Twenty-seven years after the disreputable Clarence Thomas hearings on Anita Hill's allegations, which included three days of witnesses and a perfunctory FBI investigation, the one-day hearing on Christine Blasey Ford's allegations of sexual assault seemed to be a step backwards. Not a single witness was called to testify; the sham FBI investigation was controlled by Kavanaugh's longtime buddy White House counsel Don McGahn, who had pushed his nomination. And the Republican side of the Judiciary Committee, which, as the majority party, controlled the hearing, is still entirely composed of white men, with an average age of 64. It is often said that the Anita Hill hearings, in which an all-white, all-male Senate Judiciary Committee stared down at her in between turns of snarling chauvinism, led to the election of five women to the Senate in 1992. We've already seen a similar reaction to Trump, with several Women's Marches and a record number of women running for office. A total of 274 women, after winning Senate, House, and governor primaries, will be on ballots around the country in November.

In a tone-deaf attempt to avoid the creepy-old-men optics, Republicans mostly avoided slut-shaming Blasey Ford, hired a "female assistant" to question her in the hearing, and propped up Sen. Susan Collins (R-Maine), as another female representative, to regurgitate right-wing talking points in a painful speech on the Senate floor. None of it worked. The videos of a red-faced Lindsey Graham screaming and Kavanaugh crying, lying, and snapping at Sen. Klobuchar (D-Minn.) may have galvanized hardcore partisans and men inclined to distrust women. Indeed, support for Kavanaugh among men actually rose slightly after Blasey Ford's accusations became public. But many women saw raging men reminiscent of alcoholic dissembling and entitled excuse-making, and the reactions of his supporters were equally disturbing. At a Mississippi rally following the hearing, Trump mocked Blasey Ford's memories of what happened; the crowd chanted "lock her up."

The accumulation of Trump-era offenses has been chipping away at those who'd cast themselves in a shell of neutrality. In the early fall in most years, my Facebook feed is filled by women of a certain age posting photos of their young children hamming it by pumpkins or husband appreciation posts and successful home improvements. But this autumn, I noticed something different. Trump had, two years ago, ignited one subsection of previously politically disengaged women; Kavanaugh triggered another. For those who might not identify with the predictable misogyny of a brash billionaire leering at teenage Miss USA contestants, Kavanaugh was something altogether more familiar: an entitled frat boy, who may have been at the top of his class, but acted terribly in private. We all knew the type. Friends, who, like Swift, typically avoid political rants became atypically outspoken. "I couldn't even listen to most of the hearing yesterday. It literally made me sick," said one friend, who had taken a years-long political hiatus, and later texted me. "He represents a thing. I think a lot of women are reevaluating things." Another posted: "Vote out the old, white f$@&s!! This is disgraceful. I'm so angry." Even more interesting were the women hitting "like"—women I'd never before heard make a political utterance. It wasn't just my greater circle of friends and acquaintances either.

There were signs of Swift's growing political awakening. Last March, she posted an Instagram in support of the gun-control movement March for Our Lives. And before that, she appeared on the 2017 Person of the Year cover of Time honoring the "Silence Breakers" on sexual assault. In 2013, well before #MeToo, Swift reported a Colorado DJ to his station for grabbing her ass while they took a photo together. After an investigation, he was fired and, two years later, he sued her for defamation. She counter sued him for a symbolic $1 and won. Her testimony was full of zingers that seemed straight out of a female empowerment movie. When the defense attorney asked her if she felt guilty over the DJ losing his job, she retorted: "I'm not going to let you or your client make me feel in any way that this is my fault. Here we are years later, and I'm being blamed for the unfortunate events of his life that are the product of his decisions—not mine." Later, Swift told Time, "I was angry," noting that the man's attorney bullied her team, including her own mother, and accused her of lying—a pattern with reverberations in the case of Blasey Ford and others who come forward with sexual misconduct allegations. She also noted that she called Kesha, who has been entangled with her own years-long public battle over sexual abuse allegations, for advice.