Journal articles on the topic 'Mali. Cour suprême'

In this article, we reflect upon the backgrounds and career trajectories of judicial officers currently presiding over the Federal Court and Supreme Courts, which are some of the highest courts, in Australia. We gathered information through publicly available websites in Australia providing official biographical information, and drew on academic efforts to fill in more details about the judiciary. While patchy, the picture today in the Australian judiciary is of a relatively uniform educational and career background – for both male and female judges. Our analysis shows that judges are predominantly recruited from a long career at the private Bar. However, given continued professional barriers to women succeeding in the Australian legal profession which we describe, we argue that it is time to take seriously the stated goals of modern judicial appointment to widen the pool and consider merit that is not solely defined by a benchmark male career. Planteamos una reflexión sobre los orígenes y las trayectorias de las autoridades judiciales que presiden el Tribunal Federal y los Tribunales Supremos, algunas de las instancias judiciales más altas de Australia. Recopilamos información publicada en webs australianas que proporcionan biografías oficiales, y completamos el retrato judicial mediante recursos académicos. Aunque borroso, el retrato actual del mundo judicial australiano muestra un origen educativo y profesional similar para jueces y juezas. Nuestro análisis muestra que jueces y juezas provienen generalmente de una larga carrera profesional en la abogacía. Sin embargo, debido a los constantes obstáculos –los cuales describimos– que deben enfrentar las mujeres para triunfar en la profesión jurídica, argumentamos que ha llegado el momento de abordar seriamente los objetivos establecidos de la designación judicial, para ampliar el grupo y tomar en consideración méritos que no están definidos únicamente por la trayectoria legal masculina.

Women are less successful than their male counterparts at Supreme Court oral arguments under certain circumstances. However, existing work relies on mere presence rather than on any action female attorneys take in their argument. Drawing on recent work that stresses gender is performative, I argue success for women at oral arguments is tied to conformance with gender norms, subtle and unconscious expectations of how men and women should communicate. Via a quantitative textual analysis of the 2004–2016 terms, I find attorneys are more successful when their oral arguments are more consistent with gender norms. Specifically, male attorneys are rewarded for using less emotional language whereas female attorneys are successful when using more emotional language. This study represents a more nuanced and performative understanding of gender at oral arguments. These results raise normative concerns about how effective women are at the Supreme Court.

Although women remain underrepresented in U.S. elective office, female candidates have experienced similar or greater electoral success compared to their male counterparts. Research suggests both selection effects (the uniquely strong characteristics and qualifications of women who run for office) and selective candidacy (the decisions to run or not run for office based on the electoral context) contribute to this phenomenon. I leverage a large data set of candidate characteristics and electoral outcomes in state supreme court elections spanning 1990-2012 to clarify the causal mechanisms behind the electoral success of female candidates. I find that the success of female candidates in state supreme court elections is driven by the most capable women selectively running for open seats. I conclude that this phenomenon may be reflective of a broader gender gap in political ambition, with implications for tactics to improve gender representation in politics.

Modern Supreme Court nomination hearings are contentious political events, as evidenced by the four held during the 109th and 111th Congresses to confirm John Roberts, Samuel Alito, Sonia Sotomayor, and Elena Kagan. Senators appear to raise suspicion of nominees purposefully through their questioning during Judiciary Committee hearings, connecting the label of “judicial restraint” with candidates who are male, white, straight, and prone to “reason.” Appointees thought to embody the feminine, nonwhite, queer, and emotional practices of “judicial activism” to offer a contrast. This dichotomous construction has made debates during the nomination process destructively reductive. A paradox thus emerges: by ignoring the importance of descriptive representation, the identity of potential justices to the Supreme Court becomes one of the most salient issues during the hearings; subsequently, this has resulted in senators using cues to create a caricature or “straw man” of nominees belonging to one or more minority groups in order to weaken and discredit otherwise qualified jurists and achieve a party “win” against the White House.

On January 31, 1986, the American Psychological Association (APA) filed an amicus curiae brief with the US Supreme Court favoring constitutional protection for consensual sodomy. The APA claimed that: (1) the Bell, Weinberg, and Hammersmith survey found that “62% of heterosexual men reported that their first sexual experience was with another male; 39% of homosexual men reported such experience,” (2) “data do not support” a linkage between childhood homosexual activity and sexual orientation, and (3) “there are no empirical data to support the popular myth that homosexual orientation or behavior results from ‘contagion’ by other homosexuals.” It is judged that, in violation of standards for scientific reporting, the Bell, et al. finding was pulled out of context so that it favored the APA position, and the studies the APA cited in this section of the brief were either contrary to, nonsupportive of, or did not bear upon the APA's contentions. Professional scientific organizations have a special obligation to (a) be accurate in representations to the US Supreme Court and (b) adhere to accepted standards of scholarship in their use of citations.

Objectives To compare the mortality experience of 112 justices of the US Supreme Court with that expected in the general population. To identify variables associated with mortality within this cohort. Background Supreme Court justices are a select occupational cohort. High socio-economic status, advanced education, lifetime appointment, and the healthy worker effect suggest lower mortality. Sedentary work, stress, and a tendency to work beyond typical retirement age may attenuate this. Methods Standardized mortality ratios compare the observed mortality rates of justices with those expected in age- and sex-matched contemporary general populations. Poisson regression analyzes variables associated with mortality within the cohort. Results From 1789 to 2013, 112 justices (108 male) contributed 2,355 person-years of exposure. Mean age (standard deviation) at appointment was 53.1 years (6.7); at retirement 69.7 years (9.9); at death (n = 100) 74.4 years (10.3); and at end of the study for those alive (n = 12) 72.1 years (11.8). Standardized mortality ratios (95% ci) were: overall 0.87 (0.70-1.05); prior to 1950 0.92 (0.61-1.33); and from 1950 to 2013 0.66 (0.42-0.99). Variables in the final Poisson model and their associated mortality rate ratios (95% ci) were: age 1.06 (1.03-1.09); calendar year 0.99 (0.99-1.00); active status 0.41 (0.25-0.68); career length 1.04 (1.01-1.07); and chief justice 1.08 (0.59-1.84). Conclusions Supreme Court mortality was lower than that of the general population in the period from 1950 to the present, but was on par prior to 1950. Increasing age and career length were associated with greater mortality, while active status and later calendar year with lower. These results may add to a body of knowledge that may help to develop or refine models of mortality risk in increasingly aged working populations.

On June 16, 2003, the Supreme Court ruled that forced administration of antipsychotic drugs to a defendant facing serious criminal charges is appropriate in order to render that defendant competent to stand trial, but only in limited circumstances. The treatment must be medically appropriate, substantially unlikely to have side effects that may undermine the fairness of the trial, and necessary to significantly further important government interests, after taking account of less-intrusive alternatives.Charles Sell, a former dentist, had a long history of mental illness. He had been hospitalized twice, in 1982 and 1984, after expressing paranoid ideas to law enforcement officials. In May 1997, Sell was charged with fifty-six counts of mail fraud, six counts of Medicaid fraud, and one count of money laundering. He was released on bail after a magistrate determined that he was currently competent to stand trial.

The article shows the seriousness of the impact of gender stereotypes on the court’s perception of the position of a party to the trial depending on its sex and age, as well as on the formation of reasons that the court is guided by when evaluating evidence and making decisions. On the example of the decision of the Grand Chamber of the European Court of Human Rights in the case of Carvalho Pinto de Sousa Morais v. Portugal has demonstrated how gender stereotypes can lead to biased and, as a result, discriminatory judgments, which can lead to a breach of the State’s obligations under the Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms. The applicant alleged that the Supreme Administrative Court’s decision to reduce the amount initially awarded to her in respect of nonpecuniary damage had amounted to discrimination on the grounds of sex and age, in breach of Article 14 in conjunction with Article 8 of the Convention. She complained, in particular, about the reasons given by the Supreme Administrative Court for reducing the amount awarded to her and about the fact that it had disregarded the importance of a sex life for her as a woman. The author has underlined that in the present case the Court’s task was not to analyse the actual amounts awarded to the applicant by the Supreme Administrative Court. The issue which has to be determined, however, is whether or not the Supreme Administrative Court’s reasoning led to a difference of treatment of the applicant based on her sex and age, amounting to a breach of Article 14 in conjunction with Article 8. In the Court’s view, the wording of the Supreme Administrative Court’s judgment when reducing the amount of compensation in respect of non-pecuniary damage expressed the assumption that sexuality is not as important for a fifty-year old woman and mother of two children as for someone of a younger age. That assumption reflects a traditional idea of female sexuality as being essentially linked to child-bearing purposes and thus ignores its physical and psychological relevance for the self-fulfillment of women as people. In the Court’s view, those considerations show the prejudices prevailing amongst the judiciary in Portugal, especially compare to approach taken in two Portuguese judgments of 2008 and 2014, which concerned allegations of medical malpractice by two male patients who were fifty-five and fifty-nine years old respectively. The case of Carvalho Pinto de Sousa Morais v Portugal is neither only nor the first case addressing the question of gender discrimination in connection with judgments of the national courts, hoverer, the key one. This case proves that gender stereotypes and outdated perception of gender roles played a significant role in judicial assessment and decision-making which can lead to the gender-based discrimination. Key words: discrimination, sex, age, gender stereotypes, court decision, judgment.

Although still a minority, the growing number of women on both the Bench and at the Bar of the U.S. Supreme Court has important implications for judicial decision-making and successful advocacy at the Court. Research in judicial behavior generally focuses on vote direction and the presence of female attorneys in a case. We offer a more nuanced account of how gender impacts both attorney success and judicial decision-making by drawing on work in social and political psychology and utilizing quantitative textual analysis to explore the tension between masculine norms of behavior that are valued in the legal profession and feminine norms of behavior that are expected of women, but devalued in the legal profession. Based on the Court’s long-standing disdain for emotional arguments, we examine how the emotional content in 601 party briefs shapes the Court’s majority opinions. Our results indicate that male justices evaluate counsel based on their compliance with traditional gender norms—rewarding male counsel for cool, unemotional arguments and rewarding female counsel for emotionally compelling arguments. However, we find no evidence that gender norms shape the opinions of female justices. Given that the justice system is supposed to be “blind,” our results highlight the durability of gendered expectations and raise questions about the objectivity of judicial decision-making.

“It's a men's world women are here only to assist, serve and please men. It’s the way the world has always been.” In the world there is only one supreme culture prevailing universally in all the societies is the men-centric culture, which is all powerful and all pervasive. This patriarchal culture and its norms are so deeply engrained in the soul of people that they relegate women into fringe or secondary position. Women's rights talk about equality in each aspects of life but in India where patriarchy has solid roots in society, it appears to be extremely hard to acquire concordance and equality in power structures. Patriarchy has clasped Indian middle class society in its stereotyped shackles and its hold on society is unbending and heavy which adversely affects the lives of women. The torture born by women is the result of brutal dominating tendency of males and Tendulkar in general, spotlights on the patriarchal society in both of his plays. He indicated how a men centric society and women's liberation are interconnected and how male domination transforms into maltreatment of women. All the power in Indian society is in the hands of the males which at last prompts the pathetic state of females. Power, when gets discordant, without a doubt results into persecution and domination whether it is mastery of man over women or the other way around. Indian middle class has the same imbalanced power structure and consequently male domination exists because of male dominated society. The ruling idea of males tosses women into a well of persecution of each sort. Such state of females is exhibited by Tendulkar in ‘Sakharam Binder' and in ‘Silence the Court is in Session' caused by the patriarchal system of culture wherein the women have to struggle hard and pass through severe plight to establish their place in society. As we see in case of these three women Miss Benare, Laxmi and Champa. All these three are discarded women who strive hard for their existence in society and have to pass through so many inextricable difficulties. But the plight goes immutable, and unending.

This article considers the implications of the recent Supreme Court of Canada decision in Peoples Department Stores v. Wise for the law of directors' fiduciary duties. The Court’s decision is attacked on two grounds. First, the author criticizes the Court’s interpretation and treatment of the phrase "the best interests of the corporation" as found in the Canada Business Corporations Act. It is argued that the decision in Wise rejects the traditional interpretation of this phrase which was previously accepted to mean "the best interests of the shareholders collectively. " This rejection raises the spectre of the debate between the "shareholder primacy " model of directors' duties and broader "pluralist" alternatives. By undercutting the lynchpin of the "shareholder primacy" model, the author suggests that the Court has left a vacuum in the law because the Court failed to outline what is to replace this traditional interpretation, or even to acknowledge the substantive change being made. At the level of process, it is equally suggested that the revision of important principles in corporate law exclusively through the judiciary is fundamentally undesirable, where the law of directors' duties has such a large element of public policy attached to it. The author also proposes that the decision in Wise has resulted in an unacceptable level of uncertainty in the law, and that this uncertainty was neither necessary nor advisable to resolve the case before the Court. Second, the author criticizes the Court's comments indicating that a breach of fiduciary duty requires mala fides on the part of directors. It is argued that this is inconsistent with pre-existing case law.

The advent of the #MeToo movement and the scale of participation in 85 countries (Gill and Orgad; see Google Trends) has greatly expanded debate about the revival of feminism (Winch Littler and Keeler) and the contribution of digital media to a “reconfiguration” of feminism (Jouet). Insofar as these campaigns are concerned with sexual harassment and related forms of sexual abuse, the longer history of sexual harassment in which this practice was named by women’s movement activists in the 1970s has gone largely unremarked except in the broad sense of the recharging or “techno-echo[es]” (Jouet) of earlier “waves” of feminism. However, #MeToo and its companion movement #TimesUp, and its fighting fund timesupnow.org, stemmed directly from the allegations in 2017 against the media mogul Harvey Weinstein by Hollywood professionals and celebrities. The naming of prominent, powerful men as harassers and the celebrity sphere of activism have become features of #MeToo that warrant comparison with the naming of sexual harassment in the earlier era of feminism.While the practices it named were not new, the term “sexual harassment” was new, and it became a defining issue in second wave feminism that was conceptualised within the continuum of sexual violence. I outline this history, and how it transformed the private, individual experiences of many women into a shared public consciousness about sexual coercion in the workplace, and some of the debate that this generated within the women’s movement at the time. It offers scope to compare the threshold politics of naming names in the 21st century, and its celebrity vanguard which has led to some ambivalence about the lasting impact. For Kathy Davis (in Zarkov and Davis), for instance, it is atypical of the collective goals of second wave feminism.In comparing the two eras, Anita Hill’s claims against Clarence Thomas in the early 1990s is a bridging incident. It dates from closer to the time in which sexual harassment was named, and Hill’s testimony is now recognised as a prototype of the kinds of claims made against powerful men in the #MeToo era. Lauren Berlant’s account of “Diva Citizenship”, formulated in response to Hill’s testimony to the US Senate, now seems prescient of the unfolding spectacle of feminist subjectivities in the digital public sphere and speaks directly to the relation between individual and collective action in making lasting change. The possibility of change, however, descends from the intervention of the women’s movement in naming sexual harassment.The Name Is AllI found my boss in a room ... . He was alone ... . He greeted me ... touched my hair and ... said ... “Come, Ruth, sit down here.” He motioned to his knee. I felt my face flush. I backed away towards the door ... . Then he rose ... and ... put his hand into his pocket, took out a roll of bills, counted off three dollars, and brought it over to me at the door. “Tell your father,” he said, “to find you a new shop for tomorrow morning.” (Cohen 129)Sexual coercion in the workplace, such as referred to in this workplace novel published in 1918, was spoken about among women in subcultures and gossip long before it was named as sexual harassment. But it had no place in public discourse. Women’s knowledge of sexual harassment coalesced in an act of naming that is reputed to have occurred in a consciousness raising group in New York at the height of the second wave women’s movement. Lin Farley lays claim to it in her book, Sexual Shakedown, first published in 1978, in describing the coinage of the term from a workshop on women and work in 1974 at Cornell University. The group of participants was made up, she says, of near equal numbers of black and white women with “economic backgrounds ranging from very affluent to poor” (11). She describes how, “when we had finished, there was an unmistakable pattern to our employment ... . Each one of us had already quit or been fired from a job at least once because we had been made too uncomfortable by the behaviour of men” (11–12). She claims to have later devised the term “sexual harassment” in collaboration with others from this group (12).The naming of sexual harassment has been described as a kind of “discovery” (Leeds TUCRIC 1) and possibly “the only concept of sexual violence to be labelled by women themselves” (Hearn et al. 20). Not everyone agrees that Farley’s group first coined the term (see Herbert 1989) and there is some evidence that it was in use from the early 1970s. Catherine Mackinnon accredits its first use to the Working Women United Institute in New York in connection with the case of Carmita Wood in 1975 (25). Yet Farley’s account gained authority and is cited in several other contemporary radical feminist works (for instance, see Storrie and Dykstra 26; Wise and Stanley 48), and Sexual Shakedown can now be listed among the iconic feminist manifestoes of the second wave era.The key insight of Farley’s book was that sexual coercion in the workplace was more than aberrant behaviour by individual men but was systemic and organised. She suggests how the phrase sexual harassment “is the first verbal description of women’s feelings about this behaviour and it unstintingly conveys a negative perception of male aggression in the workplace” (32). Others followed in seeing it as organised expression of male power that functions “to keep women out of non-traditional occupations and to reinforce their secondary status in the workplace” (Pringle 93), a wisdom that is now widely accepted but seemed radical at the time.A theoretical literature on sexual harassment grew rapidly from the 1970s in which the definition of sexual harassment was a key element. In Sexual Shakedown, Farley defines it with specific connection to the workplace and a woman’s “function as worker” (33). Some definitions attempted to cover a range of practices that “might threaten a woman’s job security or create a stressful or intimidating working environment” ranging from touching to rape (Sedley and Benn 6). In the wider radical feminist discussion, sexual harassment was located within the “continuum of sexual violence”, a paradigm that highlighted the links between “every day abuses” and “less common experiences labelled as crimes” (Kelly 59). Accordingly, it was seen as a diminished category of rape, termed “little rape” (Bularzik 26), or a means whereby women are “reminded” of the “ever present threat of rape” (Rubinstein 165).The upsurge of research and writing served to document the prevalence and history of sexual harassment. Radical feminist accounts situated the origins in the long-standing patriarchal assumption that economic responsibility for women is ultimately held by men, and how “women forced to earn their own living in the past were believed to be defenceless and possibly immoral” (Rubinstein 166). Various accounts highlighted the intersecting effects of racism and sexism in the experience of black women, and women of colour, in a way that would be now termed intersectional. Jo Dixon discussed black women’s “least advantaged position in the economy coupled with the legacy of slavery” (164), while, in Australia, Linda Rubinstein describes the “sexual exploitation of aboriginal women employed as domestic servants on outback stations” which was “as common as the better documented abuse of slaves in the American South” (166).In The Sexual Harassment of Working Women, Catherine Mackinnon provided a pioneering legal argument that sexual harassment was a form of sex discrimination. She defined two types: the quid pro quo, when “sexual compliance is exchanged, or proposed to be exchanged, for an employment opportunity” (32); and sexual harassment as a “persistent condition of work” that “simply makes the work environment unbearable” (40). Thus the feminist histories of sexual harassment became detailed and strategic. The naming of sexual harassment was a moment of relinquishing women’s experience to the gaze of feminism and the bureaucratic gaze of the state, and, in the legal interventions that followed, it ceased to be exclusively a feminist issue.In Australia, a period of bureaucratisation and state intervention commenced in the late 1970s that corresponded with similar legislative responses abroad. The federal Sex Discrimination Act was amended in 1984 to include a definition of sexual harassment, and State and Territory jurisdictions also framed legislation pertaining to sexual harassment (see Law Council of Australia). The regimes of redress were linked with Equal Opportunity and Affirmative Action frameworks and were of a civil order. Under the law, there was potential for employers to be found vicariously liable for sexual harassment.In the women’s movement, legislative strategies were deemed reformist. Radical and socialist feminists perceived the de-gendering effects of these policies in the workplace that risked collusion with the state. Some argued that naming and defining sexual harassment denies that women constantly deal with a range of harassment anywhere, not only in the workplace (Wise and Stanley 10); while others argued that reformist approaches effectively legitimate other forms of sex discrimination not covered by legislation (Game and Pringle 290). However, in feminism and in the policy realm, the debate concerned sexual harassment in the general workplace. In contrast to #MeToo, it was not led by celebrity voices, nor galvanised by incidents in the sphere of entertainment, nor, by and large, among figures of public office, except for a couple of notable exceptions, including Anita Hill.The “Spectacle of Subjectivity” in the “Scene of Public Life”Through the early 1990s as an MA candidate at the University of Queensland, I studied media coverage of sexual harassment cases, clipping newspapers and noting electronic media reports on a daily basis. These mainly concerned incidents in government sector workplaces or small commercial enterprises. While the public prominence of the parties involved was not generally a factor in reportage, occasionally, prominent individuals were affected, such as the harassment of the athlete Michelle Baumgartner at the Commonwealth Games in 1990 which received extensive coverage but the offenders were never publicly named or disciplined. Two other incidents stand out: the Ormond College case at the University of Melbourne, about which much has been written; and Anita Hill’s claims against Clarence Thomas during his nomination to the US Supreme Court in 1991.The spectacle of Hill’s testimony to the US Senate is now an archetype of claims against powerful men, although, at the time, her credibility was attacked and her dignified presentation was criticised as “too composed. Too cool. Too censorious” (Legge 31). Hill was also seen to counterpose the struggles of race and gender, and Thomas himself famously described it as “a hi-tech lynching of an uppity black” (qtd in Stephens 1). By “hi-tech”, Thomas alluded to the occasion of the first-ever live national broadcast of the United States Senate hearings in which Hill’s claims were aired directly to the national public, and re-broadcast internationally in news coverage. Thus, it was not only the claims but the scale and medium of delivery to a global audience that set it apart from other sexual harassment stories.Recent events have since prompted revisiting of the inequity of Hill’s treatment at the Senate hearings. But well before this, in an epic and polemical study of American public culture, Berlant reflected at length on the heroism of Hill’s “witnessing” as paradigmatic of citizenship in post-Reaganite America’s “shrinking” public sphere. It forms part of her much wider thesis regarding the “intimate public sphere” and the form of citizenship “produced by personal acts and values” (5) in the absence of a context that “makes ordinary citizens feel they have a common public culture, or influence on a state” (3), and in which the fundamental inequality of minority cultures is assumed. For Berlant, Hill’s testimony becomes the model of “Diva Citizenship”; the “strange intimacy” in which the Citizen Diva, “the subordinated person”, believes in the capacity of the privileged ones “to learn and to change” and “trust[s] ... their innocence of ... their obliviousness” of the system that has supported her subjugation (222–223). While Berlant’s thesis pertains to profound social inequalities, there is no mistaking the comparison to the digital feminist in the #MeToo era in the call to identify with her suffering and courage.Of Hill’s testimony, Berlant describes how: “a member of a stigmatised population testifies reluctantly to a hostile public the muted and anxious history of her imperiled citizenship” (222). It is an “act of heroic pedagogy” (223) which occurs when “a person stages a dramatic coup in a public sphere in which she does not have privilege” (223). In such settings, “acts of language can feel like explosives” and put “the dominant story into suspended animation” (223). The Diva Citizen cannot “change the world” but “challenges her audience” to identify with her “suffering” and the “courage she has had to produce” in “calling on people to change the practices of citizenship into which they currently consent” (223). But Berlant cautions that the strongest of Divas cannot alone achieve change because “remaking the scene of public life into a spectacle of subjectivity” can lead to “a confusion of ... memorable rhetorical performance with sustained social change itself” (223). Instead, she argues that the Diva’s act is a call; the political obligation for the action of change lies with the collective, the greater body politic.The EchoIf Acts of Diva Citizenship abound in the #MeToo movement, relations between the individual and the collective are in question in a number of ways. This suggests a basis of comparison between past and present feminisms which have come full circle in the renewed recognition of sexual harassment in the continuum of sexual violence. Compared with the past, the voices of #MeToo are arguably empowered by a genuine, if gradual, change in the symbolic status of women, and a corresponding destabilization of the images of male power since the second wave era of feminism. The one who names an abuser on Twitter symbolises a power of individual courage, backed by a responding collective voice of supporters. Yet there are concerns about who can “speak out” without access to social media or with the constraint that “the sanctions would be too great” (Zarkov and Davis). Conversely, the “spreadability” — as Jenkins, Ford and Green term the travelling properties of digital media — and the apparent relative ease of online activism might belie the challenge and courage of those who make the claims and those who respond.The collective voice is also allied with other grassroots movements like SlutWalk (Jouet), the women’s marches in the US against the Trump presidency, and the several national campaigns — in India and Egypt, for instance (Zarkov and Davis) — that contest sexual violence and gender inequality. The “sheer numbers” of participation in #MeToo testify to “the collectivity of it all” and the diversity of the movement (Gill and Orgad). If the #MeToo hashtag gained traction with the “experiences of white heterosexual women in the US”, it “quickly expanded” due to “broad and inclusive appeal” with stories of queer women and men and people of colour well beyond the Global North. Even so, Tarana Burke, who founded the #MeToo hashtag in 2006 in her campaign of social justice for working class women and girls of colour, and endorsed its adoption by Hollywood, highlights the many “untold stories”.More strikingly, #MeToo participants name the names of the alleged harassers. The naming of names, famous names, is threshold-crossing and as much the public-startling power of the disclosures as the allegations and stimulates newsworthiness in conventional media. The resonance is amplified in the context of the American crisis over the Trump presidency in the sense that the powerful men called out become echoes or avatars of Trump’s monstrous manhood and the urgency of denouncing it. In the case of Harvey Weinstein, the name is all. A figure of immense power who symbolised an industry, naming Weinstein blew away the defensive old Hollywood myths of “casting couches” and promised, perhaps idealistically, the possibility for changing a culture and an industrial system.The Hollywood setting for activism is the most striking comparison with second wave feminism. A sense of contradiction emerges in this new “visibility” of sexual harassment in a culture that remains predominantly “voyeuristic” and “sexist” (Karkov and Davis), and not least in the realm of Hollywood where the sexualisation of women workers has long been a notorious open secret. A barrage of Hollywood feminism has accompanied #MeToo and #TimesUp in the campaign for diversity at the Oscars, and the stream of film remakes of formerly all-male narrative films that star all-female casts (Ghostbusters; Oceans 11; Dirty, Rotten Scoundrels). Cynically, this trend to make popular cinema a public sphere for gender equality in the film industry seems more glorifying than subversive of Hollywood masculinities. Uneasily, it does not overcome those lingering questions about why these conditions were uncontested openly for so long, and why it took so long for someone to go public, as Rose McGowan did, with claims about Harvey Weinstein.However, a reading of She Said, by Jodie Kantor and Megan Tuohey, the journalists who broke the Weinstein story in the New York Times — following their three year efforts to produce a legally water-tight report — makes clear that it was not for want of stories, but firm evidence and, more importantly, on-the-record testimony. If not for their (and others’) fastidious journalism and trust-building and the Citizen Divas prepared to disclose their experiences publicly, Weinstein might not be convicted today. Yet without the naming of the problem of sexual harassment in the women’s movement all those years ago, none of this may have come to pass. Lin Farley can now be found on YouTube retelling the story (see “New Mexico in Focus”).It places the debate about digital activism and Hollywood feminism in some perspective and, like the work of journalists, it is testament to the symbiosis of individual and collective effort in the action of change. The tweeting activism of #MeToo supplements the plenum of knowledge and action about sexual harassment across time: the workplace novels, the consciousness raising, the legislation and the poster campaigns. In different ways, in both eras, this literature demonstrates that names matter in calling for change on sexual harassment. But, if #MeToo is to become the last long take on sexual harassment, then, as Berlant advocates, the responsibility lies with the body politic who must act collectively for change in ways that will last well beyond the courage of the Citizen Divas who so bravely call it on.ReferencesBerlant, Lauren. The Queen of America Goes to Washington City: Essays on Sex and Citizenship. 1997. Durham: Duke UP, 2002.Bularzik, Mary. “Sexual Harassment at the Workplace: Historical Notes.” Radical America 12.4 (1978): 25-43.Cohen, Rose. Out of the Shadow. NY: Doran, 1918.Dixon, Jo. “Feminist Reforms of Sexual Coercion Laws.” Sexual Coercion: A Sourcebook on Its Nature, Causes and Prevention. Eds. Elizabeth Grauerholz and Mary A. Karlewski. Massachusetts: Lexington, 1991. 161-171.Farley, Lin. Sexual Shakedown: The Sexual Harassment of Women in the Working World. 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