Monica Lewinsky.
Credit
Damon Winter/The New York Times
Monica Lewinsky was sitting in a Manhattan auditorium last month, watching teenage girls perform a play called “Slut.” Ms. Lewinsky was in blue jeans and a blazer, her hair pulled out of her face with a small clip. She was wiping away tears.
In
the scene, a young woman was seated in an interrogation room. She had
been asked to describe, repeatedly, what had happened on the night in
question — when, she said, on their way to a party, a group of guy
friends had pinned her down in a taxi and sexually assaulted her. She
had reported them. Now everyone at school knew, everyone had chosen a
side.
“My life has just completely fallen apart,” the girl said, her voice shaking. Her parents were in the next room. “Now I’m that girl.”
The play concluded, and Ms. Lewinsky fumbled through her purse for a tissue. A woman came and whisked her to the stage.
“Hi, I’m Monica Lewinsky,” she said, visibly nervous. “Some of you younger people might only know me from some rap lyrics.”
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