Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost
my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of
myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation,
Iago, my reputation!
These are lines that lodge in the ear and burrow deep into the heart. Could the distress of a disgraced lieutenant—an affectionate, vivacious youth whose impetuous behavior has cut his career short, who has confided his weakness in an older, trusted friend and been betrayed for it, who has been embraced and then abandoned by the man he admires most in the world, a charismatic national leader with plenty of enemies looking for a way to bring him down—have echoed in Monica Lewinsky’s mind, a vestige of some long-ago high-school English class, as she prepared to take the stage at a ted conference in Vancouver last Thursday? The talk that she had come to deliver—viewed online, as of this writing, more than a million and a half times—is called “The Price of Shame.”
There stands Monica, forty-one years old, square jawed and sleekly coiffed, the discreet wireless mic of motivational speakers and Broadway stars hooked around her right ear. Her feet are firmly planted, her hands mobile and expressive, her eyes open wide. She enunciates like a pro, and chokes up once. Seen from a wide angle, the auditorium, with its red stage ringed by seats bathed in blue light, resembles an ancient Greek theatre decorated in the garish colors of US politics—Lewinsky the heroine of the national tragicomedy, reading at last from her own script. More to the point, the room looks disconcertingly like a dartboard, with Lewinsky at the center of the crimson bull’s-eye.
“In 1998, I lost my reputation and my dignity,” she tells the audience. “I lost almost everything. And I almost lost my life.” She recounts the humiliation that she experienced after the news of her affair with Bill Clinton broke: the mortification of being required to listen, in Ken Starr’s dingy, windowless office, to twenty hours of phone calls recorded without her knowledge by her friend Linda Tripp, in which she described her encounters with Clinton and her feelings for him, and the unbearable amplification of that humiliation by the subsequent release of the Starr report.
Still, the worst abuse didn’t come from public authority figures like Starr, who was outmatched in his sickly blend of prudishness and prurience only by the members of the federal grand jury, who made Lewinsky retread the same sad ground in their own interrogation of her. (“When you look at it now, was it love or a sexual obsession?” one juror asked. “Did you think that the President was in love with you also?”) The worst abuse resulted from the widespread, and unprecedented, distribution of those materials online, and the ensuing spectacle of derision that has continued, with radioactive endurance, for a decade and a half. Clinton’s escape from pointless impeachment ended up seeming like a golden boy’s feat, the stunt of a daredevil pilot who takes his plane into a nose dive only to swerve up just before hitting the ground. Not so for Lewinsky. “Overnight, I went from being a completely private person to being a publicly humiliated one worldwide,” she says. When it came to her shame, Starr was only the tip of the iceberg. The iceberg was the rest of us.
A frightening, terrible thing about shame is how difficult it is to dispel. Guilt, at least, can be absolved through action. You apologize to the friend you gossiped about; you donate ten per cent of the million cash bonus you got as C.E.O. to charity. Guilt is the discomfort that comes from recognizing that you’ve done something wrong, or failed to do something right. It’s an emotional accountability mechanism—the way that the self takes itself to task.
Shame, on the other hand, is a social feeling, born from a perception of other people’s disgust, a susceptibility to their contempt and derision. You see yourself from the point of view of your detractors; you pelt yourself with their revulsion, and as you do you begin, like Cassio, to lose track of the self altogether. Someone else’s narrow, stiffened vision of who you are replaces your own mottled, expansive one. As Lewinsky listened to the recordings of her phone calls, she tells us, she heard her voice as if it belonged to a different person: “My sometimes catty, sometimes churlish, sometimes silly self being cruel, unforgiving, uncouth.” It was “the worst version of myself, a self I didn’t even recognize.”
That dread is the fear of it happening to you. What to do when it’s your head on the chopping block? One solution is to follow the advice of Hillary Clinton, who is to shame what cockroaches are to Raid, and “toughen up.” Nice work if you can get it, and there’s something to that apocryphal Eleanor Roosevelt line about no one being able to make you feel inferior without your own consent, but not everyone is built to endure reputation battles that seem to grow more vicious by the day.
Which brings us back to Lewinsky. In her ted talk, she speaks of her anguish at watching other young people suffer through experiences like hers, with more drastic consequences and for behavior far less risky than having an affair with a sitting President—young people like Tyler Clementi, the Rutgers freshman who committed suicide in 2010 after his roommate captured him on a webcam kissing another man. “We need to return to a long-held value of compassion—compassion and empathy,” Lewinsky says. “Online, we’ve got a compassion deficit, an empathy crisis.”
You might be inclined to find this argument soggy. I was so inclined, at first. I was ten when the Lewinsky scandal broke, and by the time I reached the age that Lewinsky was I sympathized with her situation, but not with her. Yes, the way she was thrown under the bus by Clinton and his Administration was outrageous, but how could she enter into a situation like that and expect it to end well? She didn’t deserve the brutal treatment she got, but she seemed too naïve to be taken altogether seriously. Lewinsky’s latest call for compassion seemed to me a slice of classic ted optimism, packaged to go down easy—soft sentiment where there should be unrepentant ferocity.
Then, looking over the transcript of Lewinsky’s second appearance in front of the grand jury, back in 1998, I found something extraordinary. It comes at the very end of the hearing.
Foreperson: Basically what we wanted to leave with, because this will probably be your last visit to us, I hope—I hope I’m not going to have to do this any more and I hope you won’t have to come here any more—but we wanted to offer you a bouquet of good wishes that includes luck, success, happiness, and blessings.
Lewinsky: Thank you. (The witness begins to cry.) I appreciate all of your understanding for this situation and your—your ability to open your heart and your mind and—and your soul. I appreciate that.
This is who Monica Lewinsky was then, and it’s who she is now. Raked over hot coals, she thanked her torturers for their understanding. She was compassionate enough to expect that, like her, her interrogators could be moved by a human sympathy that trumped politics to see the complex, confused, affectionate, hurting person underneath the caricature. Lewinsky, back in the public eye, is tough enough to admit that she’s still soft—that she’s not only a thinking person but a feeling one, too. We should be tough enough to expect the same of ourselves.
