loveabadgirlme
dank-potion:intellectual-stupidity:
Think this shit’s funny?
Keep making rape jokes then.
It really gets me when people say things like “why didn’t you report them!?” or “it’s your fault, you let them walk free”. Statistically speaking, rapists will not be convicted, or tried or even brought in for questioning. The victim is lucky if their charges even get a second glance. Plus, the horrific things victims have to go through to prove that they’ve actually been victimized further damages their psyche and healing process, which should be their first priority above anything. It’s the sad reality we live in and rapists know this and it’s why they continue to be so prevalent. In addition, we live in a victim-blaming society where rape is considered a preventable situation in which a person can’t suppress their innate sexual urges instead of a violent, horrific crime. By saying things like “she was asking for it” or “they shouldn’t have been so drunk” suggests rape is something everyone is capable of if they’re tempted enough, which it most certainly is not.
These numbers need to change. This is embarrassing and disgusting, but we as a society, need to start rethinking how we even perceive rape before that can happen.
“Fat doesn’t mean ‘grateful for anything’ Keep your hands to yourself.”
For those who think I rant about the patriarchy and misogyny too much
TRIGGER WARNING FOR RAPE CULTURE, STREET HARASSMENT
To the first man, who I met by the Eiffel Tower my second week in Paris, when I didn’t know better. Who took me out four times, who waved little red flags that I tried to ignore. Like asking me outright if I was a virgin on the first date, like calling me five different pet names when I’d asked him not to throughout the second, like saying he’d heard that feminists were not real women during the third, like disappearing for a week and a half after the fourth. Who, as it turns out, was not the bullet, but the careening fourteen-wheeler that I narrowly managed to dodge. Who admitted that he hit the young woman that his mother was trying to force him to marry. Who didn’t want to marry her because he believes in romantic love. Who doesn’t see the contradiction in those two sentences.
To the guy in my medieval literature class, who lent me one of Camus’ plays and showed me around the library. Who wants to use his French education not to escape to the West, but to go back to his third-world home country to teach at its eight-year-old university. Who I admired until he asked me what my American boyfriend had thought about me coming to Paris, until he demanded to know why I didn’t have one (a boyfriend, that is), until he asked if it was required that I marry an American. Who reached out and touched my earrings, without asking, the next time he saw me. Who won’t take a hint.
To the PhD student who tried to take me up to his apartment after a five minute conversation, when I had just wanted to get lunch, who said there’s a first time for everything. Who told me that we were university students, living in a 21st century democracy, and that relations between men and women were different now, so what was I so scared of? Who recoiled in shock when I told him that I had friends who’d been raped, and by other university students, at that. Who does not have to think about rape on a daily basis. Who insisted on paying for my lunch, because “it was a matter of honor.” Who then physically prevented me from handing my money to the cashier, when I was trying to make it clear that this was not a date. Who didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t want a boyfriend, five times. Whose number I blocked the moment I stepped on the metro. Who has called me three times since. Who told me he wants to go into Senegalese politics. Who, I can only hope, will listen to the women of his country better than he listened to me.
To the delivery guy on the red motorcycle idling outside of the apartments on Avenue de Porte de Vanves, the ones I walk past every day, who said bonsoir and who, because I said it in return to be polite, followed me to the metro as I walked, head twisted down, pretending that I didn’t understand the language I’ve studied for eight years.
To the two men Thursday night in le Marais, swaggering drunk toward me, ignoring the male friend standing by my side, who leered at my chest and slurred, “Bonsoir, comme tu es mignonne,” as I shoved past them, trying to sound angry, not afraid. Who left me feeling fidgety and panicked, so when I took the night bus in the wrong direction and found myself alone with two other strange men at a bus stop at 2:30 A.M., I let the cab driver fleece me out of 25 euro just to take a taxi home.
To the group of teenage boys loitering on the corner by my apartment, who decided to sound a siren at my approach because I was wearing a knee-length dress and a bulky sweater. Who made me regret forgoing tights because I had wanted to feel the spring air on my calves for once. Who will never have to wear an itchy pair of pantyhose in their entire lives. To whom I said nothing, because I still have to walk past that corner twice a day for the next three-and-a-half months, because there were five of them and one of me.
To the three men standing on the corner of the periphery five minutes later when I was crossing the street. To the one who motioned for his friends to turn and look at me, quick, and then left his wolf-whistle ringing in my ears, shame like sunburn covering my face. Who didn’t care that it was broad daylight. Who made me wish that I could swear a blue streak back in French, without my accent betraying that I am American, which is another word for “easy” here.
To the two men at sunset on the bridge by Saint Michel, in the middle of tourist central, who made skeeting noises at me, like a pair of sputtering mosquitoes, to get my attention. Who laughed when I flipped them off, and who kept hissing at me anyway. Who forced me to keep checking over my shoulder, all the way to the metro, to make sure that I wasn’t being followed.
But also to the French friend who blamed my problems with French men on my university in the northern suburbs, a Parisian synonym for emeutes, gang violence, and immigration. Who insisted that if he brought me to his upper-crust private (white) university—where the French elite reproduces itself into perpetuity—I would meet nicer French guys. Who forced me to defend the men who’d harassed me against his barely-veiled, racist critique.
And also to the American friend at home who nearly rolled his eyes as he half-listened to my stories, who said, “Oh god, it’s hard being so attractive, isn’t it?” as if I was being vain. Who laughs and does not understand why I always duck out of the frame of photographs, who knows nothing of what my body means to me.
And that’s just two months in Paris.
To all the Italian men who made me wish I had dyed my hair black before studying in Florence, who kept me from going out dancing because I got sick of feeling them creeping up behind me, sneaking their hands around my waist (and lower) when I’d already said NO three times.
To the six-foot-something Georgetown student who prided himself on protecting the girls from being groped on the dance floor. Who chose to write about the rape of the Sabine woman for that week’s assignment. Who described the way her breast slipped free of her tunic when she fell, as if he was writing a porno, not a rape scene, who had the woman fall in love with her Roman rapist the next morning, after he spun her a tale of the coming glory of his country. Who said “in a fit of passion, she thrust herself upon his member” and was not joking. Who ended the story with the titular character saying to her children that she had been raped, but only at first.
To the seventh-grade boy who told my younger sister that he could rape her, if he wanted to.
To the gang of twenty-five year-olds in the Jeep who hollered at her as they drove past, leering at her thirteen-year-old body dressed in sweat pants and a tank top. Who made my sister, fearless on the soccer field and in the classroom and in the karate studio, run home crying. Who were the reason she became afraid to walk the dog by herself in our “safe, suburban” neighborhood.
To my father, who said, “What white male privilege?” Who was not being ironic.
Another military sexual assault lawsuit was filed today that points at the nation’s military leaders for their negligence in resolving the problem of rape in the military and lack of action against perpetrators (Trigger Warning For Specific Discussion of Rape). Eight female Marines and Naval service-members are pursuing a lawsuit against Panetta, Gates and Rumsfeld for two decades worth of stalling on action against rape and sexual assault and harassment in the military. The suit states that:
Each plaintiff suffered directly from Defendants’ unlawful conduct, which created and maintained a hostile environment for servicemembers reporting rape, sexual assault and sexual harassment.
Ariana Klay, the leader of these women, tells a pretty horrifying story. Her experience in Marine Barracks Washington (as documented in upcoming film The Invisible War) encapsulates both the terrible problem of rape in the military and the shameful manner in which it is addressed. Subsequent to her gang raping, the Marine Corps investigation into her case found that the so-called “group sex” had been consensual and that she had encouraged her routine harassment by wearing make-up and revealing clothing. [Read/download the full complaint here.]
It follows last year’s case, Cioca v. Rumsfeld, filed by 16 veterans with similar goals, which was dismissed this past December.
Cases like these serve not only to highlight in near unbearable detail the victimization endured by many of the women who have served in the military, but the criminally negligent and misogynistic approach the brass and the Pentagon have taken in dealing with the matter. The investigation into Klay’s case shows that not only do said higher ups foster an environment that is passively permissible of rape, they more overtly support its continued presence in military life. This case’s complaint itself speaks of this exact “culture of retaliation.”
Image: Paula Bronstein/Getty File.
[Daily Beast; MSNBC]
Taken today.
This woman, moments after her rape last year, had to scream and cry on a public street just so the police would actually take her to the precinct - they wouldn’t because they told her what happened wasn’t a crime.
This is the excerpt from her email she sent me, before we met up:
There was one female officer, a sergeant, who responded to my 911 call that night. I truly thought, She’s a woman, maybe I can get through to her, woman-to-woman. As the police tried to escape to their cars and leave me weeping pantyless on the sidewalk, I followed her, begging with her to listen to me. I said to her something like, “Please, please help me… Imagine as a woman what this must feel like for me…”
The quote on the poster is what the female sergeant replied.
—
On a different note, this is going to be the last photo until the weekend is over. This project is tough to manage, but it’s probably also tough to read as well. I think it would be good for all of us to take a couple of days to just breathe. Okay? Okay. No clicking onto the site, either. Just take some time for yourself.
xo
Grace
Please spread the word!
Hey all
My friend is trying to get signatures for a petition against Judge David Farrell. Recently, he sentenced 2 men to 40 months in prison for raping an 11-year old. Why was the sentence so light? Because she looked older than her ask and was “willing”, despite the fact that she claimed it was rape. Please reblog as far as the eye can see and sign this petition to voice your opinion that this is unacceptable!!
Ugh. Disgusting. Please sign and reblog.
For your anon looking for zine-ish consent stuff… here’s a comic I did the other day!
Jon Hamm Talks About Rape and the Lack of Positive Male Role Models
Hamm was recently a speaker at the Rape Treatment Center benefit brunch in Beverly Hills where he spoke about his pre-Mad Men employment history — which we will refer to as phase one of your ever-deepening affection.
Apparently, the man behind Don Draper is a former high school teacher and also worked at a daycare center. Hamm said he’s always felt very connected to children, which he attributes to being the child of a single parent —and thus spending “the majority of my life in daycare, after school programs, summer school programs,” which brings us to phase two:
Hamm said, “Having gone through what I had gone through as a child…there were no real male role models in any of these places. There were never any dudes. It was a bummer as a young man to, not only not have a father figure in my life, but no real male figures as teachers or as educators or as afterschool program leaders or anything,” he said.
AND THEN —in what is both phase three and also such an important message that is rarely discussed by men, especially in entertainment— Hamm makes a point of talking about how important it is to reach out to young boys and men and educate them on the “lasting impact of rape”:
Hamm made the point to emphasize the importance of the Rape Treatment Center’s educational outreach, especially for boys and young men. “It is an important thing to instill in a younger generation about the impact of rape, the lasting impact of rape,” he said, adding, “Children from grade school to high school to college are incredibly susceptible and incredibly malleable, as we all know. To get them early, to teach them about the facts and figures and other realities of rape is key. It is an important issue to me as not only a man, but as an educator, as a human being and as a person on this planet.”
All lighthearted jokes about love-deepening aside, this is such an important message and I’m so thrilled he was able to send it.
Rape is not a female issue. Rape is everyone’s issue, which is why it’s often an incredibly powerful thing to have a man stand up and say that. Obviously, I’m not saying it’s any better or worse or that one’s ability to be taken seriously has to be tied to gender but in terms of reaching a larger audience of men, I do think that there’s something powerful about a man —especially a widely respected and beloved man such as Hamm— standing up and encouraging other men to educate themselves and their sons on what they can personally do to prevent rape, instead of continuing to simply tell women to protect themselves or “dress differently” (ugh).
I wish we were at the point where hearing this message coming from incredibly strong people of any gender was enough, but I really feel like we need to be hearing these messages from everyone so that people realize that rape isn’t simply a women’s issue or a heterosexual issue. It truly is everyone’s issue.
Hats off to you, Jon Hamm for shedding light on this fact.
*Thanks to Britany for sending this!
Emily Maguire, Princesses & Pornstars: Sex, Power, Identity. (via starsgowaltzing)
Ah, I’ve been looking for this quote. Love, love, love.
(via kittyvonsnowden)
originally starsgowaltzing-deactivated2012 · via beneathpyramids
Sh*t Everybody Says To Rape Victims [TW]
Was not expecting to see this, but I’m glad it exists. I really hope this meme sticks around for a while, so many perspectives are using it as a medium to explain their daily lived experiences.
Watch and discuss
roachpatrol:nova-bright:yellowcars:
Men Can Stop Rape’s new College Bystander Intervention campaign.
Actual good anti rape campaign posters! They don’t shame victims, they ask people to examine their own actions and inactions and protect their friends. And not in a gross excuse for chivalry either, just as people keeping people safe.
I like this.
This shit is awesome.
Eight percent of college men have either attempted or successfully raped. Thirty percent say they would rape if they could get away with it. When the wording was changed to “force a woman to have sex,” the number jumped to 58%. Worse still, 83.5% argue that “some women look like they are just asking to be raped.”
Margo Maine, Ph.D. (Body Wars)
There was a time that, as a person of the male persuasion, seeing this quote made me really mad. It made me mad that women would assume that I was a rapist; it made me mad that rape was becoming ‘my problem’; it made me mad because, frankly, I didn’t think it was true. I think that this is a really common male attitude when confronted with rape statistics- or, at least, it has been in my purely anecdotal experience.
But now, I know there is no excuse for that. Men need to take responsibility and look at these numbers for what they really are, and what they really, truly represent. Men, don’t be mad at the woman who is justifiably wary that more than half of the men she knows could be her potential rapist. Don’t be mad at that there’s someone trying to rain on your fun, privileged parade where rape is something that only happens on Law & Order. Don’t be mad that you can’t accept that rape is way more common than you think. Most of all, don’t be mad at the woman who was raped and is seeking justice and help for her assault just because you thinks she looks like she was ‘asking for it.’
Be mad at the man who waits in the park to prey on the women who have a right to feel safe in their own communities. Be mad at the man who takes advantage of his drunk girlfriend. Be mad at the man who pushes the issue when his wife isn’t in the mood. Be mad at the man who catcalls, who makes unwelcome advances, who cops a feel.
Don’t be angry at the woman who doesn’t entirely trust you. Be angry at the men who have made her feel that way. Don’t be a part of a problem.
Be a part of the solution.
(via bmsmith623)
This is the best commentary I’ve seen on this post. It’s been around since Sept 2010 and has about 5000 notes, and yet, this is the only commentary I’ve seen that entire time that is basically amazing.
(via blackenedbutterfly)
Yes. This commentary.
(via stfufauxminists)
emphasis mine.
(via feministhistorian)
