Ford did the best she could under those circumstances and was, by nearly all accounts, extremely credible. The most cynical Republicans had to admit that they at least believed she had been assaulted, and even Donald Trump called her a “very credible witness.” It’s just that no matter what she said or how credible she seemed, her story had no effect on their desire to confirm Brett Kavanaugh to the highest court in the land. The spectacle was a pointless charade. A woman annihilated herself before the country so that a handful of Republicans could pretend they cared what she had to say.
And so women let out a collective primal scream. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s began calling into C-SPAN — dry, sober C-SPAN — to announce to the world that they, too, had been sexually assaulted decades earlier. Rape survivors angrily confronted politicians in elevators and hallways demanding to be heard, driving one Republican senator to hide in a bathroom. The sharing of stories became so compulsive, so casual, that a cab driver of mine, a woman from Trinidad, volunteered two minutes into a ride that she had been raped twice by a diplomat.
I asked if she tried to report the assaults, and she laughed. “Please, they don’t even believe white women,” she said. “Why would they believe me?”