remember when trayvon martin was literally killed in cold blood and people were going around calling him a ‘thug’ for wearing a hoodie and carrying ice tea but when a gang of boys rapes a girl they’re just ‘misguided children’
Society has allowed rapists to define what resistance is: screaming, crying, scratching, pushing, kicking, biting, punching. I didn’t resist like that. My resistance was to wriggle a bit, turn my head away when he tried to kiss me, try to stop his hand going into my bra and knickers, push him ineffectually, talk about wanting to get my cab; all things which normal men recognise as not being enthusiastic participation when they are engaging with women but pretend it’s a grey area when they talk about rape. Rapists have managed to get society to believe, that what I did, was consent.
Because I didn’t resist in the way rapists - and society - say that women should resist, they define our non-participation as consent."
A section of the article “How I became a rape victim”
BOOM, rape culture at work… Can I also add, when you are in a situation that involves rape or you think might involve rape or looks like it might involve rape in a few minutes, its usually pretty scary to scream and kick… Especially if you know this person and sometimes might even care about them and think they care about you too. It is much more likely that you’ll say “No.. Lets stop.. I don’t want to right now..” etc
you can’t win for losing.. .i did all the resisting youre supposed to do til bones were crunched, snapped, and crunched to dust….and still they questioned what I’d done ‘’wrong”. i really havent heard of a scenario yet some dickbag cant blame on the survivor (via muckrakingiswomenswork)
If the only time you seriously talk about men being raped is to criticize women who speak about rape, you are not a good person at all
Big surprise, Michelle Obama gets her DNA tested and finds distant white relatives descendent from the Plantation that owned her family. But of course, the New York Times writes an article about how hard it is for the relatives to deal with the fact that they’re decedent from slave owners.
The best part is where they try to assume that the relationship HAD to be consensual:
Melvinia was a teenager, perhaps around 15, when she gave birth to her biracial son. Charles was about 20.
Such forbidden liaisons across the racial divide inevitably bring to mind the story of Thomas Jefferson and his slave Sally Hemings.
I love it when slavery is painted to be some kind of southern love story.
Melvinia was not a privileged house slave like Sally. She was illiterate and no stranger to laboring in the fields. She had more biracial children after the Civil War, giving some of the white Shieldses hope that her relationship with Charles was consensual.
or that she was forced to have sex with the men of the plantation over and over…
The rest of the article just goes into how sad the family is to learn that they used to own slaves and how they *hope* their great grandfather wasn’t a rapist.
that horrifying moment when you realize that some of the “DTF” girls on Jersey Shore were basically raped on camera because consent isn’t valid when they were too drunk to even walk
Amanda Marcotte on rape prevention ‘tips’:
[T]hese “tips” are actually a list of reasons that it’s okay to rape someone. If the tip is, “Don’t wear miniskirts”, that ends up saying to rapists, juries, and cops, “If she was wearing a miniskirt, she had it coming.” Rapists basically use these tips as a checklist for what to look for in potential victims…it’s a keep-yourself-from-going-to-jail strategy. If you attack drunk women, women who have a history of having (gasp!) sex, women who are wearing miniskirts after dark, then your chances go up of not getting caught. Your victims will be afraid to come forward, the cops won’t take it seriously, juries will let you off. So every time you pass around a “how not to get raped” list, you’re saying to rapists, “Here are the women you can rape and we, as a society, will allow it.”
I want to tell you guys about something that happened to me.
A little over a year ago, I went to a party. I had worked until 11, so I got there pretty late. When I arrived, the only people I knew there had already passed out. When I first started drinking, before I was even a little tipsy, some guy made a really obvious pickup attempt on me. He casually brushed his hand over mine and said, “Oops.” I had recently had a few casual sex encounters, and I had decided that I was going to stop doing that for a little bit because I wasn’t feeling too great about it. Not that I necessarily felt that it wasn’t okay to have casual sex, just that it wasn’t a good thing for me at the time. When he did that, I just thought to myself, “Nice try buddy, but it’s not going to happen.” I didn’t say anything though.
I kept drinking, and as the night went on, more people went to bed. I have a prescription for adderall, so I gave some to this girl because she really likes it, and the guy who had made the really obvious pickup attempt on me wanted one, too. I gave it too him, and when I turned around, he was crushing it up to snort it. I’d never snorted anything before, so I was kind of like “woah,” but I let him talk me in to doing it, too. After I did, things got really blurry. I remember he kept pouring me more shots, and I just kept doing them because why not? I was there to have fun.
Eventually I blacked out. I have a few split-second memories - like single slides from a movie or something. I remember sitting on the floor eating pistachios. Then I remember going upstairs. I was looking down the stairs as he was going up. I think he might have been carrying me, but I don’t remember it well enough to know for sure. I remember standing in the master bedroom, looking in at the bathroom and seeing the big Jacuzzi tub. The last memory I have of that night is of being in the bed with him on top of me.
My friend told me that when he came to check on me the next morning that I sat up but didn’t say anything, and my eyes rolled to the back of my head and I laid back down. I don’t remember that at all.
When I woke up, I was naked in bed next to that guy. I got up to get dressed, and I noticed something on the sheets. It looked like blood, and it was right where my head had been. I felt the back of my head. There was no blood, but there was a lump.
I had just barely enough memory to know what had happened. I knew we’d had sex. I was pretty sure he didn’t use a condom. I didn’t know his name, but I figured it out before I left. It was Sean. Eventually I left and had to go to work.
I had to leave work early that day. My head was heavy. I couldn’t concentrate. I had no idea what was going on. I felt disgusting. I’d had sex with a stranger, and it was totally my fault. I had put myself in a dangerous situation, and I was the only one to blame. I shouldn’t have drank so much. I shouldn’t have snorted that adderall. I shouldn’t have kept drinking after that.
I told two of my guy friends what had happened. One of them was surprised. It was “so unlike me.” The other one was shocked, too. He said it was “pretty slutty.” I felt even more disgusting than I had before.
I bled for a few days after that. That happens to me sometimes, when I have rough sex. Though I don’t think it’s ever lasted that long before.
I know now that it wasn’t my fault, but I still feel like it was. I don’t think I’ll ever truly feel like it wasn’t my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk around a strange guy who so obviously wanted to get with me. I shouldn’t have been so careless.
But even though I feel that way, there’s still the logical part of me that knows it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t get raped because I drank too much. I got raped because someone raped me.
It doesn’t make me feel any better, but it does make me more aware of what a lot of girls go through.
I just want to say, to anyone out there who has been in my situation - it’s not your fault. I know you feel disgusting. I know you feel like you shouldn’t have been so stupid. I know it’s easier to blame yourself than it is to blame the guy that did this to you. And most of all, I know you feel like your situation isn’t as worth noting as the girls’ who have been forcibly or violently raped. I know you feel like you shouldn’t complain, because other girls have had it a lot worse than you, but that shouldn’t belittle what happened to you. You still got raped. I know how ashamed you feel. I know how much you hate yourself for it, and I want you to know that it’s not your fault.
You didn’t get raped because you drank too much. You didn’t get raped because you made a careless mistake. You got raped because somebody raped you. I’m here, and I know what you’ve been through. I know it’s not your fault, and I want you to accept that. I know it’s difficult to accept because I still have a hard time accepting it myself, but it really, truly is not your fault.
I get that you don’t really mean that shit. I get that you’re just talking out your ass.
But please listen, and please trust me on this one: you have probably, at some point in your life, engaged in that kind of talk with a man who really, truly hates women–to the extent of having beaten and/or raped at least one. And you probably didn’t know which one he was.
And that guy? Thought you were on his side."
— My brilliant friend Kate Harding: http://kateharding.net/2007/04/14/on-being-a-no-name-blogger-using-her-real-name/ (via sanitywatchers)