something painfully familiar in the menace and male jocularity of that tape. I can
hurt you and get away with it. It was an expression of hatred that had generally been
kept out of polite company, but still lived in the marrow of our supposedly
enlightened society—alive and accepted enough that someone like Donald
Trump could afford to be cavalier about it. Every woman I know recognized it.
Every person who’s ever been made to feel “other” recognized it. It was precisely
what so many of us hoped our own children would never need to experience,
and yet probably would. Dominance, even the threat of it, is a form of
dehumanization. It’s the ugliest kind of power.
My body buzzed with fury after hearing that tape. I was scheduled to speak
at a campaign rally for Hillary the following week, and rather than delivering a
straightforward endorsement of her capabilities, I felt compelled to try to address
Trump’s words directly—to counter his voice with my own.
I worked on my remarks while sitting in a hospital room at Walter Reed,
where my mother was having back surgery, my thoughts flowing fast. I’d been
mocked and threatened many times now, cut down for being black, female, and
vocal. I’d felt the derision directed at my body, the literal space I occupied in the
world. I’d watched Donald Trump stalk Hillary Clinton during a debate,
following her around as she spoke, standing too close, trying to diminish her
presence with his. I can hurt you and get away with it. Women endure entire
lifetimes of these indignities—in the form of catcalls, groping, assault, oppression.
These things injure us. They sap our strength. Some of the cuts are so small
they’re barely visible. Others are huge and gaping, leaving scars that never heal.
Either way, they accumulate. We carry them everywhere, to and from school and
work, at home while raising our children, at our places of worship, anytime we
try to advance.
For me, Trump’s comments were another blow. I couldn’t let his message
stand. Working with Sarah Hurwitz, the deft speechwriter who’d been with me
since 2008, I channeled my fury into words, and then—after my mother had
recovered from surgery—I delivered them one October day in Manchester, New
Hampshire. Speaking to a high-energy crowd, I made my feelings clear. “This is
not normal,” I said. “This is not politics as usual. This is disgraceful. It is
intolerable.” I articulated my rage and my fear, along with my faith that with this
election Americans understood the true nature of what they were choosing
between. I put my whole heart into giving that speech.
I then flew back to Washington, praying I’d been heard.