I know him.

I have heard his voice.
I have seen his face contorted in anger.
I have watched the public react to his church-boy persona while I fear his secret rage.
I have watched him joke and play with his buddies, like an all-American dude-bro, like a good ol’ boy, while secretly calculating how much he can take, how far he can push. What he can get.
I have watched him assess how drunk a woman is. How much drunker she needs to be.
I have watched him grow bigger when he sees fear in someone’s eyes.
I know him.

I’m not alone. Most women know him. We know the petulant-yet-violent anger of pure entitlement, when someone DARES stand between him and something he wants and deserves, because goddammit do you know who he is?

I have watched the facade of thoughtful, reasonable consideration crack.
I have seen the raw, seething pit of SELFISH WANT and RAGE beneath.

I have witnessed the calculation. How much can he take and still maintain his self-image–that he is a good person? that it is justified? that he matters more? that he is a victim? that it was a prank or a misunderstanding or a lie? A lie.

How long will he have to lie to himself before he believes the lie completely?

I believe in peace.
I believe in nonviolence.
I believe in the slow and steady upswing of human history and equity and growth.
I believe in human goodness and love.

But now I understand the depth of rage and despair that drives riots.
I want to take to the streets and smash things.
I want to scream until my throat is bloody, until I AM HEARD.
I want to be heard, even if I bleed.