Comment Writer Molly Day discusses the future of consent in relation to allegations against Aziz Ansari, arguing that we have a collective responsibility to set and respect boundaries
CONTENT WARNING * This article discusses instances of sexual harassment *
The ‘Me Too’ (or #MeToo) movement began in late 2017, as a powerful presentation of female solidarity. The movement originated in response to the allegations of sexual assault against director Harvey Weinstein, and eventually expanded to encompass all women who had experienced sexual misconduct in the workplace and beyond.
Ultimately, those involved aimed to provide support to sexual assault survivors and create a sense of solidarity which could alleviate the isolation experienced by many of those impacted. By highlighting how many women were survivors of assault, founders of the movement hoped it would encourage more women to come forward and hold their abusers accountable.
Alongside raising awareness of sexual assault, the ‘Me too’ movement brought into question the intricacies of consent by tackling high-profile cases of sexual assault. Those assaulted by socially and economically powerful men such as Weinstein raised the issue: when is a ‘yes’ really a ‘yes?’
It was clear through the over 201 men accused in the following months and years, that consent was not only governed by a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ but, but by the power of the person asking. The power dynamics between the majority of those accused and their victims rendered the previously black-and-white view of consent redundant.
The conversation around consent, already causing public tension with many men in the press labelling the movement a ‘witch-hunt’, was further complicated by allegations published against actor and stand-up comedian Aziz Ansari. In a column on the (now defunct) online press ‘Babe.net,’ an anonymous source under the alias ‘Grace’ shared, what she called, an ‘unpleasant’ sexual encounter with Ansari. The comedian commented on the article stating: ‘We ended up engaging in sexual activity, which by all indications was completely consensual.’
Whether or not Ansari did engage in sexual misconduct has been a focal point in conversation surrounding the movement, especially in the years since its publication. Ansari’s case, appearing amongst the objective horrors of Weinstein, Louis CK and Brett Kavanagh, seemed to completely divide public opinion, even among avid supporters of ‘Me too’.
The main question was this: was Ansari’s continued pursuit of ‘Grace’ after she said ‘no’ sexual assault, or was it simply impolite?
‘Grace,’ in the now deleted article, did not describe any aggressive or violent behaviour from Ansari, but instead claimed that ‘her verbal and non-verbal cues’ showed she was uncomfortable and wished to leave. When these were ignored, she was left feeling ‘violated.’ In a harrowing account, she claims that during their encounter she expressed a reluctance to have intercourse with Ansari, yet he continuously placed her hand on his crotch and gestured towards his penis.
Despite the media debate which questioned the legitimacy of Grace’s claims of sexual assault, the story nevertheless resonated with many women, and I think allows for a deeper exploration of sexual guidelines and boundaries. ‘Grace’ even confesses in the article: ‘I was debating if this was an awkward sexual experience or sexual assault.’ I would argue that this is a question asked by many women- where is the line between disrespect and violation? Although Ansari was not explicitly aggressive in his actions and never truly acknowledged them as non-consensual- I do believe his behaviour reveals a much deeper difference in how men are socialised to understand sexual interaction.
I think the public reaction to this case undermines the fact that social cues and physical discomfort are as equally important as verbal consent. I believe women especially place value upon non-verbal communication because we are taught that any slip in social conduct: getting too drunk, wearing a short skirt or being too friendly could place us in sexual danger. Arguably, women are socialised to accommodate and accept responsibility for this underlying danger from childhood. For example, strict dress codes implemented in schools to not ‘provoke’ unnecessarily male attention (from teachers and students) place blame upon girls for any harassment they may face from an extremely young age. The general ‘boys will boys’ sentiment that thrives in British primary and secondary schools works to create a culture of female hyper-vigilance and paranoia. Women do monitor every gesture- because they are taught they have to. During a rape trial in Ireland, a member of the defence counsel Elizabeth O’Connell told jurors: ‘You have to look at the way she was dressed. She was wearing a thong with a lace front.’ When women are either facing victim-blaming on a judicial level or observing it, they are left with no other choice but to be watchful of all of their interactions, sexual and non-sexual.
I would argue it is because women are given so much personal responsibility for their sexual experiences and safety and men almost none, that a fundamental difference in communication is present during some heterosexual sexual encounters, complicating our own perceptions of consent. Ultimately, I believe the complicated discourse surrounding ‘consent’ points to an obvious conclusion: true, authentic ‘consent’ is dynamic. Safe, mutually enjoyable intimacy relies on constant communication between both partners, and this does not refer to only spoken communication. Most importantly, consent for any sexual interaction- however small, can be retracted at any point during a sexual encounter and does not have to be justified.
Because of this, I believe whether or not Ansari’s actions were truly assault or merely ‘bad manners’ is irrelevant. ‘Grace’ felt violated, therefore her claims are legitimate. Collectively, we have a responsibility to be active in our respect for each other and when this is absent the result is inevitably harmful, whether it was intentional or not.
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