In the following post I discuss rape, consent, child abuse, and other triggering topics. There’s also mention of a time I found myself in a vulnerable situation. In other words, this ain’t another list of movies.
When I was in 9th grade, my friends and I were obsessed with Moulin Rouge. Every weekend was a new opportunity to beg our moms for money, walk to Blockbuster, and rent the movie once again. For us, Moulin Rouge was everything. The music! The romance! The elephant! (It never occurred to our 14-year-old selves that Ewan McGregor’s character was yet another man who was desperate to control Nicole Kidman’s body — he loved her, right?) We were so serous about the movie, we used to refer to the director, Baz Luhrmann, as “God.” We knew nothing about Baz Luhrmann as a human-being, of course, but we couldn’t call Moulin Rouge “God”; that would be silly. 20 years later (ouch), I’ll admit I still believe he was snubbed for a Best Director nod, but God? Baz Luhrmann is a short, effervescent Australian who makes gorgeous movies, but he is not God.
Remember how the list of tragedies that took place during 2016 began with David Bowie dying? I felt such a loss when he passed. Plenty of music nerds did. How could someone like Bowie ever die? His music inspired so many of us to smear on the brightest shade of eyeshadow and dare the world to talk shit. He was a visionary. He was an alien. He was a God.
Was he a good person, though? I’d like to think so, but I didn’t know the man. In a 1983 MTV interview, he pointedly asked Mark Goodman why the network played so few videos by Black artists. I also remember seeing him interviewed on a talk show — Leno or Letterman — and Johnny Knoxville was sitting in the chair next to him. When Leno or Letterman tried to get the interview started, Bowie turned to Johnny Knoxville, looked into his eyes, and praised Jackass for several heartfelt minutes. Polite. Thoughtful. Ahead of his time. But God?
On the day Bowie died, some guy was ranting on Facebook about “the feminists” trashing Bowie for sleeping with underage groupies. This guy — this horrible excuse for a music nerd — was insisting there was no “proof” Bowie ever did this. He was wrong.
“He did sleep with underage groupies when he was young, though” I commented. Within minutes, I was unfriended and blocked. By gently reminding this man that Bowie was a flawed human who made some bad choices (ie: not a God), I had broken an unspoken rule of rape culture: never correct the complicit.
(You can read all about Bowie’s enjoyment of “baby groupies” here. The account is in the woman’s own words, and while she doesn’t characterize her experiences as traumatic, she still technically describes the night a grown man had sex with a teenager.)
I first read about Bowie and the baby groupies when I was 17 years old. I was a sheltered kid, and while I did think the idea of a teenager getting to spend the night with Bowie sounded dangerous, I also thought that was just the way things worked. It’s rock and roll. It was the 70s. He was a God. I forgive my 17-year-old-self for thinking this way because my 17-year-old self was conditioned to never question these thoughts. Hardly anyone was talking about statutory rape in the early 2000s, and even fewer people were talking about power. The widespread belief at the time I was growing up was that Monica Lewinsky was a home-wrecking slut, and not that Bill Clinton was a narcissist who abused his power. Man. We always get it wrong.
Name me someone that’s not a parasite
And I’ll go out and say a prayer for him
I was probably staring at my laptop screen when my dad called me last Tuesday. I walked into my bathroom (where I get the best cell service) and stood in front of the mirror.
“Hey dad-dah.”
“DON’T DO THIS TO MEEE,” he yelled.
“What happened?”
“BOB DYLAN.”
I paused and looked at myself in the mirror. You knew this would happen someday.
“Oh my God, he’s dead?!” I said.
“NOOOOOOOO.”
There was another pause. We’re theatrical like that.
“A woman’s accusing him of sexually abusing her when she was twelve,” he said.
I’m not going to talk too much about what Bob Dylan’s music has meant to me for the majority of my years on earth. I’ve done that enough. For context, I’ll simply say he’s written most of the songs that make me feel the most. When my dad laid the news on me, however, all I felt was a sinking disappointment and a profound lack of surprise. Of course it’s possible Bob Dylan may have abused someone; it’s what powerful men do.
“Don’t keep DOING THIS TO ME,” continued my poor dad. “Don’t take away ALL of my HEROES!”
I didn’t choose this moment to remind my dad that Bowie and Iggy and Jimmy Page and Bill Wyman and Marc Bolan and countless other rock and roll “heroes” had sex with underage girls and got away with it. I spared him the lecture and got to the point.
“It’s time to diversify those heroes,” I said.
My dad is not in the wrong. My dad doesn’t blame the woman for speaking out, nor does he assume she’s lying. My dad knows there will be an investigation and a verdict will be reached, but he also knows that depending on what happens next, it may feel different next time he sits in the backyard with a margarita and puts on Blonde on Blonde.
Grandpa died last week
And now he's buried in the rocks
But everybody still talks about
How badly they were shocked
I know very little about Bob Dylan as a person (which has always been his intention), but the little research I have done reveals a more-or-less typical rockstar who enjoyed everything that was handed to him — including the company of lots and lots of women. Still, when a powerful and beloved male creative is accused of sexual assault, we love to act surprised. This isn’t because we’re all idiots; we’re not. We have, however, been collectively gaslit for centuries by the patriarchy’s unpaid PR team. There simply must be an explanation for all of this that protects the powerful man and thus keeps the rest of us from looking at ourselves. “Why was a 12-year-old girl hanging out with Bob Dylan in the first place?” Dude. Why was Bob Dylan hanging out with a 12-year-old girl?
The other conversation that typically follows an accusation is the pedantic and indulgent “separating the art from the artist” nonsense. We have the right to watch Manhattan! We have the right to listen to Aerosmith! We have the right to play Good Will Hunting on mute while we learn the chords to “Rock n Roll (Part 2)” and not feel a shred of guilt about it! It’s almost as if we realize that what these men did was wrong and we feel uncomfortable about supporting their work anyway so we scramble to justify our choices to avoid feeling icky feelings, right? If you never want to watch “Trapped in the Closet” after watching Surviving R. Kelly, don’t do it. If “Beat It” comes on while you’re at Walgreen’s and you feel the urge to shake your ass, do it. What doesn’t help is dramatically throwing your copy of Blood on the Tracks out the window and then declaring some other man a God.
Bob Dylan wrote “Blowing in the Wind.” Leonard Cohen wrote “Hallelujah.” Neil Young wrote a lot of songs that are way less popular but also way better than “Heart of Gold.” He also wrote “Heart of Gold.” This shouldn’t make any of them Gods if we don’t even know they’re good men. When the man becomes a God, “the artist” gets away with murder.
This is especially rich comin’ from me when my last two posts have shown me worshipping at the altar of Brad and Leo, right? If you were paying attention to the actual writing, you know that’s not true. I don’t worship them as Gods — I’m merely a prisoner of heterosexuality (not to mention my apartment). However, I am 150% positive I referred to Bob Dylan as “God” in my teens and early 20s. As I’ve already admitted, my younger self didn’t know anything. I was convinced Bowie and Bob Dylan and Baz Luhrmann (???) were Gods because I was too young to question the idea that men could be Gods. What’s the rest of the world’s excuse?
Yes, I keep saying “men,” and no, I don’t mean “mankind.” I don’t believe all men are pigs, but I do believe they are all flawed humans who, unlike everyone else, are encouraged to be flawed humans (particularly if they’re rich, heterosexual, white, and cisgender). It’s ok that they can’t do laundry. It’s ok that they get road rage. He yelled at you in the street? What did you do to make him so mad? When Brock Turner was sentenced to a whopping six months in jail for raping an unconscious woman, his own father referred to the crime as “20 minutes of action.” I guess when you come across a woman passed out on the ground you just have to indulge yourself, eh fellas?
You say I let you down, ya know it’s not like that
What defines a “good man,” anyway? Is a “good man” someone who’s never violated a child? Is a “good man” someone who’s never been tempted to rape an unconscious person in the street? Can someone be a “good man” if he’s never raped anyone, but still begs his partner for sex until she quietly acquiesces? Does a “good man” only take “No” for an answer after the fifth or sixth time he hears it? “Why do you still want to do this if you know I don’t?” is a question I’ve asked more than one ex-boyfriend. I’m sure plenty of people think they’re “good men.”
Men, if you’re still reading, I need to ask you what the Hell you guys talk to each other about. Do you ever tell your friends about the time someone told you to “stop” doing something and all you said was, “You’re lovin’ it”? Do you tell your friends that you “scored” but leave out the part where she never stopped saying she didn’t want to? And men, if and when you hear these kinds of stories from your friends, do you ever explain that what they’re describing is assault?
In 2019, I was in a bar with a couple of dudes. One of them casually told me a story about a time he pretended he was gay and asked a girl if he could have sex with her just to try it. It worked.
“She was so mad when I finally told her the truth,” he said, laughing away as if he was describing a childish prank. I could have played by the rules. I could have gaslit myself into believing that boys will be boys and this boy was a good man. Fuck that.
“THAT,” I said, shouting above the DJ, “WAS RAPE.”
His big brown eyes grew two sizes as he realized what I’d said. Oh, he was so sorry. He begged for my forgiveness. He “didn’t know.” I would love to believe that, but I know I couldn’t have been the first person to hear this hilarious tale of sex under false pretense. Why hadn’t his broskis filled him in? Perhaps his broskis didn’t think he did anything wrong.
In 2015, I was in a hotel room with a young man. I set a clear boundary and he threw his head back and laughed.
“You really don’t trust me!” he said.
“I just don’t know you very well,” I said.
He inched himself closer to me, and while he inched, he angled. I moved away.
“Wait, what were you about to do just then?” I asked.
He looked startled.
“…You know how sometimes someone tells you to stop…but…you do it anyway…and —”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was frightened, stunned, and completely vulnerable. By some feat of human nature, I did not freeze. Words formed in my brain and then worked their way from my gut to my throat.
“Ya mean RAPE?”
There was fear in his eyes. Actual fear. We stared at each other. He looked like a child whose teacher had just caught him cheating.
“You’re freaking me out,” he said.
No one was harmed in the end, and yet I’ve always wondered what he told his friends afterward. What had he told his friends about the women before me — the ones who did freeze when he decided to “do it anyway”? How would he tell these stories to his sister, a person he seemed to love and cherish based on a conversation we had hours earlier. I remember the way he proudly took out his phone to show me an illustration he’d drawn for her. She probably thinks he’s a good man.
More importantly, who does he think he is? From what I could see, he was a completely average dude who worked in marketing and lived in Brooklyn and thought his enjoyment of straight Bourbon made him cool. If this absolute zero thought he had the right to ignore a woman’s boundaries — not to mention the law — how can we be shocked when a celebrity is accused of doing the same thing?
Yes, and how many years must a mountain exist
Before it is washed to the sea?
And how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn't see?The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind
Shortly after the news dropped that Bob Dylan was being accused of molesting a 12-year-old, AV Club published a story with the headline: “Bob Dylan Might Not Have Been In New York At The Time of Alleged Abuse.” Two days later, The Guardian answered back with the headline, “Bob Dylan Movements ‘Not Inconsistent’ With Alleged Sex Abuse, Says Lawyer For Accuser.” This back and forth doesn’t bother me too much. I know these claims are serious, I know they need to be investigated, and I know Bob Dylan has the right to a speedy, fair trial. I’m not positive he’s guilty. I’m not positive he’s innocent. I’m not in mourning. I’m mostly really, really tired.
Exactly two weeks before my dad called with the news of the allegations, he and I were sitting in his kitchen drinking too much white wine and singing “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” in each other’s faces. (Again, we’re theatrical.)
“I really don’t like to go around saying these old white guys are geniuses,” I said, “but I feel comfortable calling Bob a genius.”
"FUCK IT. HE’S A GENIUS,” confirmed dad.
I keep thinking about this moment and scratching my head. Can an artist be brilliant and problematic? As I type this, I truly don’t see why not. Everything is problematic under white supremacist patriarchy, including our damn selves. Still, as I type this, I feel fairly uncomfortable. Good. If I’m feeling icky feelings, I know I haven’t rolled over and decided that this is just how it is. I’m not here to defend problematic artists and I’m not here to defend myself — I’m here because I’m a music nerd grappling with the fact that I hate misogyny as much as I love music. This is an eerie and heartbreaking intersection.
What’s most heartbreaking, however, is that regardless of his potential wrongdoing, Bob Dylan’s God status is here to stay. When he eventually dies and Rolling Stone gives us half a million lists of “The Best Bob Dylan Songs of All Time,” some killjoy (ie: a journalist) will remind us Bob Dylan was once accused of molesting a child. The killjoy will receive an obligatory barrage of death threats, and every dork on Facebook will rant about “the feminists” spoiling their fun.
For now, I know I can’t dramatically throw my Bob Dylan records out the window, but I also can’t pretend there isn’t something very, deeply wrong here; I’m too old for that. I’m tapped. I’m spent. I cannot remain silent for the sake of preserving everyone else’s comfort. I cannot tolerate one more “good man” looking at me with fear in his eyes when I tell him there’s a name for what he just tried to do. I will correct the complicit, even if the complicit is me.
I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment I could be you
Yes, I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
You'd know what a drag it is to see you
If Bob Dylan’s accuser is telling the truth, the greatest thing Bob Dylan could do would be to speak truth to power while speaking the truth about himself. He could admit that New York City in 1965 was his playground. He could admit he was constantly surrounded by admirers who stroked his ego and called him a “genius” and brought him lots of drugs. He could admit he stayed up for days writing and partying and reveling in his own brilliance. He could admit that he made horrible choices based on his belief that he was untouchable. He could admit he is not a God.
Yes. Thank you.