In 2006, long before hashtags and Hollywood headlines, activist Tarana Burke coined the phrase “Me Too.” It was a movement rooted in healing, designed to support Black and brown girls and women who survived sexual violence—especially those in poor and marginalized communities where justice was rare and empathy rarer.
Burke’s MeToo wasn’t about punishment. It was about power—restoring it to survivors and building communities grounded in support, accountability, and transformation.
But in 2017, when white actress Alyssa Milano tweeted #MeToo in response to the Harvey Weinstein revelations, the movement exploded into a global media sensation. Overnight, the focus shifted from the vulnerable to the visible—from survivors in forgotten neighborhoods to celebrities on red carpets. And in that shift, something crucial was lost.
Burke’s vision was erased, and MeToo became unrecognizable—co-opted, commercialized, and ultimately weaponized.
Instead of serving all survivors, the movement began to function as a media-led purge, one that often ignored due process, erased nuance, and leaned heavily into a racial double standard that has haunted this country since its founding.
High-profile accusations against Black men—such as Bill Cosby, R. Kelly, Russell Simmons, Tavis Smiley, and Nate Parker—quickly dominated headlines. To be clear, wrongdoing must be addressed and accountability is essential. But history reveals a troubling pattern: Black men are often vilified more swiftly and more severely than their white counterparts. Their reputations were destroyed before trials even began—sometimes before any evidence was presented. Meanwhile, white men like Harvey Weinstein, Louis C.K., Charlie Rose, Matt Lauer, Kevin Spacey, James Franco, Ben Affleck, Dustin Hoffman, Brett Ratner, Mario Batali, and even the late President George H.W. Bush faced similar or worse allegations, yet received comparatively softer media coverage. Many of them quietly returned to public life or resumed their careers with minimal lasting consequences.
This is not speculation—it’s pattern.
A 2020 analysis in the Journal of Black Studies found that Black men accused during the MeToo era received over 30% more negative media coverage than their white counterparts, often with more sensational headlines and fewer mentions of legal outcomes or acquittals.
It’s a reminder of a painful truth: in America, Black men are rarely granted complexity, especially when accused. The myth of the “Black predator” has been recycled for generations—through lynchings, through mass incarceration, and now, through selective outrage.
What’s worse is that this racial bias didn’t just target Black men—it silenced Black women, too.
While white actresses appeared on magazine covers and awards stages, Black women survivors were largely ignored, even as they spoke out against abuse in the music industry, the church, and politics. The very people Burke created MeToo for—young Black girls and women—were pushed out of a movement they had birthed.
Take the case of TIME Magazine, which named “The Silence Breakers” as its 2017 Person of the Year—those it credited with launching the viral #MeToo movement. But among the women featured on the now-iconic cover—actress Ashley Judd, singer Taylor Swift, corporate lobbyist Adama Iwu, farmworker Isabel Pascual, and former Uber engineer Susan Fowler—Tarana Burke, the Black woman who actually founded the movement, was noticeably absent. Though TIME included Burke’s story within the issue, her exclusion from the cover sparked widespread outrage. Many saw it as yet another example of how Black women’s labor and leadership are recognized only behind the scenes—never at the center, never with the spotlight.
Black women built it. White women branded it. And Black men bore the brunt.
Tarana Burke herself has warned against this weaponization. She has consistently criticized the carceral turn of MeToo, arguing for restorative justice, not cancellation. But in a media climate addicted to outrage and retribution, her message has too often been drowned out.
It begs the question: Who benefits when justice is distorted by race?
Movements lose their soul when they become mirrors of the very systems they claim to fight. MeToo was meant to dismantle cycles of abuse—not reinforce racial hierarchies under the banner of progress.
This is not a defense of abusers. Sexual violence is real. Survivors must be believed. But justice must be principled, not racialized. We must hold space for truth, due process, and context. Otherwise, we are not correcting injustice—we are just rebranding it.
If MeToo is to reclaim its power, it must return to its roots: community healing, survivor-led leadership, media accountability, and racial equity. And above all, it must listen to those it was created to protect.
Tarana Burke planted seeds of healing—but what grew was a weapon.
It’s time we stop mistaking headlines for justice—and start listening to the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable.
