The Society of Shame, page 21
Danica gently shushed her. “Of course,” she said. “Of course. Don’t worry about the menu tonight, dear. It’s too soon. You’re still reeling. You have another whole week to decide anyway. You want another biscotti? Everyone? One can take only so much liquid.”
Jonathan snapped a finger over his head and a waiter appeared.
* * *
—
Later, as they were all saying their goodbyes, Michael pulled Kathleen aside. She was glad they would finally have a chance to talk. They stood together by a window overlooking the darkened street.
“I just wanted to say that it was really nice meeting you,” Michael said. “And I hope you’ll keep in touch.” He handed her a business card for the New Jersey Men Against Human Trafficking and Exploitation in the Pornography Industry, with his name and contact information.
“You’re leaving the society?”
He nodded, then glanced away. “Yeah, I don’t think it’s really right for me anymore.”
“But it’s helped you, hasn’t it?” Of all the members, Michael was the last one she expected to leave. It was hard to imagine the society without his calm, steady presence.
“Yes, sure,” he said. “But…I don’t know. I used to feel like we were trying to help each other change our lives for the better. And ourselves for the better. But lately it feels like we’re just…”
“Just!” Kathleen said.
“Ha, right.” He looked at his feet, which he gave a few shuffles, then looked back up at Kathleen. “You know, there are a lot worse things you could be than the kind of person who says just sometimes.”
Kathleen felt something close up inside her. He did disapprove of her. Like she’d thought all along. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.
But as she rode home that night, she found herself wishing she hadn’t said it quite so coolly. There were things about the evening—Danica’s new persona and Annabelle’s impending nose job in particular—that had made her feel uneasy, too. (Brent’s plan to expose his ass on national TV, while odious, wasn’t particularly surprising.) The jubilant mood of the (extremely lavish, if overly liquid) dinner, meanwhile, felt discordant with the seriousness of some of the members’ transgressions.
But which was worse: what they were all doing to cope, or what the public had done to them? All their lives, their very selves, had been torn open, raw and exposed, to the feeding frenzy of the media, the internet, the populace at large. Even someone like Danica or the actor, who were already well known, had a new layer of themselves peeled back, revealing something weak, tender, and flawed beneath their public skin. And in the eye of the public, their sins were the sum total of who they were. So, was it any wonder they were all desperate for a process, a plan—a way to wrest back control of their lives? And so what if some of the ways they chose to do it weren’t the noblest possible? These weren’t exactly noble times they were living in.
As for herself, Kathleen was quite sure that her plan was exactly the one she should be pursuing, given the circumstances—and hardly ignoble. She was bringing visibility to an important and meaningful cause—helping to fuel the momentum of something that might have petered out by now without her involvement. And, yes, the hair and makeup and clothes admittedly were on the frivolous side, but a little frivolity never hurt anyone; more important it was fun. Being on TV was fun. Being treated like someone important, instead of an appendage of someone else who was important, was not only fun but immensely satisfying. Deserved. And now: a book deal, so close she could taste it. An old love—her dream of being an author (or something like it, anyway)—being rekindled. And none of it would have happened without Danica and the society.
PAMoCA | The Pennsylvania Museum of Contemporary Art
Herocyte
Tizei (American, b. 1958)
Mixed media
Herocyte is a confrontation: between the viewer and the artist, the interior and the exterior, the male and the female. On a plywood altar, rabbits’ feet and pomegranates, both traditional symbols of fertility, are juxtaposed with modern everyday objects—a flip-flop, wireless earbuds, a plastic beverage cup lid—hinting at the devaluation of the sacred feminine. Blooms of red pigment on pencil sketches of celebrated European paintings, among them Goya’s The Third of May and Caravaggio’s Judith Beheading Holofernes, underline the absence of female blood and female artists in the Western canon. A twelve-foot glass fishbowl stuffed with cotton, gauze, rags, and plant fibers, ringed with red votive candles, is an elegy for the materials women have used for millennia to stanch the blood of abortions, miscarriages, and menstruation. Meanwhile, the title of the installation is an example of the sly, subversive wordplay for which Tizei is known: blood, whether human or animal, is composed of cells called hemocytes. Within herocyte, we find the words her, hero, and sight (cyte). Like so much of Tizei’s work, Herocyte, which premiered at the Whitney in 2019, has proven prescient: with the advent of the Yes We Bleed movement, the work is imbued with new relevance and urgency.
Tizei dedicates the PAMoCA installation of Herocyte to Kat Anderson Held.
Day Nineteen
They left for Washington at five the next morning, the sky still pale and the air cool—Kathleen, Aggie, Melissa, Kia, and the ever-silent Lucy—crammed into Antoinette’s dinged-up minivan, a my other car is a broom sticker peeling from the bumper.
Kathleen had suggested to Aggie that the two of them fly instead, thinking it would be a good opportunity for them to catch up and reconnect, suspended high above the franticness of Kathleen’s schedule. Flying would also mean not having to spend six hours each way in a car with Antoinette. “We could even spring for business class,” Kathleen had said. (Six figures for her soon-to-be book! Maybe even seven!) But Aggie said that the ride down with her friends was one part of the trip she was most excited about, and so here they were.
Antoinette had made up #YesWeBleedGreenchester T-shirts for everyone, white type on crimson (which seemed like a gratuitously menstrual color choice), along with knitted menstrual cup hats. Antoinette’s hat, and the one she’d made for Kathleen, had less red on them than the others. “Since we’re menopausal,” she explained.
“Perimenopausal,” Kathleen mumbled under her breath, and folded the shirt and hat into her bag. Yes We Bleed icon or not, she would never wear one of those hats. As for the shirt, maybe she’d wear it tomorrow. For today, Danica and Jonathan had helped her put together an ensemble that they described as “activist chic”: jeans, dark red boots (“For just a touch of menstruality,” said Danica), a black T-shirt, and a distressed olive drab blazer with dark red silk lapels and cuffs.
Antoinette spoke surprisingly little on the ride down, which was something of a relief. Melissa wanted to play the soundtrack to an angsty Broadway musical she and her friends were obsessed with, and Antoinette let them. It took them through most of New Jersey. When it was over, Antoinette attempted to lead the kids in a chorus of “We Shall Overcome.” Melissa sang along in an exaggerated, clearly mocking opera-singer voice, which sent Kia into hysterics. Lucy’s head stayed bent over her phone. Aggie was the only one who actually sang.
Annoyed, Antoinette put on a Fleetwood Mac CD instead.
After depositing their bags at a hotel on the outskirts of the District, they rode the Metro to the Mall, where a huge crowd of menstrual-cup-hatted women had assembled, many wielding signs:
Bleed on the Patriarchy!
Ask me about my menarche.
They’re not hot flashes. They’re Power Surges!
Free Tibet. #TheyBleedToo
In front of the crowd was a huge stage, topped with an enormous Yes We Bleed banner. When Kathleen spotted the podium, front and center and jammed with microphones, she felt a swoop in her belly, and felt suddenly, unbearably hot. She took off her blazer and clutched it to her chest. Why in god’s name had she agreed to do this? She was doing so well with the TV and print interviews, never missing a beat or flubbing a line, never looking like a fool. Why hadn’t she just left it at that?
“Sydney loves you, Kat!” a woman shrieked in an Australian accent. Kathleen turned to see a dozen or so young women in matching T-shirts (#YesWeBleed Down Under!) all grinning and waving furiously at her. A couple of them looked like they might be high. “Can’t wait for your speech!”
Kathleen smiled and waved, then glanced back up at the empty stage again. Maybe if she pretended that the entire crowd was made up of happy, stoned Australians who loved her, she would be okay?
Antoinette was shaking her head. “This crowd is shameful,” she said. “This should be just as big as the first Women’s March. And there are only what, nine, ten thousand people here? I hope the kids won’t be too disappointed. Are you all right? You’re sweating. Here.” She pulled a rumpled cloth from her bag and started mopping Kathleen’s forehead. “The hot flashes just sneak up out of nowhere.”
“Thank you. It’s not a hot flash; it’s just nerves,” Kathleen said, tilting away from Antoinette. “I’m supposed to go check in with the organizers. Do you want to find a place to stand with the kids and I’ll catch up with you later?”
“No, we should absolutely stay together. This could easily devolve into a riot. I’ve heard rumors of a counterprotest. Men’s rights people. Which is just a euphemism for fascists. Kids? Line up.” She took a Sharpie from her purse and started writing on the girls’ forearms: names, phone numbers, emergency contacts.
When she’d finished, they formed a human chain and threaded their way through the crowd, toward the stage. Kathleen was hoping that, with her influence, she’d be able to get them prime spots up front. As they walked, Kathleen became aware of heads turning in her direction, her name being spoken, smatterings of applause. A woman shouted her name and suddenly hoots and cheers broke out. At one point, a young woman in a Bleed, baby, bleed T-shirt stopped Kathleen to ask for a selfie. Kathleen didn’t want to be rude and say no, for fear that the woman or the people nearby might say something about it on social media. So she called through the crowd for Antoinette to stop, and gripped Aggie’s hand behind her while she posed for the photo. It took far longer than she expected, because the woman first had to refresh her lipstick, and then insisted on taking about a dozen shots, trying different angles and pouty-faced variations until she was satisfied.
Kathleen was able to move a few more feet after that, but then more people were approaching her, stopping her, asking for pictures. An octogenarian woman in a patchwork muumuu and all-white menstrual cup hat linked her arm through Kathleen’s and, tears in her eyes, told her how she’d been waiting her whole life for this movement. Kathleen nodded and smiled and waited for a moment to escape the conversation, but Aggie was straining on her hand and then suddenly Aggie’s hand slipped away altogether, and all Kathleen could see was Antoinette’s menstrual cup–hatted head bobbing through the crowd. Kathleen wove her way forward, trying to keep a smile on her face, waving back to the people who waved to her. Finally, Antoinette seemed to catch on that they’d lost her, and started waving her arms overhead wildly. Kathleen cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted that she had to meet her contacts backstage; she’d find them later, after the speeches. Antoinette gave her a fierce look, then shook her head and led the kids away.
* * *
—
When Kathleen finally made her way into the small tent behind the stage where the organizers and scheduled speakers were, she was greeted with grins and squeals and applause from a bevy of women with clipboards. One put a can of grapefruit seltzer into her hand and another, who introduced herself as Tonya, draped a lanyard around Kathleen’s neck. Also there was Emma Hancock, who’d organized the event and who was credited with starting the movement—although this was disputed by some who said the founder was a Latinx woman, also named Emma, but that the media had seized on white, blond, Shirley Temple–faced Emma, because of course it would (“How the Mainstream Media Bleached Yes We Bleed” read an essay on The Root).
Emma enveloped Kathleen in a hug that nearly knocked her off her feet. “It is such an honor,” she whispered, her mop of blond curls trembling. She didn’t look or sound much older than Aggie. When Emma finally broke the embrace, she introduced Kathleen to her mother, Grace, who was more or less an older version of Emma, her own blond curls gathered into a lovely updo. She hugged Kathleen as if they were old friends.
Over Emma’s mother’s shoulder, Kathleen spotted a well-known feminist country music star who had peaked in the ’90s, a prominent female senator talking to a reporter in one corner of the tent, and an SNL cast member on her phone in another. And then, when Emma finally released her grip, Kathleen saw her, standing in front of a long table spread with platters of food, filling a napkin with strawberries and chunks of cheese: Lauren Trissler.
She was taller than Kathleen expected, and more striking, with her asymmetrical black bob, her thick, intentionally unplucked eyebrows, and her bright red lipstick. (See? Kathleen wished she could tell Mona. The world’s most famous feminist wears makeup, too.)
Kathleen approached the food table, taking a paper plate and tossing a few crackers onto it in an attempt to make it look like she had an actual reason to be there. When Lauren glanced in her direction, Kathleen finally spoke.
“Hi, Lauren?”
“Yes. Hi.”
“Kath—Kat Anderson Held.” She extended her hand, which Lauren shook briefly.
“Yes, I know who you are.” She put on a thin smile.
“I’m a huge fan. I really loved your piece about me in the Times.”
Lauren cocked her head. “About you,” she said. “I don’t recall writing anything about you. I wrote about the need for this movement. You just happened to bleed in the right place at the right time and be married to the right person.” She put a piece of cheese in her mouth, chewed it thoughtfully, and then walked away.
Kathleen felt like she might crumple to the ground.
“You ready?”
She turned to see Tonya, the girl who’d given her the lanyard, holding out a sheet of paper with the order of events. Kathleen took it, her hands trembling slightly, and found her name: she was speaking right after Lauren Trissler. Wonderful.
“Is there a bathroom somewhere?” she asked, feeling a sudden onset of intense cramps. It had only been about three weeks since she’d had her legendary period, but nothing would surprise her at this point. Why did her uterus hate her? Why did Lauren Trissler hate her?
Tonya directed Kathleen to a Porta Potty, where she discovered that, no, her period had not yet made an appearance. Nevertheless, she put on the diaper-size maxi pad she now carried with her at all times and hoped she wasn’t walking in too penguin-like a fashion as she returned to the tent. (Although she supposed if there was anywhere she would be cheered for visible use of menstrual products, this was it.) She proceeded to stuff her face with cheese while she reviewed her speech.
Far too short a time later, she was sitting in a folding chair onstage, facing the ocean of demonstrators. She scanned the front of the crowd for Antoinette and Aggie and the other girls but didn’t see them. She kept looking, right up until the moment that Emma introduced Lauren Trissler.
The crowd roared.
Lauren gave a brief but rousing speech involving a lot of fist pumping and indignation. She managed to work in just about every women’s issue on the planet, from menstrual rights (obviously) to equal pay to female circumcision. She said something about vegan, fair-trade wigs for women with cancer that seemed to momentarily confuse the crowd, but she got them back on track and cheering again by talking about reproductive freedom.
She said nothing about Kathleen’s initial humiliation and how it had started the entire movement, but at that point Kathleen didn’t expect or even really want her to anyway. She was just relieved that Lauren hadn’t taken a dig at her.
Lauren did not make eye contact with Kathleen when she returned to her seat.
Emma stepped back up to the podium. “Our next speaker,” she said, “needs no introduction. She is the woman who went from being a victim to being an icon and inspiration. A woman whose quote-unquote ‘humiliation’ by her partner and a fame-seeking man who snapped a cell phone picture sparked a revolution. A woman who, instead of staying silent, recently, boldly joined our movement and said to the status quo of period supplies being a privilege instead of a human right…everybody say it with me…‘Um, yeah, no!’ ”
(The crowd caught on halfway through “yeah.”)
“A woman who,” Emma went on, “when asked to be a spokesperson for Big Tampon, those multinational conglomerates that have extorted us for a century, that convinced us and our mothers and grandmothers that we should be humiliated by our bodies’ natural functions, selling us on quote-unquote ‘discreet’ packaging and scented pads, as if we should be ashamed of our life-giving blood instead of proud of it, said…”
“UM, YEAH, NO!” the crowd roared.
“A woman who, instead of standing by the privileged, white, centrist Democrat man who had betrayed her, like so many women have been coerced into doing in the past, said…”
“UM, YEAH, NO!”
Kathleen cringed. Stupidly, it hadn’t even occurred to her to prepare Aggie for the fact that her father might be brought into all this. Or “Um, yeah, no.” In fact, she didn’t even know if Aggie knew about “Um, yeah, no.” When Kathleen had shown her the CBS interview the week before, she’d stopped before that part came on. “I said something sort of stupid and embarrassing here in this part coming up,” she’d said, trying to sound lighthearted. “You don’t need to see your mother looking like an idiot. And neither do I.” Then she’d noted that it was late, and Aggie should get to bed. It was entirely possible, of course, that Aggie had seen or heard about Kathleen’s bon mot through a friend who was not as sheltered from the media as Kathleen and Bill had kept Aggie, but if she had, she hadn’t said anything about it. After hearing ten thousand women yell it, however, there was a good chance she would.
