Okay. Let’s talk about rape.
Rape is that thing, sniffling and slobbering under the
table, brushing against your leg, that no one ever wants to mention by name. No
one wants to be that person that calls it accidentally out from under the
table, where everyone can see that hideous smushed face and it’s beady eyes,
and have to stare at it awkwardly, not knowing just what to say because really,
this is polite company and who the hell brought it to the party to begin with.
So you sit there, sipping your tea, constantly afraid that the thing will get
tripped up in your skirt or mistake you for that one annoying loud guy at the
end of the table that is always slipping it treats and bite your fingers off. I
get it.
But I’m also really really tired of being told to fear
something that I can’t even look in the eyes without being considered impolite.
But you know who can call the thing out, even laugh at it, or make it do
tricks? Guys. Guys can do that, and girls can too, sometimes, but they’re
supposed to be afraid of it all the same. Girls aren’t entertaining when they
do that unless they act afraid of it, too.
Dropping the analogy, I’m sick and tired of my brother being
allowed to do things I’m not. It’s because I’m a girl, I know it, and I’ve been
trained to be afraid of that rape-thing. My brother and I are twins, and let’s
face it, girls are more mature at this age, and yet I’m not allowed to go out
alone. Yet when my brother wants to it’s alright. Because he’s a big strong
man, now. And while he doesn’t have enough common sense to take his phone out
of his jeans before washing them, I’m the one condemned to sit trembling at
home while he goes off into the world.
Upon asking to go somewhere, I will be subject to a barrage
of questions. So will my brother, but the protocol similarities end there. He
can go off with his friends, or to the mall alone, or to say, Gettysburg for a
weekend with a couple he’s friends with. I am not allowed. The reasoning: I
might get “hurt”.
When my mother says I might get “hurt”, she means raped. She
does, you might think I’m assuming something wrongly, but it’s true; she’s
explained it to me, and will again if ever pressed. She just doesn’t like to
say the word. You know that saying that fear of the name increases the fear of
the thing itself? (Thanks, Dumbledore) well that’s what rape is with my mom.
And I won’t kid you, she’s taught me well. I can’t walk fifteen feet from the
door of my art teacher’s place to my car without clutching my bag or thinking
someone’s behind me.
And it sucks. It sucks being constantly afraid. But since I’m
a weak girl it’s my burden to bear.
Let’s look at the logic behind this.
Yes, girls are naturally weaker than guys in many respects.
(This isn’t true in a fight between two trained fighters, but in a
jump-out-of-the-shadows-rapey-rapey situation this holds true most of the time
anyway)
Yes, the large majority of rapists are men, most attacking
women.
Yes, I am a weak teenage girl with long hair and a slight
disdain for the painted on skinny jeans fad.
Yes, 44% of rape victims are under age 18.
However:
More than 50% of all sexual assaults reported by victims occurred within one mile of their home, 1/12 in a parking garage, 4/10 in the home, and 2/10 at a friend, neighbor, or relative’s house.
In fact, 73% of rapists (from this site’s numbers, link below) were not strangers.
38% of rapes are committed by a friend or acquaintance.
The rest of that 73% is made up of intimate partners or
family members.
Also, my brother (unfortunately) isn’t immune; one out of
every ten rape victims in 2003 was male.
43% of rapes occur between 6PM and midnight, 24% between
midnight and 6AM, and 33% in between 6AM and 6PM. So statistically I’m more
likely to be raped before nightfall, since I go to school and go to bed well
before midnight (I’m not a night owl).
Really, if we look at these statistics I’m most likely going
to experience sexual assault at the hands of one of my friends or ex-boyfriends
or a creepy uncle, in the daylight hours after school, in our around my home. My
brother has one tenth of a chance of that happening to him as well. And yet
these are the places and people I’m kept around to keep me safe.
Instead of taking this as a chance to become more frightened
by life, why don’t we stop wasting time with that and stop teaching our
daughters to be illogically terrified whenever they step out of the house. How
about we teach them to be aware of their surroundings, and sign them up for
karate classes when they ask instead of pushing them towards dance and getting
the brother into karate which he never cared that much about anyway. How about
we even let them go out more into the real world so that they develop
self-reliance and don’t stress needlessly about being around strangers and new
places and experiences?
I’m not saying there aren’t rapists and monsters out there
to be wary of, but I’m really tired of being taught to fear everything and
anything with a penis, and I don’t think it’s very fair that my life is being
kept around these principles.
Motto of the story: can we just all stop raping each other
so I can go out with my friends and roleplay in the woods?
P.S. I apologize for “Rape” in the first scenario having any
resemblance to certain smush-faced dogs, I’m sure your little lapdog is lovely,
and that was entirely unintentional.
All statistics from http://www.rainn.org/
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