THERE’S a peculiar talent humanity has mastered: clapping for the wrong person. History is full of standing ovations for tyrants, creeps, and opportunists in expensive shoes. Applauding is easier than protesting — and far safer.
I was reminded of this while rewatching She Said, the film about the two New York Times reporters who cracked open Harvey Weinstein’s empire of abuse. Everyone around him knew. Assistants, actors, agents, caterers — all silent. Silence buys you safety, a paycheck, and a seat at the table, even if the table’s rotten.
But Weinstein didn’t just corrupt his corner of the world — he handed others a playbook. These days, politicians seem to have taken notes. Having a mistress half, or even a third, your age is treated like a feather in your cap. The old wine, women, and song mantra has mutated into dance, sports, and Facebook reels. Nothing says public service like a middle-aged official flaunting his “new muse” courtside — or lurking in TikTok comments like a digital ghost.
Weinstein’s go-to excuse was swearing at his wife and kids. Politicians have found their get-out-of-jail card: “Joke lang. Lingaw-lingaw ra gud.” Delivered with a grin, expecting you to laugh — because what’s a little sexism between friends?
And when they gather — at basketball games, fiestas, or backroom dinners — the sexist jokes are as regular as the refills. Lazy lines about wives growing old, mistresses staying young, or some lewd punchline about a staffer who dared to speak up. It’s the same tired humor their fathers shared at power tables over rum and lechon, now repackaged in group chats. And yes, women clap along too.
It doesn’t have to be sexual to be unacceptable. Joking about women’s bodies, age, or presence is still objectification. And yes, it belongs in the same culture the #MeToo movement fights. Every smug remark and condescending compliment keeps the old machinery turning. It’s not just about who ends up in whose bed; it’s about who gets reduced to a punchline while everyone pretends it’s fine.
In one local story that quietly makes the rounds, a wife admitted — with bitterness and practicality — that she couldn’t complain about the mistress because “she pays for everything.” Not just the household bills, but the vacations, the designer bags, and even the husband’s grooming. It’s not so much an affair as it is outsourced domestic financing.
The real tragedy came later — when women around that mistress didn’t recoil or question it. They clapped. Betrayal had become just another form of influence — a sisterhood built not on solidarity, but on convenience.
And speaking of applause for the wrong reasons — some so-called artists still get away with sexual innuendo disguised as choreography. I once cringed at a viral music video full of suggestive gyrations and lyrics about “private pleasure” and “hanging on tight.” I dismissed it, thinking my feminist radar was too sensitive. Then a Facebook open letter went viral. My editor-in-chief reposted it with the caption, “So this is where the issue started.” And I knew I wasn’t overreacting.
What’s worse is watching women shriek and cheer like it’s feminist liberation — cheering for what, exactly? The disconnect is suffocating.
We love a good villain, especially if he’s rich, charming, or a good conversationalist. We forgive the unfaithful if they pay the bills. We laugh at predators if they bring ratings. And every lazy sexist joke at a table of men pretending to lead is a reminder we’re still clapping for the wrong things.
The problem isn’t just the men. It’s the culture — one that breeds machismo, excuses bad behavior, and teaches us that it’s easier to laugh along than to call it out. It rewards the powerful and punishes the inconvenient.
It’s easier.
But it’s cowardice.
