When I discovered recently that Melania Trump was the most bullied person in the world, I instantly sensed that a glorious opportunity for refreshing my vision board had come all at once: I had to right this wrong, this unmitigated injustice, on behalf of the sisterhood. #lifegoals

Until I remembered that this was in fact Melania Trump, whose recent actions have led me to believe she did not belong to any sisterhood I was a part of. #ireallydontcaredoyou #actuallyidomelania

So after responding as any other reasonable woman would — with a contemptuous snort and a loud, derisive #kmrt — I thought about how certain women are only meant to push back the cause of the Women’s Movement by centuries.

Better to expend my energies, even if only through commiseration, on someone like Dr Christine Blasey Ford who recently had the temerity to do the apparently unthinkable: point out that the emperor was stark raving, well, naked. #ibelieveher

Blasey Ford, who testified before an American Senate panel about her sexual assault experience by then-Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh while they were adolescents, was met with opprobrium by gatekeepers of the patriarchy, her whole world turned upside because of her stand to prevent the ascension of someone she believed to be of questionable moral character to that high office. Of course, we know how the story ended. Blasey Ford was subsequently bombarded with death threats, forcing evacuation from her home, while Kavanaugh, surprise, surprise, was confirmed to the Supreme Court by the US Senate with a 50-48 vote.

Blasey Ford’s testimony was particularly painful not just for her, but for women who’ve had similar experiences and who, for whatever reason, may or may not have opted for disclosure. And believe me, there are many. For those who dared question why she’d chosen that psychological time to talk about the assault, here’s the thing. Women have the right to talk about their sexual attacks whenever the hell they feel like it. If they feel like it.

Consider this case: a young woman, about 20 years old. She’s led a sheltered life thus far, but then strikes out on her own, intent on gaining independence from her stifling, overprotective parents. She doesn’t really have a plan, so she takes an entry-level position at a building society. When a good-looking stranger surfaces one day, showing interest in her, she mistakenly believes the universe’s nebulous plan is suddenly unfolding with him figuring prominently in it.

Except, the problem is this: the universe’s plan, as it so often happens with that shifty bastard, is short-term. In this case, one night only.

On their first, let’s say, ‘date’, she’s wined and dined at his home, and let’s say Luther Vandross, Barry White, and others of that ilk, are introduced for good measure. Pretty heady stuff, right? As jaded adults we can see it for what it in fact is, though, can’t we? Laying the groundwork for closing the deal.

Our heroine, unfortunately, is clueless. Remember, she’s a sheltered 20-year-old, whose frame of reference in the men department is sadly Danielle Steel novels. Glowing with the dew of idealism, she allows herself an indulgence: fantasising about date number 2. Hell, she might have even allowed herself the fantasy of regaling their future offspring with the story of the unconventional start of their love affair.

Imagine her confusion, therefore, when the unthinkable happens and Super Stud quickly menaces, fighting her into the missionary position. Eventually, she closes her eyes, goes limp, gives up the struggle. She’d been attracted to him before, right? How bad could it be?

When it’s over he drops her home, perfunctorily kisses her on the cheek and offers a heartfelt thank you for a lovely evening. She convinces herself that Super Creep had merely coaxed the experience out of her. Forcefully. Who would have believed the alternate narrative, anyway? After all, hadn’t she willingly gone to his house? In the days immediately following, she crafts a new narrative. The so-called assault wasn’t some violent back-alley takedown that left her bloodied and almost circling the drain, as these things are wont to be. If she really thinks about it, she’s lucky. It could have been worse. She’ll keep it to herself, embarrassed by her stupidity. Stupidity, which, through the prism of time, she eventually understands to be naiveté. #iwasthatgirl

Shortly after the Blasey Ford Senate hearings, a group of faculty, members, students and alums at University of North Carolina Chapel Hill nominated Dr Blasey Ford for a Distinguished Alumna Award. In part, the nomination letter from the very woke English professor Jennifer Ho read, “Dr Blasey Ford giving her testimony, speaking truth to power, was an inspiration for so many of us. Her testimony prompted countless women to share their own stories of sexual harassment and assault.”

In an interview, Ho explained that she is hearing the same conversations about sexual assault now that people were having when she graduated from college in 1992. “We haven’t really moved the needle on the conversation around sexual assault,” she said.

Damn skippy. Women are afraid of gaslighting, being told that their assault experiences never happened. #anitahill #desireewashington

Or, incredibly, that they are somehow to be blamed for them.

Isn’t it time these simplistic notions be finally put to rest? That, at any rate, was part of what the Me Too movement sought to do: give voice to women’s secret shame while highlighting the pervasiveness of sexism. But with all the backlash that has taken place since the reckoning for male public figures, Kavanaugh included, the outlook for a recasting of gender politics weirdly seems bleaker than ever. Women in Jamaica know this more than others, I think, which is probably why the Me Too movement has had a lukewarm reception here. Still, our silence is doing us no favours.

Despite the cosmetic changes in women’s circumstances in this country, we are still often treated shoddily, even by men who fancy themselves progressive. Can we agree on this right now?

Listen, we humans have an overwhelming need for comforting chimeras. We want to believe the big bad wolf lives only within the pages of Grimms’ Fairy Tales. That’s understandable. Contemplating life’s brutish nature often makes me, for one, want to draw the shades, crawl under the duvet, and curl up in a foetal ball. But there comes a time to face the hard light of day. Dr Blasey Ford “did something really extraordinary”, Ho said. “She spoke the truth.”

At some point, every woman must.