The accusations made by over seventy women against entertainment mogul Harvey Weinstein carved out a safe space for other women to come forward with their stories of sexual harassment, abuse and assault against Hollywood elites, namely big name actors who thought their fame translated to consent by unwilling women.
The latest allegations accuse Alabama senate candidate Roy Moore of sexual misconduct against a then fourteen-year-old year old girl in 1979 when he was thirty-two-years old. This week, fifty Alabama pastors signed a letter of endorsement for Moore, citing his unwavering biblical commitment to marriage between one woman and one man and anti-reproductive rights for women—all couched within the troupe of “religious freedom.”
For me, the Ray Moore scandal is especially noteworthy due to its theological underpinnings. How is it 37% of Alabama Evangelicals are more likely to vote for Moore since his sexual misconduct surfaced despite growing condemnation from their own Republican party? In his support for Moore, Jerry Falwell, Jr. states:
It comes down to a question of who is more credible in the eyes of the voters—the candidate or the accuser, and I believe the judge is telling the truth.


Last week while responding to a comment on my blog, I suddenly remembered a series of incidents in which men I did not know exposed themselves to me in public places. The first time occurred at a park around dusk during an outing with a group of girls. I was about 11, I may have wandered away from the group, or I may have been with others. What I remember is seeing a man with his pants down sitting on a park bench, possibly the first time I ever saw an adult man’s penis. I told or we told, but the man was not reported by the adults. Fast forward to the beautiful gardens of the Palace Schoenbrunn in Vienna where I was confronted by a penis while lost in thought when I was 19. I ran, but said nothing. In my 20s at the early showing of movies in New York City men would sit next to me and jerk off into paper bags.
I was at a dinner party for twelve lovingly prepared by two ex-pat friends, when the subject of Woody Allen’s most recent film came up. I don’t remember which one of them it was, because, as I said at the time, “I vowed never to see a Woody Allen film again as my response to the way he treats women in his films and in his personal life.” I was immediately challenged by–it seemed to me at the time–everyone else at the table.
In 


