The depth of our disappointment in Bill Cosby is our own fault

It is very hard for me to believe that Bill Cosby is a serial sexual predator.

It is also very hard for me to believe that so many women are fabricating stories of him assaulting them.

(Opportunistic liars tend to come in onesies and twosies, not dozens.)

There are the parts of the public record that aren’t so helpful, such as Cosby’s affair and the 2006 confidential out-of-court settlement. There is the fact that Cosby and Cosby’s representatives have continued to be steadfastly dismissive of these allegations, even as they have mounted. (Again, that’s an easier sell when you don’t have 20+ accusers.)

What happened? God knows. A couple dozen women know. Bill Cosby knows. You and I don’t.

But I think that an unflattering image of Bill Cosby has become easier for me to swallow than a more positive alternative. That really makes me sad.

It’s easy to forget that we consume carefully crafted images of celebrities. It’s especially jarring to remember that when the image has been one of a responsible parent, educator, and amusing philosopher.

I think Nancy French has written the most comforting and poignant piece on the issue that I’ve yet read. She reminds us that there was only one perfect man who ever walked the earth, and it’s not Bill Cosby. The depth of our disappointment in Cosby is our own fault. No mortal man can carry everything to which we ascribed him.

The depth of our disappointment in Bill Cosby is our own fault

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