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As a final vote approaches, the sense of urgency that came in response to Kavanaugh has mingled
with one of dread at the prospect that he will end up on the court after it all.
The first time Kristi was ever arrested was a week ago, she told me.
It happened outside of Sen. Chuck Grassley's (R-IA) office. She and a group of other protesters
had gone there to demand that Brett Kavanaugh's Supreme Court nomination be withdrawn. After
they refused to move, Capitol Hill police officers placed them in plastic handcuffs
and did the moving for them. Kristi, who refuses to give her last name
lest she become targeted by Kavanaugh's supporters, was held for three hours. Before
she was taken away, she had the foresight to tell a fellow activist to call her daughter,
who'd need to pick up her brother from school since mom would be, well, indisposed.
Such acts of civil disobedience are not part of Kristi's normal routine. She's 55 years
old and can only recall ever attending two rallies in her life: one in the 1980s to support
the pro-choice movement, and the women's march last year in protest at Donald Trump's
inauguration. Kavanaugh changed her, she says. His nomination
didn't compel her to come to D.C. so much as it overwhelmed her into doing so. She is
a survivor who remains, to this day, incapable of telling her story. She would only tell
me how old she was when it happened and on condition that I didn't print even that
detail. She begs off organizers who ask if she will confront lawmakers by recounting
that horror for them. But she knew, in a single moment, that she had to come to Washington
to lobby lawmakers. "Ford did not want to come forward. She
did it because she had to. And I wasn't going to let her do it alone."
"It wasn't even a decision," she said. "I couldn't not come. I had no idea what
I was supposed to do. I came and found the activists leaders and I said to them: What
do you want me to do, I'll do it?'" By mid-afternoon Tuesday, Kristi had found
her way to the basement of the Russell Senate office building, waiting to confront senators
going through the tunnels to the Capitol building for caucus lunches. It's the location she'd
been assigned by the UltraViolet—the progressive women's group organizing the bird-dogging
of lawmakers. She was wearing New Balance shoes and a small satchel travel bag with
pins on it that say "I believe Christine," in reference to Dr. Christine Blasey Ford,
Kavanaugh's accuser. Her short-cropped hair and black-rimmed glasses belie the notion
that she's some sort of hardened liberal activist. She doesn't bother to play the
part either. As lawmakers pass through, she yells from a distance.
Why do you refuse to believe Dr. Ford?" When they're not there, she nervously looks
around the corner to see who might be coming down the hall. The anxiety oozes from her.
"I was so scared when my daughter was growing up," Kristi tells me. "People told me
it was because of my own history. But it wasn't. I was scared because of this culture. Women
are collateral damage. We are not believed. I'm here because this woman, Christine Ford,
did not want to come forward... She did not want this. She did it because she had to.
And I wasn't going to let her do it alone." There is a remarkable paradox to the Kavanaugh
confirmation battle. Women across the country have been moved to come forward with their
own stories of sexual assault. They've called into CSPAN, confronted lawmakers in elevators,
and shared moments with each other on the floors of Senate office atriums.
Just came upon a truly remarkable scene: a group of women literally sitting on the concrete
floor in a circle in the Hart Senate office building recounting their stories of being
abused and raped. "I have literally told no one else this story before I talked to
you all," one says
And yet, for these same women, the fight over Kavanaugh is a frightening case study of the
perils of stepping forward in the first place. Dr. Ford, to them, is at once a hero and a
cautionary tale. And how the Senate ultimately chooses to vote in the coming days will be
seen not just as a referendum on Kavanaugh but on the notion that women will ever truly
be believed in the first place; that their own stories actually matter.
So they've mobilized. They've given money. Act Blue, the online
portal for campaign donations reported its biggest day ever for giving on Sunday, Sept.
30th, and its second biggest day on Friday, September 28th. They've volunteered. Run
for Something, the progressive organization that encourages first time candidates, so
massive uptick in interest as the confirmation battle heated up.
In the last 24 hours, we've had 20 TIMES the usual average number of people sign up to
volunteer -- all for state & local candidates. The GOP has no idea what they've done.
We've seen a bump in people signing up to volunteer with @runforsomething. Take a look
at what they're saying, then join. "I haven't done anything political ever. I
am just a working mom that is fed up with the current state of our government and the
individuals running it. I might even consider running for something."
"Mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore." "I am an active duty service member... / want
to do something, anything political.. I want to develop efficient systems capable
of making the world I live in run smoother and allow people to work in better harmony."
"I am a life-long tech executive and a little too old to run, but want to help recruit next
gen candidates."
They've overrun local offices. And they've come to D.C. to lobby. Melissa Byrne, action
adviser for UltraViolet, said that at least 60 people had volunteered to birddog senators
so far. On the day that the Senate Judiciary Committee voted on Kavanaugh's nomination,
they had someone shadowing every member on the panel. They've come so regularly that
the security guards now know them. They've come because lawmakers no longer hold town
halls, where constituents usually can plead their case. "We bring the town hall to them,"
is how Byrne puts it. Kristi said she's been roaming through Senate
offices for 12 days now. She's fortunate since she can go home at night. Others were
staying at local churches because they had nowhere else to go. Naina Khanna, 41 and a
survivor too, flew in from Oakland on Sunday and pledged to stay "as long as I am needed."
"I think a confirmation of Judge Kavanaugh for survivors would indicate for us that at
the highest levels of justice in this land, our stories don't matter, the truth doesn't
matter, and what happened to us doesn't matter," said Khanna, executive director
of the Positive Women's Network, a national membership group of women living with HIV.
Some of the demonstrators are savvy politically. But much of what they're doing is slapdash
and improvised. "For the women protesting on her behalf,
Ford is at once a hero and a cautionary tale." No one, for example, seems to have a full
grasp on the members of the United States Senate. At one point, a crew chased a middle-aged
man to the elevator, to demand he oppose Kavanaugh. His fleshy white face, neatly parted hair,
and circular pin on his lapel gave off a senatorial vibe. But, alas. "I appreciate what you're
doing," he said at one point. "But you've got the wrong guy. I'm not a senator."
Byrne compared the process to fishing. The vast majority of the time, nothing happens.
And then, suddenly, you reel one in. It's what happened with Sen. Jeff Flake (R-AZ),
when two survivors caught him in the elevator and demanded that he listen to their stories.
On Tuesday, the closest they came is with Sen. Bill Cassidy (R-LA) who recognized the
crew from an earlier interaction and angrily pointed his finger at Byrne before scampering
off towards the Capitol. At the end of the day, it didn't appear
that many people, let alone senators, were reconsidering where they will come down on
the nominee. All of which has created a near-paralyzing sense of urgency for those who have gathered.
They've revealed the most horrifying moments of their lives for lawmakers and the public,
and it all might be for naught. "It would mean that they don't have the
ears to hear the truth from survivors, from a credible survivor who had absolutely nothing
to gain by coming here and putting herself on the line like this," Kristi explains.
"I will be devastated and ashamed. I will be working very hard to not let their shame
add to what I already deal with."
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