DIGITAL CONTROVERSIES

Aziz Ansari and the Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Accusation of Sexual Misconduct

In the months that followed the explosive New York Times exposé on Harvey Weinstein, the #MeToo movement flooded social media feeds, magazine articles, and mainstream news broadcasts. A deluge of accused sexual offenders was forced out of the shadows, and the Internet rose to greet them with pitchforks in the shape of Twitter blurbs and Instagram comments. For Weinstein, the backlash was swift and without mercy. In a matter of days, he went from a god amongst Hollywood elites to a social pariah, his permanent exile from society stemming from a perfect storm of the Internet’s most powerful tool: cancel culture.

Nowadays, the understanding of cancel culture has been corrupted, with each call for cancellation becoming more niche in reasoning, and met with increasing dismissal. But at the end of 2017, it represented as writer Julia Serano asserts, a powerful equalizer for marginalized communities, “who understood the necessity of holding people responsible for their words and actions.” It was the perfect amalgamation of public shaming and social activism, and thus became a vital medium in which the #MeToo agenda could be forwarded. 

 As cancel culture and #MeToo attracted more attention, more and more powerful men began to fall, (see: Kevin Spacey, Matt Lauer, Louis C.K). Each news cycle marked a new, shocking revelation of explicit sexual assault, and the fervor for public justice clamored louder than ever. Then, on January 14, 2018, three months after the Weinstein stories broke, another accusation was leveled. An article on comedian Aziz Ansari was published by the website Babe, where an anonymous 23-year-old photographer under the pseudonym “Grace” revealed, “the worst night of her life.”

Comedian Aziz Ansari c. 2009 (source: Flickr).

In her accusation, she claims that Ansari was over-zealous in his desire for sex. That he ignored her visual discomfort to satisfy his own sexual needs, and made her feel “pressured” and “violated”. The article went viral, but as its notoriety grew, there was a tangible shift in public reaction. The ardent passion and unwavering support seen for previous victims faltered for “Grace.” Of course, there was still a vocal wave who praised her bravery and denounced Ansari as an abuser, but the lines between sexual misconduct and a “bad date” blurred and people found themselves unsure of which side they stood. 

Previously, the vitriolic rhetoric used by supporters had been fueled by an unwavering assumption of moral superiority when faced with clear-cut cases of sexual assault and workplace harassment. The men they targeted were bad, and the crimes they demanded reparations for were worse, and they, by extension, were good for canceling them. But, when social media users were presented with a case where the question of whether a crime even occurred overwhelmed the victim’s statement, the movement found itself torn between two extremes.

Some continued on their crusade, denouncing Ansari as an abuser and exiling him from mainstream culture. Others denied the claim in its entirety, writing off the victim’s feelings as an overreaction, and demanding that she silence herself lest she damage the movement. The ambiguities surrounding the Ansari case exposed the rhetorical instability underlying #MeToo and cancel culture, which, in response incited a radicalization of the two conflicting factions, inadvertently delegitimizing the movement in the process.   

In the rhetorical carnage, previous supporters of the #MeToo movement found themselves violently rejecting its most basic principle: believe the victim.

In the Babe article, the language is inflammatory, the rhetoric demands vindication, and the portrayal of the sexual encounter is incredibly graphic. It is a story banking on the trend of the previous four months, mimicking the revelatory style of the Weinstein/C.K./Spacey exposés, but equally capitalizing on its own salacious details. Author Katie Way forces attention through a direct appeal to pathos, anticipating that other women would understand, resonate, and relate to “Grace’s” experience of sexual discomfort and her hesitation to express it. Way hoped that that spark of sameness would then go on to inspire waves of outrage (and perhaps spur some Internet notoriety for herself).

However, in her confidence regarding the story’s sensationalism, Way paid little attention to it’s vulnerabilities. The article itself is an amateurish tabloid rehashing of a traumatic event, revealing in the macabre details of “Grace’s” experience rather than examining any of the underlying gender-power dynamics at play. Which is a shame, as there was an incredible amount of potential in platforming a story which centered the “imbalanced sexual power structures that plague us—the power structures that tell us a man’s desires are more significant than a woman’s”. But that conversation was lost as soon as the article was published, drowned out in online screaming matches that manifested immediately after.

Women's March NYC 2018 (source: Flickr)

In its attempt to liberate women from the suffering inflicted upon them by sexual predators, #MeToo unwittingly created a binary in which their victims had to adhere

Way got her wish: the story went viral, and for the next few days, it saturated every news outlet. Tweets poured in demanding Ansari’s social death: his cancellation. Internet users wanted blood, and it seemed that they would get it, as they had become accustomed to, but backlash began to mount. People found themselves questioning the legitimacy of the claim. Did this count as sexual assault? By “Grace’s” own detailing, she denied that the sexual encounter was rape. “Then what was it?” became the dominating question. For many writers, the accusation did not represent a woman’s attempt to step forward, but a malicious degradation of sexual assault victims, as well as a targeted attack on the #MeToo movement.

For instance, HLN host Ashleigh Banfield read an on-air open letter to “Grace,” in which she said, “I’m sorry you had a bad date” but that “what you have done is appalling”. Caitlin Flanagan of The Atlantic wrote that “Grace” was nothing more than a weak-willed, lonely woman desperate for attention and hell-bent on revenge for Ansari’s emotional rejection. In the rhetorical carnage, previous supporters of the #MeToo movement found themselves violently rejecting its most basic principle: believe the victim.

Instead, they demeaned “Grace”, disparaged her, and made her feel as small as she describes feeling that night with Ansari. The message from these powerful women became clear: play by the rules or stay silent. Be easily identifiable in your victimization, or else it doesn’t count. In this sense, Serano’s original prescription of cancel culture had already been corrupted, as the very platform in which marginalized groups could voice injustices was being used to silence one of their own. In its attempt to liberate women from the suffering inflicted upon them by sexual predators, #MeToo unwittingly created a binary to which their victims had to adhere; everything else that was too complex for more than just a cursory moral litmus test was seen as a threat and destroyed.  

In the immediate aftermath of the Ansari controversy, not much changed. Six days after the story broke, 1.5 million Americans attended the second annual Women’s March. Time passed, and more men were exposed and exiled, the cycle perpetually starting and restarting. Yet on July 9, 2019, a year and a half after his cancellation, Ansari returned to the public forum with his comedy special Right Now. In it, he details his experience of being canceled, and the emotions he felt as he watched his career rapidly deteriorate around him. He is surprisingly honest in his recollection of the event, but missing from his narrative is “Grace”. He does not discuss her feelings; he does not acknowledge her pain; he does not offer a public apology.

Her main purpose in the routine is to serve as commentary on the destructive nature of cancel culture, demonstrating that Ansari has not gained anything from this experience other than a newfound bitterness towards social media. And that is in part due to the rhetoric that was perpetuated during the time of the controversy. The arguments on both sides, much like the allegations, were blurred and muddied. It lacked, what author John Duffy would call phronesis: the Aristotelean concept of ‘practical wisdom’ or the ability to anticipate where and when a specific style of rhetoric should be used.

Ansari in his most recent comedy special (source: Netflix)

Had #MeToo (and by extension cancel culture) had a stronger rhetorical understanding — knowing when to incite outrage versus when to critically analyze — the message of the movement would not have been lost in the frenzy of volatile language, projection, and caps locks. Ideas would present with more targeted precision, misinterpretation would decrease, and consequences would be unavoidable. It could only be hoped that, by extension, Ansari would learn to understand the gravity of his actions and empathize with “Grace’s” feelings, instead of using her pain as an advertisement for his comedy special.   

  The Ansari case ultimately failed in its attempt to expose a predator due to the vitriolic rhetoric that spewed from both sides, the ambiguous nature of the accusation presented, and the fickleness of consequences. While #MeToo is nowhere near a defunct campaign for social justice (as seen by the recent Weinstein conviction), it still struggles to maintain a cohesive message and identity. Its use of social media also complicates its delivery as 280 characters and an immediate platform (no editorial process) have proven to be inadequate at handling the complexities surrounding not just sexual assault, but modern sexual relationships as well. Instead, it tends to accelerate most critical thinking to immediate inflammatory action, and suffocate nuanced debates. The implementation of phronesis is then critical to the future success and rehabilitation of the movement, as its use would motivate a coherent philosophy in which to guide it. ∙

Previously printed in Babe Lincoln March 3, 2020