's open letter to Katie Roiphe

[The author of this open letter is Heidi Howkins Lockwood.--ES]

Dear Katie Roiphe,

In your “Katie Roiphe: this much I know” piece posted on The Guardian this past July, you said you know that you make people uncomfortable because you claim that women are partly responsible for their own date rapes; you know that women who enjoyed Fifty Shades of Grey are fantasizing about being the submissive sex again; you know that you get under people’s skin.

Unfortunately, Katie Roiphe, you haven’t gotten under my skin – though I wish that you would. I wish that you’d get under my skin, in my skin, in my mind, under the covers of my silence with me, for just an hour. You can trust me. I won’t show you anything you don’t want to see.

I won’t. show you. anything. you don’t want to see. I won’t show you what it’s like to be raped, because you don’t want to see it; in The Morning After and other pieces, the fact that you haven’t talked to many rape survivors is clear in your insistence that a rape which fits even your “violent force” criteria for a rape doesn’t count as a rape if the victim doesn’t call it that. I won’t try to show you the body of research that shows that rape and attempted rape is an epidemic in the U.S., because you don’t want to see it; instead of following the scholarly journals that this research appears in, you opted to concentrate on a single article in Ms. Magazine. I won’t show you what it’s like to work in an environment rife with sexual harassment, because you don’t want to see it; instead of talking to women who have been harassed, instead of soliciting anecdotes from all corners, you have bolstered your arguments with anecdotes and quotes from your own narrow niche of bourgeois friends.

But I will show you why your “The Philosopher and The Student” piece in Slate was despicable, ignorant and mean-spirited. I will show you how a power differential can twist reality. I will show you how your refusal to see is the product of creating a narrative in which you yourself are victimized.

You see, Katie Roiphe: this much I know.

I know that one of my daughter’s friends drew a picture -- when she was 17 -- of her father, with hearts around it. A picture of her father and herself, in bed. He “loved” her. But the hearts didn’t mean that she loved him. The hearts were there because she was afraid of the consequences of making him angry. The hearts were there because what he thought of her mattered to her. The hearts were there because what he thought of her depended on whether she professed her love for him. The hearts were there because there was a power differential.

I know that a friend of mine was raped by her husband, who forced her to have unwanted anal sex on the night that he lost his job. The morning after, she left pancakes on the table for him. He raped her because he “loved” her, because he was afraid of losing her, of losing face, of losing, period. The pancakes didn’t mean that she loved him. The pancakes were on the table because she didn’t have a job and couldn’t see a path to success alone. The pancakes were on the table because she was afraid of conflict. The pancakes were on the table because she was angry but confused, and constructing a narrative in which she imagined herself denying what had happened and reclaiming “power” as the caregiver. The pancakes were on the table because there was a power differential.

I know that I was once an aspiring undergraduate philosopher who said “thank you” when an adviser, a leader in the field I wanted to study, called a philosopher on the graduate admissions committee at another university and told him he’d give a verbal recommendation but would “wring his neck” if I were admitted to the other program, because “she’s mine.” I was once a graduate student who said “thank you” when that same adviser presented me with the first red rose. I was once a graduate student who said “thank you” when he promised not to tell anyone what had transpired between us. He assaulted me because he “loved” me. But the thank you didn’t mean I loved him. The thank you didn’t mean I was appreciative. The thank you meant that I was afraid of the consequences of provoking his ire, afraid that I’d be committing academic suicide if I complained or refused to play his game. The thank you meant that there was a power differential.

You see, Katie Roiphe, by publishing excerpts – just choice excerpts – from a series of emails between the professor and the student, you are creating a narrative. It is a narrative in which you imagine yourself at the center, as spunky rebel, telling a forbidden story, reclaiming “power” as the anti-feminist or neo-feminist. But it is also a narrative with oversights; a narrative in which you fail to consider the fact that you – and McGinn – are violating the graduate student’s privacy and putting her in a situation in which she can’t assert the power you so clearly think she has; a narrative in which you are forcing her into the submissive position that you so loathe; a narrative with choice omissions and oversights that transform the piece from powerful to pitiful because the telling of the narrative is itself a product of a power differential.

Yes, you see, Katie Roiphe, not everyone has the privilege of being a journalism professor at NYU. Not every woman – or man – has been fortunate enough to come of age in an environment which rewards and encourages the kind of fortitude that is required to refuse to submit to domination. We can occupy our pulpits and chastise women for failing to be sufficiently feisty and vociferous. Or we can celebrate diversity, and try to make the world a safer place for all.

You see?