So You've Been Publicly Shamed (17 page)

But what is most worrying about Justice Eady's decisions is that he is ruling that—when it comes to morality—the law in Britain is now effectively neutral, which is why I accuse him, in his judgments, of being “amoral.”

Ever since I started telling people I was writing a book about shame, lots of people from the Paul Dacre–type world—successful older men high up in British society—have congratulated me, presumptuously, for telling it how it is about how young people don't feel shame anymore. I met a famous architect at a party who said just that. And a religious broadcaster bemoaned to me how the loosening of religious morality has created a shameless society. I can understand why someone might believe that, given that we're living in an age where a Church of the Nazarene pastor can visit a prostitute and nobody cares. I think Andrew and Max have women like Princess Donna to thank for their non-disgrace. Donna has worked assiduously for years to demystify strange sex, which is why men like them are able to emerge from their scandals unscathed. But shame hasn't died. Shame has just moved elsewhere, gathering tremendous strength along the way.

The fact was, speeches like Paul Dacre's didn't matter anymore. The people who mattered didn't care what Dacre thought. The people who mattered were the people on Twitter. On Twitter we make our own decisions about who deserves obliteration. We form our own consensus, and we aren't being influenced by the criminal justice system or the media. This makes us formidable.

My journey to find a shame-free paradise—somewhere we can be safe from the likes of us—had been a failure. Radical Honesty felt to me like people just yelling at each other. Neither Max nor Andrew had helpful secrets to impart about mustering the strength to survive the agony of a shaming. For them, there had been no shaming to survive. In fact, the only place on my journey where I'd witnessed any form of post-shame enlightenment was the Public Disgrace shoot at the sports bar in the San Fernando Valley. I looked back on the night with fondness. It was the only place I'd been to since I started writing this book that had felt
relaxing
.

Then I reread my transcript of a conversation I'd had with Donna that night and saw something I hadn't noticed before.

D
ONNA:
I was just coming home from Sacramento. I was at the airport. And I read something about myself on TMZ.

TMZ is a celebrity-gossip website. When Donna read their story, she told me, she suddenly saw how she looked to the outside world. It made her feel deeply humiliated and upset.

D
ONNA:
I'd been in this bubble in San Francisco, surrounded by other sex-positive people who are knowledgeable about sex work, about the sex industry, and so I never felt judged. But then all of a sudden I had these people looking at me from the outside and talking about me as if I was some idiotic pornographer. It was really hard. I was crying at the airport. I was crying on the plane ride.

Now I hunted down the TMZ article. What had been so crushing? How brutal had they been about Donna?

James Franco is working on a top secret project with an up-and-coming female porn director, TMZ has learned . . . and it turns out she has quite the reputation for being handy with her fist. The woman in the photo is Princess Donna Dolore, who's featured in Franco's soon-to-be released film “Kink.” Despite being in the film, Franco only met PDD for the first time in person last week . . . and sources tell us he has already locked her up to be a part of a future project he is working on. During the encounter, PDD gave Franco an official Princess Donna Dolore shirt, which includes her trademark fist on the back. James took it . . . the shirt, that is . . . and sported it proudly. We reached out to Franco for comment—but so far, no word back.

—TMZ
STAFF
,
D
ECEMBER 26
,
2012

Years ago I might have thought it crazy that Donna had become so upset over such an innocuous article. But now I understood. I think we all care deeply about things that seem totally inconsequential to other people. We all carry around with us the flotsam and jetsam of perceived humiliations that actually mean nothing. We are a mass of vulnerabilities, and who knows what will trigger them? And so I sympathized with Donna. It seemed sad—given how Max and Andrew owed her so much—that as soon as she saw herself from the outside she felt ashamed, like the shame had snaked its way into her and there was no escaping.

—

I'm sure there are psychopaths out there—people neurologically incapable of feeling shame, as if they were shrouded in layers of cotton wool—but I hadn't met anybody like that on this journey. Ever since I began writing this book, though, one name kept coming up as someone who had survived a public shaming with such an apparent lack of effort that he made the entire concept of public shame seem like no big deal. And now after some reluctant e-mails—“I hope you'll understand, I'm wary”—he had agreed to meet me for lunch. His name was Mike Daisey.

The Near Drowning of Mike Daisey

I
t feels like they want an apology, but it's a lie.” Mike Daisey and I were sitting in a Brooklyn restaurant. He was a big man and he frequently dabbed the perspiration from his face with a handkerchief that was always within his reach. “It's a lie because they don't want an apology,” he said. “An apology is supposed to be a communion—a coming together. For someone to make an apology, someone has to be listening. They listen and you speak and there's an exchange. That's why we have a thing about accepting apologies. There's a power exchange that happens. But they don't want an apology.” He looked at me. “What they want is my destruction. What they want is for me to die. They will never say this because it's too histrionic. But they never want to hear from me again for the rest of my life, and while they're never hearing from me, they have the right to use me as a cultural reference point whenever it services
their
ends. That's how it would work out best for
them
. They would like me to never speak again.” He paused. “I'd never had the opportunity to be the object of hate before. The hard part isn't the hate. It's the object.”

—

Mike Daisey's transgression—which was remarkably similar to Jonah's—had been uncovered three months before Michael Moynihan lay on his sofa that July Fourth and wondered when Bob Dylan had ever called the creative process “just the sense that you got something to say.” Like Jonah and Stephen Glass, Mike Daisey had been caught lying in a story. His was about a trip he had just taken to Shenzhen, China, during which he met factory workers who made Apple products. But some of the meetings had never happened. His shaming was maybe even more agonizing than Jonah's because every breath of it—every long, panicked silence—was captured on audio and broadcast on one of America's most popular radio shows,
This American Life
. Mike Daisey has always been a dandy. He was a big, loud, flamboyant character in New York's theater world. And for much of the broadcast, he sounded like he thought he could bluster his way through it. He had hope. He made justifications and nitpicked little points. But as the hour unfolded, it all crumbled, and by the end, when he finally said, “I'm sorry,” he sounded finished—exhausted, empty. It was such an agonized “I'm sorry” that I thought there was a chance he would leave the radio studio, go home, and kill himself. But instead, within minutes, he published an apologetic statement on his website, and by the next day, he was back on Twitter. He was one man screaming at ten thousand people screaming at him. He berated and scolded his attackers and called them hypocrites. At first, all this made them even more incensed. But he didn't budge. He was a tireless defender of himself.

Eventually, it became clear to his critics that their fury was useless. They drifted away, until it all just stopped. And now, as Jonah Lehrer roamed the Los Angeles wilderness shattered and disgraced, Mike Daisey posted photographs on Instagram of him and his wife sunbathing poolside in Miami, having just completed a critically acclaimed sold-out theatrical tour. How could almost identical shamings annihilate one man and leave another without a scratch?

—

In the restaurant, Mike didn't reply to these questions right away. Then he said, “When I was young, twenty-one, twenty-two, my life fell apart in a really catastrophic way.”

He had been staring down at the table. But now he looked up. “My girlfriend had suddenly started avoiding me,” he continued. “I'd be, ‘Let's get together.' But she always put me off. And finally I got a phone call. She was pregnant. Eight months pregnant. I was going to be a father. In a month.”

This was in far northern Maine, Mike said. He felt trapped. In Maine. The baby was born. Their relationship disintegrated under the strain. “I abdicated my responsibilities as a father. I completely fell apart.”

Every night Mike would go swimming in a lake. Some nights he swam out as far as he could. “I kept going. It got colder and colder. And I'd just lie in the lake. And I was trying, it's really clear now, I was trying to drown.”

“You were trying to kill yourself?”

Mike nodded. “This is really clear to me now.” He paused. “Ever since, I've never felt as tethered to this place as other people do. Everything seems like a long, improbable afterlife.” Mike smiled. “I bring it up because it might be useful for you,” he said.

We carried on eating. The story just hung there. I think Mike was treating me like an audience, feeding me fragments of stories, forcing me to piece together the mystery myself.

He swam back to shore each night. He ended up teaching high school drama. He graduated a year late. Then he left Maine. “I drove to Seattle,” he said. “I tried to create a new life for myself.” And he did. He became, of all things, a monologist in the theater. His shows were passionate and well liked but too esoteric to make a splash outside his fringe world. They were about esoteric things like how war had turned his grandfather cold and how that coldness had trickled down to turn his father cold. And so on. But then, in the summer of 2010, he performed his masterpiece—
The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs
—the story of his trip to China.

The factory workers he met there told him about the n-hexane: “N-hexane is an iPhone screen cleaner,” Mike's monologue went. “It's great because it evaporates a little bit faster than alcohol does, which means you can run the production line even faster and try to keep up with the quotas. The problem is that n-hexane is a potent neurotoxin, and all these people have been exposed. Their hands shake uncontrollably. Most of them . . . can't even pick up a glass.” His monologue moved on to describe his meetings with thirteen-year-old girls who worked at the plants because nobody checked ages, and the old man with the right hand that was “twisted up into a claw. It was crushed in a metal press at Foxconn.” Mike showed this old man his iPad. “He's never actually seen one on, this thing that took his hand. I turn it on . . . the icons flare into view. And he strokes the screen with his ruined hand. And he says something . . . He says, ‘It's a kind of magic.'”

One night at the end of 2011,
This American Life
's creator, Ira Glass, saw Mike Daisey perform his show onstage at Joe's Pub in New York City. Like everyone else, he was spellbound, and so he offered Mike the chance to tell it on his program. The people at the show tried to fact-check. They asked Mike to put them in touch with his translator. But Mike said his phone number for her no longer worked. Some of his other facts had checked out, so they took his word for it.

—

I heard it go out live. I was driving through Florida. I pulled my car onto the side of the road and didn't move until it had finished. People all over America were doing the same. We felt inexorably altered by the power of Mike's narrative and became determined to take action. Most of us, it goes without saying, were inexorably altered back to how we'd been earlier that day by the time we'd had dinner or whatever. But some weren't. One listener started a petition calling for better working conditions at Apple's manufacturing plants. He delivered 250,000 signatures. Pressure was put on the company like never before. It announced that, for the first time in its history, it would allow third parties in to audit the factory conditions. The Mike Daisey episode became the single most popular podcast in
This American Life
's history.

But unbeknownst to Mike, his own Michael Moynihan was quietly digging.

He was Rob Schmitz, the Shanghai correspondent for the public radio show
Marketplace
. Some of Mike's details had seemed suspicious to him. For instance, Mike had mentioned interviewing factory workers in a Starbucks. How could they afford that? Starbucks is even more expensive in China than in the West. So he tracked down Mike's translator. And that's when Mike's story fell apart. There were no workers with hands that shook uncontrollably, no old man with a clawed hand. He hadn't visited “ten” plants in China. He'd visited three. And so on. It wasn't that the horrors Mike described hadn't happened—they had. One hundred thirty-seven workers at an Apple plant had been sickened by n-hexane, but it had happened in 2010 and a thousand miles away, in a town called Suzhou. (In Apple's February 2011 annual report, the company described the use of the toxic chemical as a “core violation” of worker safety and said it had ordered the contractor to stop using n-hexane.) Mike hadn't met these Suzhou workers. He'd only read about them. It just made his story more enthralling to pretend he was there.

And so, on March 16, 2012, Ira Glass brought Mike Daisey back on the air.

I
RA
G
LASS:
Were you afraid that we would discover something if we talked to [the translator]?

M
I
KE
D
AISEY:
No, not really.

I
RA:
Really? There was no part of you which felt like, OK, well, the hexane thing didn't really happen when I was there. And did you feel like there was something that we would discover by talking to her?

M
IKE:
Well I did think it would unpack the complexities of, of like how, how the story gets told.

I
RA:
What does that mean, “unpack the complexities”?

M
IKE:
Well, it means that like the hexane thing, I think I'm agreeing with you. . . .

M
IKE:
I believe that when I perform it in a theatrical context . . . we have different languages for what the truth means.

I
RA:
I understand that you believe that, but I think you're kidding yourself. Normal people who go to see a person talk—people take it as a literal truth. I thought that the story was literally true seeing it in the theater. Brian, who's seen other shows of yours, thought all of them were true. . . .

M
IK
E:
We have different worldviews on some of these things.

I
RA:
I know. But I feel like I have the normal worldview. The normal worldview is somebody stands onstage and says, “This happened to me,” I think it happened to them, unless it's clearly labeled, “Here's a work of fiction.” . . .

I
RA:
I have such a weird mix of feelings about this. Because I simultaneously feel terrible for you, and also, I feel lied to. And also, I stuck my neck out for you. I feel like I vouched for you. With our audience. Based on your word.

M
IKE:
I'm sorry.

The tone of voice in which Mike said, “I'm sorry,” sounded like that of a child—a gifted, difficult, maverick child who thought he was bigger than the school—being made to stand in front of everyone and get chastened until he changed. In those three syllables he seemed to shift from defiant to broken.

But then he was back online, his self-esteem apparently totally revived.

He felt proud to have recovered the way he did. “I've been obsessed with investigating literary scandals,” he told me. “Nobody ever comes back from those things. At the scale and intensity of what I experienced? Nobody comes out intact.”

“I know!” I said. “Did you know from the start you'd survive?”

“Oh no,” Mike said. “Oh no. I thought about killing myself.”

I looked at him. “Really?” I said.

“Everything was on the table,” he said. “I actively talked about killing myself. I actively talked about never performing again, just leaving the theater and never performing again. We talked about getting divorced. Very openly.”

“How was your wife during this?” I said.

“She was making sure I wasn't alone,” Mike said.

“When was all of this happening?” I asked.

“The very worst part of the scandal was before anyone knew of the scandal,” he said. “There was a week between my interview with Ira and the show airing. During that week, I began to disassociate onstage. I was falling apart. I would freeze as I was doing the show. I would feel my mind take itself apart. That was the worst part. It was fucking terrible, the fear, and the feeling that you will dissolve.”

“What were you most scared of?”

“I was terrified that I would no longer be able to tell the narrative of my life,” Mike said, “that every time I performed onstage his judgment of me would echo forever, deciding who and what I was.”

“So what changed?”

Mike didn't reply for a while. Then he said, “When Ira first asked me if I wanted to tell the story on his show, I thought,
This is a test. If I really believe in this, then the cowardly thing would be to not do the story. If I bury it, nothing will change
.” He paused. “I knew that the story would explode in the consciousness, and then it would explode for me.”

I frowned. “You're saying you knew from the beginning that you'd be exposed?”

Mike nodded. “What happened on that lake showed me that there's a door,” he said. “And the door is open a crack. And you can feel it. You can just die. You see? Once you accept that, it brings clarity. You want to do something in the world? Be willing to throw your life away. I was, ‘Fine. I'll throw my life away. Fine.'”

“What about the risk that the scandal, instead of shining a light on what was happening in China, would turn the light off?” I said.

“I would have worried about that a lot,” Mike replied. Then he corrected his phrasing. “I worried about that a lot,” he said. “I was really worried about that.”

He could see me looking uncertainly at him.