I have been thinking a lot about rape culture this week, even though I haven't been talking about it. It's hard to talk about, and I'm inarticulate in doing so. But after talking about Bikini Kill last night, I'm thinking it's better to express thoughts, however imperfectly, than to not explore them.
This is one of the saddest and most infuriating stories I have ever read. A 16-year-old girl was gang raped and beaten in Richmond. Up to 20 people watched, and nobody called the police for more than two hours. Six males — I can't call them men, and they're not really boys — were charged with assault, but police are still tracking down the rapists who fled the scene.
I have been thinking about this girl for the past week. I cannot imagine the depth of her trauma, or how she will begin to heal, or how unjust it is that her recovery will take place in a rape culture. I feel like people sometimes close their ears when they hear that phrase, and there is indeed something very Women's Studies 101 about it, but that doesn't change the reality that our culture often sexualizes violence. Blames the victim. Sidesteps the statistic that one in six American women is raped.
Today's newspaper had a photo of teenage girls carrying handmade signs of support... for the rapists. (Wrong place, wrong time!) I can't explain how upsetting it is to know that the victim's peers stood by and watched this happen, and that some of them are supporting the perpetrators. The most depressing thing of all is that as horrible as I find this story, it doesn't shock me like it should. Victim-blaming never seems to go out of style.
I think about this poor girl, and girls and women like her, and it makes me so angry that my loudest scream would just barely voice the beginnings of my rage. And I hate having to consider my safety in certain ways that men generally do not. For instance: I pay $18 for a cab ride home because I don't feel safe hobbling the two blocks from the train to my house at night. I do not invite men to my house on a first or second or even third date unless I know my roommate is home. I need more than two hands to count the number of friends who have experienced some form of sexual assault.
I hate having to live this way.
Once, when I was 17 years old, I was driving around town on a humid summer night, looking for my skater friends. I didn't find them, but in a parking lot near a bar, I saw a college-aged couple arguing. It wasn't a cute couple's tiff; even from 50 feet away, I could feel the violence about to unfold. The woman was telling the large, drunk guy to leave her alone, she wanted to go home. But he'd snatched her keys, and he blocked her from escaping by pressing her against the car. I pulled up, summoned whatever force I could in my squeaky little voice, and said, "Is there a problem here?"
He turned and said no, of course not. The woman's eyes, and all that I could see with my eyes, said otherwise. "I'm thinking maybe you should give the lady her keys," I said. "Or I'd be happy to call the police and have them help you do it." I remember my legs shaking; I remember thinking maybe I had gotten myself into something I shouldn't have.
I don't know why this man gave up, but he did, tossing the keys at the woman's feet. He called her a bitch and he called me a fucking bitch before stumbling back to the bar. The woman cried and looked ashamed and quietly thanked me. I didn't know what to say. I didn't feel heroic or anything. We each got into our cars and crossed the bridge to the south end of town.
I'm never sure what to think of that story. Part of me thinks that it was not the smartest idea to confront a visibly angry and potentially violent man. Most of me thinks that it would have been worse to do nothing. A sliver of me worries that maybe I made it worse for her later. Mostly I just feel bad about that situation, and I feel bad for the girl in Richmond, and I feel bad that these are just two of so many violent stories that should never have unfolded in the first place.
This is one of the saddest and most infuriating stories I have ever read. A 16-year-old girl was gang raped and beaten in Richmond. Up to 20 people watched, and nobody called the police for more than two hours. Six males — I can't call them men, and they're not really boys — were charged with assault, but police are still tracking down the rapists who fled the scene.
I have been thinking about this girl for the past week. I cannot imagine the depth of her trauma, or how she will begin to heal, or how unjust it is that her recovery will take place in a rape culture. I feel like people sometimes close their ears when they hear that phrase, and there is indeed something very Women's Studies 101 about it, but that doesn't change the reality that our culture often sexualizes violence. Blames the victim. Sidesteps the statistic that one in six American women is raped.
Today's newspaper had a photo of teenage girls carrying handmade signs of support... for the rapists. (Wrong place, wrong time!) I can't explain how upsetting it is to know that the victim's peers stood by and watched this happen, and that some of them are supporting the perpetrators. The most depressing thing of all is that as horrible as I find this story, it doesn't shock me like it should. Victim-blaming never seems to go out of style.
I think about this poor girl, and girls and women like her, and it makes me so angry that my loudest scream would just barely voice the beginnings of my rage. And I hate having to consider my safety in certain ways that men generally do not. For instance: I pay $18 for a cab ride home because I don't feel safe hobbling the two blocks from the train to my house at night. I do not invite men to my house on a first or second or even third date unless I know my roommate is home. I need more than two hands to count the number of friends who have experienced some form of sexual assault.
I hate having to live this way.
Once, when I was 17 years old, I was driving around town on a humid summer night, looking for my skater friends. I didn't find them, but in a parking lot near a bar, I saw a college-aged couple arguing. It wasn't a cute couple's tiff; even from 50 feet away, I could feel the violence about to unfold. The woman was telling the large, drunk guy to leave her alone, she wanted to go home. But he'd snatched her keys, and he blocked her from escaping by pressing her against the car. I pulled up, summoned whatever force I could in my squeaky little voice, and said, "Is there a problem here?"
He turned and said no, of course not. The woman's eyes, and all that I could see with my eyes, said otherwise. "I'm thinking maybe you should give the lady her keys," I said. "Or I'd be happy to call the police and have them help you do it." I remember my legs shaking; I remember thinking maybe I had gotten myself into something I shouldn't have.
I don't know why this man gave up, but he did, tossing the keys at the woman's feet. He called her a bitch and he called me a fucking bitch before stumbling back to the bar. The woman cried and looked ashamed and quietly thanked me. I didn't know what to say. I didn't feel heroic or anything. We each got into our cars and crossed the bridge to the south end of town.
I'm never sure what to think of that story. Part of me thinks that it was not the smartest idea to confront a visibly angry and potentially violent man. Most of me thinks that it would have been worse to do nothing. A sliver of me worries that maybe I made it worse for her later. Mostly I just feel bad about that situation, and I feel bad for the girl in Richmond, and I feel bad that these are just two of so many violent stories that should never have unfolded in the first place.
Labels: politics
This post has been removed by the author.