(tw for mention of rape, general misogyny)
These are responses to an article about a campaign to prevent rape and sexual harassment on college campuses.
I feel like there’s a need to break stuff down, not for these douchebags, but more like a rant for my own future reference.
“Y U TALKING ABOUT PREVENTING RAPE, PREVENTING FALSE RAPE ACCUSATIONS IS WAY MORE IMPORTANT AND WOMEN GET FREE DRINKS AT BARS AND CAN FUCK ANYONE AND NEVER GET FRIENDZONED AND MEN ARE RAPED TOO AND I WANT MY MOMMY”
no, Mike Hunter, alleged rapists are not zealously prosecuted by law enforcement. Actually the scenario looks a bit more like this:
And here’s the thing about the “False rape accusations” that you care about so much (and why wouldn’t you, it’s the only part of this lame feminist bullshit that applies directly to you). Do you know what’s the feminist stance on false rape accusations? Do you know what is the women’s stance on false rape accusations? We fucking hate them.
Yeah, we hate them. Because being falsely accused of raping someone, like false accusations of stealing, murdering or molesting, can destroy a person’s reputation. And they are usually done with the purpose of destroying someone’s reputation and/or get money. And also, false accusations of rape are one of the things that make it so much harder for women who were actually raped to get justice, and more importantly, to put these rapists in jail, where they can’t rape any more innocent people.
Meanwhile, a lot of people get the death penalty for things that they didn’t do, and I don’t see you getting all worked up about that.
What’s wrong with the process of accusing people of rape, rape trials and whatnot is how they’re conducted. When a woman is raped, they ask what she was wearing, how she was dancing, if she was drinking. The victim is attacked as much as the alleged rapist is, some times even more. And the victim is also attacked by her peers, whom many times are quick to judge her as an attention seeking whore. Mix that with the rape and post traumatic disorder and you have a real life ruiner right there.
What people judge in rape trials: If the woman actually wanted to have sex and is just a lying slut - usually confirmed by the fact that she has many sexual partners, drinks, has fun, dresses provocatively.
What people should be judging in rape trials: The rapist’s past sexual conduct, and general attitude towards women. Showing signs of misogyny, past accusations, past relationships, his character. And the victim’s past in LYING.
Because if a woman had many sexual partners before accusing this man of raping her, this should not make her case weaker. If anything, it should make her case stronger, because duh, look at how many men she had consensual sex with, and never tried accusing them of anything.
Another interesting point that clueless people usually add to conversations, is the fact that women get free drinks in bars, often get in for free in places that charge entrance for men, and, as a friend dearly pointed out to me: “If you stand up at this bar right now and say - who wants to fuck me? - i bet at least 10 guys would raise their hands”.
But here’s the thing. From a privileged white male perspective, getting free drinks and being able to have sex whenever you want are just the cherry on the top of your beautiful cake. It would be literally the last thing you’ll need to make your life perfect. And to women, it makes for a shitty consolation prize for being born and raised as a second class citizen, and it actually increases her chances of getting sexually assaulted or raped. Oh and by the way, the “free drinks” and “10 men raising hands” only count for women who are considered suitably fuckable by strange men and bartenders. You may guess that this is not exactly a fair game for women who don’t resemble the current beauty standard.
And men are raped, too. And their rapes are even less reported, because men feel so much shame in admitting that they suffered this, when they’re supposed to be raised to be strong and invincible. And the fact that men don’t get the same paternity leave as a mother does is unfair. And the fact that children almost automatically are in custody of the mother in cases of divorce is also unfair as fuck. Guess what’s the cause of all of these 3 things being an issue? Your dear patriarchy. The same one that grants you the respect and rights that are denied to women. Because that’s what defines gender roles that make men so afraid to report their rapes and sexual assaults. That’s what defines that the moms are the ones who should care for children and kick you out of your child’s life.
So guess what? We’re on the same side. And if you could only stop whining, you’d realize that.
- (Names have been altered slightly, just in case.)
- Josie: I have a new crusshhhhh
- Matt: Me too! On a boy!
- Pearl: You're a boy with a crush on a boy?
- Matt: Yeah he's really cute.
- Pearl: Oh.
- (pause for a bit)
- Matt: Boys can like boys. I just can't marry him because boys can't marry boys.
- Me: Yeah they can. You can marry whoever you want.
- Matt: Really?
- Josie: YEAH my tia has a wife so now I have a titi and a auntie.
- Matt: Okay. Then maybe I'll marry him.
- Dave: (from across the room) No you can't you're seven.
- (Age was apparently the only foreseeable problem anyone of my elementary schoolers could see with gay marriage. I almost cried out of happiness. Later, when I was asked if boys could kiss anyone they wanted, I replied "only if they want to kiss you back." And Josie responded "Yeah! Your body your life.")
- My students are the shit.
The winter I told you I think icicles are magic
you stole an enormous one from a neighbors drooping shingle
and gave it to me as a gift.
I kept it in my freezer for seven months
‘til the day I hurt my leg
and needed something to reduce the swelling.
isn’t always magic.
Sometimes it’s just melting.
Where it’s black and blue.
Where it hurts the most.
Last night I saw your ghost
peddling a bicycle with a basket
towards a moon as full as my heavy head
and I wanted nothing more
than to be sitting in that basket
like ET, with my glowing heart glowing right through
my chest, and my glowing finger
pointing in the direction
of our home.
Two years ago I said, “I never want
to write our break-up poem.”
You built me a time capsule full of Big League Chew
and promised to never burst my bubble.
I loved you from our first date
at the batting cages
when I missed twenty-three balls in a row
and you looked at me like I was a home run
in the ninth inning of the World Series.
Now every time I hear the word love
I think, going, going…
The first week you were gone
I kept seeing your hand wave goodbye
like a windshield wiper in a flooding car
in the last real moment I believed
the hurricane would let me out alive.
Yesterday I carved your name into the surface
of an ice cube then held it against my chest
‘til it melted into my aching pores.
Today I cried so hard the neighbors knocked on my door
and asked if I wanted to borrow some sugar.
I told them if I left my sweet tooth in your belly button.
isn’t always magic.
But if I offered my body to the magician,
if I told him to cut me in half
so after that I could come to you whole
and ask for you back
would you listen
for this dark alley love song?
For the winter we heated our home
from the steam off our own bodies?
I wrote you too many poems in a language
I did not yet know how to speak
but I know now
it doesn’t matter how well I say grace
if I am sitting at a table where I have no bread to eat.
So this is my wheat field.
You can have every acre, love.
This is my garden song.
This is my thunderstorm,
this is my fistfight with that bitter frost.
Tonight I begged another stage light
to become that back-alley street lamp we danced beneath
that night your warm mouth fell on my timid cheek
as I sang, “Maybe I Need You”
but in tune.
Maybe I need you the way that big moon
needs that open sea.
Maybe I didn’t even know I was here
‘til I saw you holding me.
Give me one room to come home to.
Give me the palm of your hand.
Every strand of my hair is a kite string
and I have been blue in the face with your sky,
crying a flood over Iowa
so your mother can wake to Venice.
Love, I smashed my glass slipper
to build a stained glass window
for every wall inside my chest.
Now my heart is a pressed flower in a tattered Bible.
It is the one verse you can trust.
So I’m putting all of my words in your collection plate.
I am setting the table with bread and grace.
My knees are bent
like the corner of a page.
I am saving your place.