My Feminist Rant

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?

Thanks,

That would be lovelly,

~Leigh

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/

Color – Or Lack Thereof

Let’s rewind for a moment. At the end of the summer, I went on vacation to Lake George with one of my friends. We spent four days pretty much doing what we pleased – exploring the town, tanning on the beach and swimming in the pool. Okay, scratch that - We only went to the beach one day and ended up leaving because the water was full of stuff I’d rather not step on.

That moment, though, gave me the idea for what you are reading. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and two teenage girls had nothing else to do: We tanned (not really), we laid out our blankets and we decided to sit there and talk because nothing else entertained us. It was then that I noticed something – the towels we had were really, really white.

Being the great planners that we were, we forgot to bring our own beach towels from home and ended up borrowing the hotel towels for the day. The sand-dirt that surrounded Lake George was a distinct brown-tan color (like most sand/dirt is). But on that day, that particular sand-dirt made the towels appear very luminescent. Looking at them was equivalent to staring at a blanket of snow on a sunny day.

White. it’s not even a color, if you were wondering.

Actually, there is debate about whether or not white is a color. White reflects all the color waves. My physics class touched on this last year, but I’m not very good at explaining the color spectrum. To understand this fully, I suggest that you do some research.  

Yes, I know, you probably think I’m gonna go all scientific on you. No. What I’m really trying to say is that although white may or may not be a color, it definitely has a significant connotation.

White. What does it signify? You already know what it signifies; scream it out if you feel like it.

Innocence. Purity. Holiness. The color white is everywhere.

And have you noticed that every hotel towel is white? I’ve been going to hotels all seventeen years of my life and only this summer did I realize that all of the towels are white.

Why can’t they be cerulean? Or sea foam green? Or sunset orange? Honestly, why? If I owned a hotel I think multi-colored towels would be a lot more fun.

Sheets are white. Soap is white. Bath tubs and showers are white. Paper is white. The bristles on your tooth brush are white. Without even noticing, the items you use everyday are pure. Mentally, you acknowledge that these things are clean. Hotels want their clients to think the services they provide are spotless, therefore their towels are white.

White. White. White.

We have been brainwashed to believe that the cleaner something is, the better it is. Most would agree that this is true (I mean come on, I love showers as much as the next person), but now our minds are not as open to viewing the other side. For example, if that towel has a little brown spot on it, most people automatically want to use a different one because that towel is not ‘clean.’ And for all you know, that towel has been washed over and over again very thoroughly and that little chocolate stain just doesn’t want to come off.

White is pure. Once another color interferes, we want to find something else. We just toss it to the side like it’s nothing, when it is clearly something. We are judging without trying to judge. And this, my friends, will always be a fault of humankind.

Isn’t it ironic that the thing we consider pure actually taints our minds?

                                  Yours Truly,
                                     Alison “Lost in Believing”