Rape Culture: Female Chauvanism In Action

This is a response to an essay called "A letter to the guy who harassed me outside the bar".  The link to that article is listed at the end of my essay, but I don't think reading it is vital to understanding the points I hope to make. 

I simply cannot stand rape culture theory, for one specific reason: It is guilty of all the legitimately reprehensible behaviors it claims to denounce. 

Like men who harass and intimidate women, women who espouse rape culture rhetoric do so in an attempt to dominate, subjugate and control the opposite sex.

This essay claims to address a man who harassed the author outside a bar, however this is clearly not true.  The author acknowledges this in a concluding sentence that's littered with unnecessary commas: "So, to you, the man on the sidewalk [outside the bar], I’m quite sure you will never read this essay."

Then why are you writing it, and who is your audience?  Though at first glance these questions may seem somewhat trivial, they warrant some serious consideration.

Rape culture theory tells us that when a man harasses a woman, it makes her fear that she may be assaulted.  Many fears pass through a woman's mind in a situation like this - fear of being assaulted, fear of being labeled a whore or a slut, whether by herself or by society at large...  Genuine terror and a multitude of other emotions can spontaneously erupt in a split second, this much is certainly true.

But let's try the shoe on the other foot.  Similar to a man who harasses women, this essay makes men feel they must act a certain way around women.  How might an assertion like that make an individual man feel?  Certainly, some men wouldn't give it much thought.  But like a rape victim who internalizes her assault (why did this happen to me? what did I do to deserve this?) some men may worry:

Am I threatening to women?  What is it about me that makes me threatening?  I didn't know I was a source of fear for other people.  Am I making half the population fear for their safety?!?  What's wrong with me?!  How do I know if I am even guilty of this?  I think of myself as friendly and approachable; I don't want to be a source of worry and fear for other people! 

You can see how this thought process may easily snowball into a chain reaction of worry and self-reproach, much like the target of unwanted harassment or sexual advances might question herself and what she did to make herself the target of such abuse.  And rape culture theory is right there, waiting to allay these mens' apprehension with specific instructions on just how to act so as not to be a source of fear for women.

Rape culture doesn't consider how its assertions may make men feel because in rape culture theory, men are not people.  They are only relevant and worth discussing in terms of how they relate to women: Is this man conscientious towards women?  How does he make them feel? 

Everything is secondary to how women feel, and how a man feels about being told how to behave just doesn't come up. 

Behind a veil of addressing the man outside the bar, the author writes to all men as if they were that terrible man.  She lumps all men into the same boat.  Because to her, what's the difference?  Men exist to her as either threats or non-threats, but rarely as people.  And it's easy to ignore the feelings of a potential threat.

She is entitled to dismiss my feelings.  This is not sarcasm or insincere rhetoric, but merely a statement of fact: She is under no obligation to look out for my feelings or well-being.  But by the same token, neither am I obligated in any way to her, and that is exactly my point:

It is not anyone's responsibility to make sure that anyone else feels any certain way.  Period.

If you feel threatened, do something about it.  Fight fire with fire and beat him at his own game.  Make his interaction with you so incredibly unpleasant that he shudders any time he thinks of you for the rest of his life.

Rape culture tells you that you don't have control over that situation, but you do.  Be empowered.  Make him the victim.  And if you can't, move to a safer neighborhood, buy pepper spray, get into therapy, or take a self-defense class.  Do what you gotta do to address the issue.

Fight your own fucking battles and stop telling half the population to act a certain way so that you may feel safe, if for no other reason than this:

Harassment and rape don't really have much to do with each other.  Even if we're all super polite and respectful towards women, rape won't magically cease to exist.  Society will just look like we went back in time several hundred years, with rigid rules of acceptable social interaction and decorum around women.

Feeling safe and secure - and indeed, feeling any certain way, comes from within. The responsibility to manage these feelings lies with the individual experiencing them, not the rest of the world. 

It's your responsibility.  Own your shit.

The original essay: http://www.rolereboot.org/culture-and-politics/details/2012-12-a-letter-to-the-guy-who-harrassed-me-outside-the-bar

Walking a Mile in Someone Else's Shoes

This is a response to a tumblr post by UnWinona, entitled "I debated whether or not to share this story".

As she says in her closing remarks, UnWinona wants men “to be forced to feel, for even one minute, what it feels like to have so much verbal hatred and physical intimidation thrown at them for nothing more than being female and not wanting to share.“

Well UnWinona, in the spirit of putting oneself in someone else’s shoes:

I want you to appreciate that other people experience difficult, painful situations too, even men. 

I want you to know what it feels like to be expected to defend your country with your life, should it come to that, simply because you’re a man. 

I want you to recognize that a man who harasses you on the train might well be a veteran who was drafted and forced to murder, a duty from which you are exempt as a woman.  I want you to develop some appreciation for the men who suffer for the rest of their lives because of what they were required to do as men. 

You seem to think that men should walk a mile in your shoes.  I encourage you to take your own advice and put yourself in someone else’s shoes.  You might be surprised how your perspective changes.  You might find that being the attractive woman who gets harassed on the train isn’t so bad in the grand scheme of things.

Then again, you might not.  I have no idea.  And my point is not to say that your life isn’t really so hard, because I don’t know anything about you or what your life is like.  I am only trying to convey that everyone has their difficulties.  Everyone faces hardships and truly trying situations, and I genuinely believe that you might be happier in the end if you garnered more of an appreciation for that fact.

Fever Pitch

I never did measure up to my potential.
Adults always made sure to tell me so.
Why would I want to? I never understood.
Everything was always about the future.

Well the future is here and now,
And the adults were right to warn me.

But I can't help but think:

Learning how to be happy in the moment seems
Like a valuable skill for me to have learned,
More important than citing references properly,
And more relevant than calculus.

I'm still young, and yet it's already nearly over.
Fates are sealed so early.

There are people who follow their dreams.
I know, I've met some of them.
But dreams are impractical.
Once I accomplish lots of things, maybe I'll have time for dreams.

But without dreams, who gives a shit
About accomplishing anything?
It's another Catch-22.
Oh well, no time for that: it's time for work.

Those dreams will one day become another stack of drawings
Gathering dust in the closet.
Those dreams will be something to remind me about my limitless potential
That I'm still not measuring up to.

Sorry, “to which I'm still not measuring up”,
Not that anybody under thirty knows the difference.

A good job that was, taking AP English:
Learning how not to end a sentence with a preposition.
That's been tremendously useful knowledge.
Many people I know can barely read, much less identify a preposition.

But the people who can read are generally intolerable.
Don't get me wrong, I hang out with the illiterates for a reason.
I made my choice; I guess I shouldn't complain.
But to be fair, I think my options were a bit limited.

The fool asks:

What is my place in this world?
There must be something I have to offer,
Some balance I can achieve.
I've no more patience for this life.

I get up in the morning because
It's better than getting fired
From a job I hate.
This is not good enough.

Mindreader

PART ONE

I'm a young boy in a nice backyard with a soft, green lawn. There are dogs running around, and puppies. There must have been a new litter recently. It's a beautiful day. A man says “Look -” and shoots one of the puppies. It collapses and dies. He says, “Feel how soft the fur is, but now it's all bloody”. I rub the soft fur and my hand comes back red. It seems like the man is trying to teach me something, but I have no idea what it could be. I try to hide my horror because I figure I must be missing the point and I must not be smart enough to figure it out.

PART TWO

I'm driving north up 75 through Dallas late at night, after having some drinks. I'm feeling a little swervy, and I notice a cluster of police cars in front of me when I get up the ramp and merge onto the highway. I try to drive slowly to put some distance between us, but they keep going slower and slower. I feel very aware that I'm swerving a bit, and the swerving is only made worse by my anxiety.

This scene transforms into me walking down the hallway of a hospital, behind a group of nurses in training. They're wandering around aimlessly, stopping and starting in a swarming chaotic mess. I feel the need to get past them, like I'm in a hurry, though I don't know why. I keep trying to, only to get stuck behind a cluster of them that stops for no apparent reason and blocks my way. I still don't know why I need to get past them, but that need keeps feeling increasingly urgent. I break through and make my way through a labyrinth of hallways and finally find a nurse, who I ask “Where the hell is the reception desk?” and she points me in the right direction.

PART THREE

I'm out in the country in a beautiful, tranquil wooded area. There are soft padded benches under the trees. My mom, sister, and grandmom are sitting on one and I'm sitting on another, facing them. There's also another person I can't identify sitting with them. This place feels like some kind of rehab or psych hospital getaway. I become aware that the reason we're there is that there's something wrong with my mom, but I don't know what. She's sitting there with an empty, expressionless look on her face, and my grandmom is saying “Give her a Xanax. She'll feel better.” I say, “She's not anxious. She doesn't need Xanax”.

Suddenly my mom jumps up and gets in the driver side seat of my truck. I'm stricken with panic, and I jump into the passenger seat. She puts the truck in reverse and starts winding around the wooded field, not looking where she's going. She has a crazed look on her face and is mashing on the gas.  She's yanking on the wheel and swerving violently, going backwards but still looking forward. I alternate between trying to keep us from plowing into a tree and trying to figure out what's going on, and I yank up on the parking brake.

My truck suddenly transforms into a school bus, big and creaky, and we're still just flying. I don't know how we haven't hit a tree yet. I finally get the brake pulled hard enough that the bus stops. I reach over and grab for the keys, but my fingers won't cooperate. My mom doesn't really fight me, but it takes me awhile to get the keys out of the ignition. I finally do, but then have even more difficulty getting the keys into my pocket. I keep thinking, “just get the keys in your pocket and then you can go around to get her out and try to find out what the hell is going on”.

Then I wake up.

Holly wakes up too, and I tell her about the third part of my dream, because that's the only part I remember. I'm crying. When I get to the end, I remember the second part, and tell her that part of the story. It's not until the end of the second part that I remember the first part and finish the story in reverse.

The man in the third part who I can't identify, it's not that I don't recognize him. It's that I can't see him. I almost didn't notice he was there. He's a ghost. He's just the silhouette of a man, filled in solid gray. I realize he's the same man from the first part, who shoots the dog. He's my granddad. We were in his backyard on North Park. I should have known. The immaculate lawn was a dead giveaway.

The Source of a Warrior's Power

I like knives.  It's hard to feel complete without a good, sharp knife
in my pocket.

Though it's arguably a less practical matter for my generation than it
was for my father's or grandfather's, carrying a knife is a symbol.
It's a reminder that we're capable of reshaping the world with our
bare hands.  It's a reminder of the importance of keeping ready
certain skills and tools.  It's a reminder to remain vigilant.

The vigilant man is prepared for the unforeseen and keeps his affairs
in order.  He keeps his blade sharp and slices through obstacles
without effort.  He thinks before he acts and then acts with
confidence.  He is resilient because he is aware and self-reliant.  He
is slave to nothing and no one.

A knife is a weapon.  It is a sign of power, of strength, and
independence.  Sometimes a weapon may be turned on oneself, but the
warrior must learn to wield his weapon.  The blade is the source of
his power, and to strip him of it for his own safety is to sabotage
him.

Without a sword, the warrior is powerless.  He can't as easily hurt
himself, but neither is he equipped to protect himself.

The warrior must learn to trust himself.  Trust him and he will trust himself.

Domestic Violence

The Texas summer is an abusive partner
Wherever I go, it's
Screaming at me, belittling me
Making sure I stay small and powerless

And I can't leave
A hundred miles makes no difference
Even two or three hundred miles away
It's still there, beating me down

Everyone wants to know,
Why can't I see it's a beautiful sunny day today?
It's because I can't see anything
It's too god damn bright to see anything

In the winter, we have coats
To protect us from the cold
But in the summer I have only sunglasses

So I cry, I sleep, and I drink
I avoid being conscious
It's just too much to handle

The woman I love, she doesn't understand
It's not enough for her to just enjoy summer
And I'm glad she does, but
She makes me feel bad if I don't

Soon though, relief will come
Abject misery will transform into ecstatic joy
Let's go outside! I couldn't be happier
And all you assholes who gave me shit all summer

You suddenly disappear, saying
"It's too cold - it's freezing!" But
This is Texas, and you have no perspective
There's no such thing as cold in Texas

Despite my best efforts not to be,
I'm sure I was a negative Nancy
All summer long, and you made sure
To make me feel bad about it

But now, where are you?
Huddled indoors against
The biting fifty degree cool breeze
Who's the negative Nancy now?

Oh, that's right - it's still me
Because I'm in the minority
And in a system of majority rule
The minority is always wrong

Through the Darkness and Into the Light

My name is Aaron.  I have bipolar depression.  I have taken more psych meds that I can count, and I'm here today to share my story, and most importantly, to say that there's always hope.  The reason I feel confident in saying something I always thought was so trite is that I know now that we never run out of things to try.  Like many stories worth telling, mine is one of going through the darkness and into the light.

There is about a five year period of time that I don't really remember.  While my friends went to college and did all the fun things that you can only really get away with when you're that age, I went to psychiatrists.  I firmly believed that I had a terminal disease and that I was fighting a losing battle.  It certainly seemed that way, too.  I just got worse and worse, and I was a topic of discussion for my whole family.  To be the problem everyone is talking about is a most unsettling feeling.

Over time, most of my family became convinced that I was lazy and that I wasn't trying.  I didn't really disagree.  But my mom tackled my depression head on, and over time I think she became nearly as depressed as I was.  I remember her lying on the couch, staring at the wall, with a look of utter hopelessness and defeat on her face.  I knew it was because of me and I remember feeling so sad and powerless that I couldn't seem to keep from destroying her life.  That was the worst part, feeling like I was to blame for her despair.

I tried to kill myself twice.  After the second time I was hospitalized.  I felt hopeless, largely because I felt I had already tried everything and that nothing was working.  I had learned a fair amount about psych meds over the course of taking so many of them, because I wanted to be knowledgeable about what I was taking.  I learned about SSRIs, tricyclics, antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, and so forth.  I knew I had tried many of the drugs in each of these categories, and others, and that I was running out of drugs to try.  But what I didn't know was that there is a whole world of options out there, and that psych meds make up only a small number of the options available.

When I was in the hospital I agreed to try Electro Convulsive Therapy (ECT), because I felt like I'd already tried everything else.  The point of ECT, as you may already know, is to induce a short seizure, which supposedly realigns something in your brain.  Well I didn't get my brain realigned, and instead of one short seizure, I had a series of long seizures the doctors had trouble stopping.  I spent that weekend in the ICU and don't remember any of it.  My psychiatrist was never able to figure out why that happened, but he did suggest that I try again.  Fortunately, I declined.

I'd been taken off my meds for the ECT and after that failed, I was put back on them.  I was still in the hospital and was having uncontrollable crying spells.  I wasn't allowed to go outside and all there was to do was to sit for hours in front of the TV (which I despise) or to read, in between the various sessions they held.  Much of the material they presented in these sessions was good, but was a repeat of another outpatient program I'd been to previously.  I wasn't allowed to leave until my psychiatrist decided I was ready.

I was still depressed, and the hospital was only making things worse.  I hid my crying spells and feelings, and manufactured what I hoped would be a believable story of feeling a little better each day.  Talking to my doctor, I felt like a prisoner talking to his parole board.  I guess I'm a good liar because they eventually let me out.  I remember the day I got out, driving to buy new strings for my guitar, with the windows down and the wind in my hair.  It was one of the best days of my life.

The hospital was my rock bottom - I was determined to never go back to a psych hospital, and resolved to either get better or find a better way to kill myself.  I spent a lot of time working on both.  I got out of the hospital in February of 2005, and over the course of that year I quit taking my psych meds and starting getting acupuncture.  I started paying more attention to what I ate and I started exercising.  I had some mind expanding experiences, and I really grew up a lot. 

I gave up on psychiatry as a solution for my problems.  And I'll admit, I had gone into it with an immature attitude, expecting the doctor to fix me instead of working to fix myself.  I know psych meds help some people and I am not suggesting that anyone quit taking their meds if they work.  There is no uniform treatment that works for everyone, and that is one point I wish to make:  Everyone is different and gets better in their own way.

Treatment has such a narrow scope in many people's minds - it means doctors and pills.  But treatment and recovery encompass everything from what drugs you take to whether you like your job, to what you do with your free time, to where you live and the people you surround yourself with, and much, much more.  It's about being happy, and everyone has factors that affect their happiness, whether or not they have ever felt depressed or been to a psychiatrist.

By far, the biggest and most important thing I've learned is that you're never out of options.  You never run out of things to try, and any time you feel like you've tried it all it just means you're not looking hard enough.  It means it's time to branch out and investigate a totally new aspect or approach.  I let doctors give me a seizure before I had tried things as simple as exercise, nutrition, or acupuncture.  It's really crazy, looking back. 

The few years following my release from the hospital were far from perfect and I experienced plenty of dark times and what I guess you could call relapses.  But the overall trend was a positive one, and I have made a long uphill battle to where I am today.

Nowadays I work in IT, working on computers, and I live in an apartment I like on the east side.  I have a wonderful girlfriend, and I spend a lot of time on creative endeavors.  These creative outlets have been very important to my recovery.  I play guitar and sing, and I draw.  I write on a blog.  I still get acupuncture, and I trade guitar lessons for my treatments.  I take Lithium, which I've been back on for a few years, and it helps keep me on an even keel.  I'm working on saving money to move out of Texas, which has been a dream of mine for years.  I love Austin, but I really want to live someplace with cooler weather.

I still have times when I feel depressed and I'm by no means magically cured and happy all the time, but who is?  That's unrealistic.  I am happy overall and I would consider myself to have recovered.  I have a good support system in place of people I can talk to when I need to.  I look forward to the future and am glad I have persevered and made it this far. 

I value openness and welcome any questions anyone has.  I am here because I want to share, and would rather someone ask me something they feel awkward about than hesitate out of fear of either asking something too personal or me judging them.  I also have business cards for the acupuncturist I see at South Austin Community Acupuncture.  His name is Mike Sobin and he works on a sliding scale, with prices as low as $15 per treatment.  It's been an effective, affordable treatment that has made a big difference in my life.

Finally, it doesn't matter who you are, where you've been, or what you've done.  The past is the past, and all you can change about it is how you view it.  It can either be a situation that's depressingly similar to the present, or it can be that period in your life when you were just crazy screwed up.  It's up to you.  All that matters is that you continue to try, because giving up is the only way anyone really loses.