Unlikable Truths: The Power of Authenticity
Written by Ryan B.
In her essay, “On Likability,” Lacy M. Johnson, an American writer, professor, and activist, motivated by her personal experience with sexual assault, inspired by her daughter’s boldness to express herself, and empowered by the rise of the MeToo movement, comments on — through her focus on sexual assault and consent — the implications of disregarding the truth in order to be more likable. Considering 2018 marked the inception of the #MeToo and the start of actual discussion surrounding sexual consent, Johnson’s speech, delivered during the 2018 TinHouse Summer Workshop, emphasizes the significance and empowerment of telling the truth in the face of forfeiting how likable you are perceived.
Johnson starts with a splash of reality, narrating her disturbing and uncomfortable experiences growing up being sexually assaulted and harassed by men. She describes her experience of how she would acquiesce to men’s demands, which led to an abusive relationship of rape and abuse at the age of fourteen, and her experience of being groomed by her Spanish professor. Johnson reflects on how she had been “taught somewhere along the way that it was a blessing to be liked by a man,” and the diminishing of herself into someone “who was barely a person of her own” was how she could repay that blessing (106). This way of thinking suppressed her to female obedience; however, upon Johnson’s choice to put truth over the expectation to please others, she decided to publish a book on her experiences as a victim of sexual assault. And her truth was not appreciated. Johnson reflects that “my ‘narrator’ (which, spoilers, is me) isn’t likable, that I write things that make my readers uncomfortable, and that I make choices with which my readers disagree” (107). Through this anecdote, Johnson establishes the incompatibility between likability and truth. After all, Johnson’s experience exemplifies this phenomenon: after resolving to be honest about her traumatic background of sexual assault, Johnson was burdened with the label of being ‘unlikable’ for her rebellious and uncomfortable writing. Johnson’s courage to publish her narrative of sexual assault left her disliked by people, and this anecdote logically establishes the inverse relationship between likability and transparency. When we consider the larger cultural developments around the time of Johnson’s speech, we can parallel this phenomenon in the context of the growth of the #MeToo movement, where sexual assault victims, just like Johnson, who came forward and shared their stories were similarly branded as ‘unlikable’ due to their rebellious and fierce attitudes against sexual abuse.
What makes Johnson’s speech as powerful as it is is also her ability to speak to two different audiences through her appeal to emotion. Nearing the end of her speech, Johnson reiterates to us that “we can tell the truth. We can be wrong sometimes. We can make mistakes. Sometimes really big ones. We can be crude and vulgar. We can change our minds” (111). With only one quote, Johnson effectively speaks to two widely different demographics: victims of sexual assault, and people who have never endured the threat of sexual harassment. On one side, Johnson encourages and uplifts victims struggling to give consent. She affirms that it is okay to be wrong, to make mistakes, to be crude and vulgar, and to change minds, even if it comes at the compromise of one’s likeability. This encouragement and appeal to emotion contributes to her goal of empowering victims of sexual assault to tell their story. On the other side, an easily overlooked yet equally important demographic that Johnson speaks to are the perpetrators of sexual assault who fail to ask for consent. Through this quote, Johnson challenges perpetrators to think about their actions from the perspective of the victim, who should be equally entitled to making mistakes and being wrong.
Additionally, the prevalence of how people try to be likable in not only the context of sexual assault but in all areas of life is perhaps just as important as Johnson’s story. Although our lives, including our cultures, genders, and experiences, are vastly different, Johnson emphasizes our commonality: we are both guilty of suffering the negative consequences of one's conformance towards likability. Growing up in a Korean household, I witnessed the absurdly long hours my dad often had to work to be seen as favorable by his boss. When I was a little kid, I overheard a conversation between my parents where my dad spent nearly an hour looking for his car in the dark after the car park lights were switched off because he had worked until 2 A.M. after his boss assigned him his own work to do. I was frustrated to say the least — why did my dad have to stay so late, when he had done his job? And like how I slowly saw my dad’s life erode into nothing but work just to appeal to his boss, Johnson’s childhood of acquiescence to men ultimately led to her upsetting experiences of sexual abuse.
Even in 2023, it’s undeniable how pervasive this phenomenon is, whether people are at school, at work, or on social media. Although we are all guilty to varying degrees of portraying ourselves in an untruthful manner in order to boost our likeability, we are all guilty nonetheless. Ultimately, in a society where there is an implicit need to fit in with everything to be liked, Johnson challenges us to not turn away from “stories of our failures, our ugliness, our unlikability, and greet them with love when they appear,” even if doing so could jeopardize our likability.
If you’d like to read the original essay that Ryan responds to here, please click here.
