I was first exposed to Camille in Esquire 1991 issue.
It started with this.
For every woman who gets murdered, three men do. Where are the shelters for domestically battered men? Boys and men get molested and raped, but where’s their tax-funded crisis line? Counseling? A national campaign to combat violence against men? And why isn’t she required to serve in the front lines?
With these murmurs stirring, how long can it be before they start putting it all together and asking, “Why doesn’t this society consider my life as valuable as the life of a woman? Why is it still ‘women and children first’? Why are men still expected to sing ‘God Save the Queen’ and go down with the ship?
“And does it make sense that nothing she can say or do to me is unfair because I am stereotyped as possessing power and she calls herself an oppressed minority? Why is biology my destiny but not hers? Hey. I’m a victim, too. I never killed an Indian or owned a slave. You’ve got me confused with somebody dead. I, myself, never raped anyone or paid a woman less for the same job. It wasn’t me. It’s not my fault. Get off my back.”
Obviously this kind of thinking could be trouble. Men still form the most influential lobbies, and if they start torching their jockstraps and talking back nasty, blaming them won’t work anymore. It would be a fearful thing to confront our own tactics in this angry mirror.