This morning I had a brush with infamy — I saw Brock Turner when I was biking to work. I was stunned. I was passing by Harvard University and saw him on the sidewalk, carrying a backpack and wearing headphones. I couldn’t believe it. I thought — maybe he’s already lecturing college students about the dangers of promiscuous drinking? But then I remembered he just received a six month sentence this week (estimates are that he will serve 3 months of that sentence). Could they have suspended it or credited him with time served and let him start on probation right away?? I knew it was him because I recognized that cocky lopsided grin — the one from that yearbook picture all the media has been using in stories about him. I probably wouldn’t have recognized him from his actual mug shot from that night.

I could see all the confidence racked up in his eyes, from being told over and over again what a special flower he was, from being a state champion athlete to winning the regional spelling bee, from the academic scholarship he got for his private high school to the way the advanced degrees of his parents worked in his favor — it was all there in his eyes.

I was flabbergasted. And I was also late for work, so I pedaled on, mind reeling.

But I was completely unprepared for what happened next. Not ten minutes later, as I passed through the high-tech business area in Kendall Square, I saw him again. He looked right at me with those brilliant blue eyes as I rode past, close enough to touch. I nearly fell off my bike. He was wearing khakis and a collared button-down, waiting at a crosswalk with two other business-type guys, drinking a latte, holding a grant proposal. He looked relaxed and knowing. I caught a faint whiff of his cologne as I biked past — he smelled of the future; antiseptic from the surgeon he hopes to be and the musty papery smell of a newly printed book deal. It was unnerving.

I thought maybe I was losing my mind, it was an out-of-body experience. I got to work moments later and I ran into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I looked up, and I saw him again. Right there. In the mirror. Looking back at me with my own blue eyes, my own awkward grin, my own set of glorious privileges, my own set of horrible mistakes. My own private shame.

In that moment, I realized how glad I am that the media is putting his best face forward. I’m glad they talk endlessly about his accomplishments and his hopes and dreams, his athletic prowess and his academic success. They’ve made it easier for all of us who have a certain set of privileges to see ourselves in Brock Turner. The truth of the matter is: Brock is me. And I am Brock.

Why do I say that? How can that be true? Well…

Because I too have been raised by a dominant capitalist culture that seeks to devalue consent through marketing McDonald’s to children before they can read; by using women’s sexuality as a substitute for advertising; and especially through pornography, including a whole brand of pornography focused on men assaulting sleeping or unconscious women (really.)

Because I too have been raised by a dominant religious culture that seeks to limit access to information about sexuality to those who need it most — our young people. Because abstinence is not a pathway to consent.

Because I too have been raised by a dominant sexist and heterosexist culture that seeks to position women as objects to be ogled or pedestaled or bought and sold or married to the highest bidder or carried behind a dumpster and …

Because I too have been raised by an American culture that prioritizes my individual needs over everyone else’s, and assures me my poop doesn’t stink, that eases my instinct to examine myself, that offers me endless anesthetization through gambling and ‘reality’ tv and sugary snacks and frenzied nationalism and manufactured outrage.

Because I too have been raised by a racist and classist culture that tells me my worth is so immense, that I do not have to stop my actions at any point to consider their impact on others, and to know that even my most heinous mistakes can be explained away as 20 minutes of ‘action’ caused by ‘promiscuous’ drinking. Because my future is too damned important to be sidetracked by someone else’s needs or someone else’s pain. Because the judge will probably look like me. Because I matter more than anyone else. And because my consequences are so very much smaller. Always.

So, in the face of all that, is it any surprise that I have become Brock Turner? Or that Brock Turner is me? Maybe I didn’t have an out-of-body experience today, maybe I had an in-body experience.

Maybe this is an opportunity to come home to myself, to understand my own choices. It’s been unsettling, and it’s left me confused. Was it Brock who just took what he wanted, consequences be damned? Or, as I reflect back over specific moments in my life, was it me?

Or was it, perhaps, also you? Take a look at that stone in your hand, the one you just picked up to throw at me for my public confession. Is it shaped like a boomerang? Be careful where you throw it.

We all have work to do in challenging rape culture. I invite you, my men, my white men, my white wealthy men, my white wealthy straight men, my white wealthy straight well-educated men to reflect on what you can do to help end our rape culture. I know that’s what I’ll be doing.

This is dedicated to Arthur, and Jonah, and Franz, and Adam, and Nathaniel, and all the other boys who are trying to figure out how to be privileged white men in a world that is set up for them to end up like me and Brock. And my niece who has to live in this world with them. And to all their dads.