Last week, when news hit that the prosecution in the Dominique Strauss-Kahn case had requested that charges be dismissed, I will admit that I was a little upset. Ok, I was a lot upset. There was some swearing on Twitter, and there may have been a phone conversation with a lady friend of mine that included some top-quality f-bombs dropped at the top of my voice. In my cubicle. In the middle of the day.
Hey, I am a passionate person, and I can't be expected to reign in those passions simply because I have a job, ok? A job is not a life.
The gist of why I became so angry at this news is as follows. The prosecutor believed, or the prosecutor believed that the jury would believe, that it was more likely that Strauss-Kahn and a hotel maid had consensual, spontaneous, anonymous, rough sex than that he raped her. It is more believable that upon entering his room, she decided to engage in some BDSM role-play fun than that he forced her. Because no one is denying that sexual contact occurred, or even that said contact was "rough." No one denies that there was semen on her uniform blouse or that she was BLEEDING AND BRUISED when she left the room and went to her colleagues.
But, despite all that, it is still more believable that the plot of a bad porno occurred than that he raped her.
Because porno plots play out ALL THE TIME in real life, guys. All you have to do is find a maid or a female police officer or a secretary or a teacher or a nun or a schoolgirl, and you can totally act out your favorite porn, and it'll be totally consensual whether it is actually consensual or not.
Because we live in a rape culture.
I live in a rape culture. That fact is not deniable any longer. And this has serious implications for my life. I am a woman that enjoys wearing pretty dresses and high heels. Some of these dresses are short. Some of them are low-cut. If I wear these dresses in public, and something happens to me, is it my fault?
Probably, says the culture I live in.
I walk home two miles in my pretty dresses. I walk home through the downtown area of an urban environment. There are all manner of colorful characters that I pass on my walk. Most of them are men. It has been my habit for years to smile and say hello when I walk by anyone, because everyone is a human being and deserves acknowledgement and a little bit of dignity.
But on my walk last week, I found myself looking at my feet. What if my smile is an invitation?
This is the reality of living in a culture that condones rape. This is the reality of living in a culture in which a majority of people find it is easier to believe that the plot of a bad porno took place than that a woman was raped.
This morning I woke up in a bad mood. It happens. One of my most effective coping mechanisms for dealing with the doldrums is to dress up even more than usual. So I wore a party dress to work today. I posted on my Facebook about wearing a party dress to work.
An hour later, I got a text message asking about my panties.
This is the world I have to live in. It makes me sick. And sad. And sick again.
Was the comment from a good friend? Maybe the lack of context made it really bad (assuming they didn't know why you were dressed up as it related to the horrible story). I joke around a lot with my friends but wouldn't about a subject like the one you wrote about. Even I have boundaries.
ReplyDeleteIt's a big world. The sick parts are going to be there. Hopefully you can do things to be involved and make it better where you can. It's like that kid that was on a beach of thousands of washed up starfish. A man saw the kid throwing starfish back in the ocean. He asked the kid why he was wasting his time and that he couldn't possibly throw every starfish back in the water. The kid threw a starfish back in and said it wasn't a waste of that starfish's time for me to throw it back in. Or something like that. I love that story.
Anyway, sorry this bad story upset you so much and that it got worse.
I love starfish. Mind you, I haven't seen one since I was 14 or so, but I love them, anyway.
ReplyDelete(I should really stop interacting with people that make me hate humanity, but I keep thinking if I just show them how awful they're being that they'll change. Sigh.)
(But if they don't think they're awful, then you're just normalizing the behaviour by still interacting with them. And rewarding it by still interacting to boot. And they won't see their behaviour as awful, because that can't be shown by an external person - it has to come from inside. You can model good behaviour but no one can change anyone but themselves. The only real forceful consequence for negative behaviour is to cut someone off and stop engaging, whether it's for 20 minutes or forever. Do what is best for you, in these situations.)
ReplyDelete(And I'm so sorry sweetie. I just saw this; was offline all day for clinicals. Hugs!)
I, too, am an urban dweller, around a lot of people and, in a typically midwestern kind of way, a smiler.
ReplyDeleteThis has changed a bit over the years because me and MY pretty little dresses have been mistaken as a prostitute twice. This is what happens when you're attractive and friendly.
I don't know why we are so quick to believe that a rich man couldn't possibly have raped a woman, or why a woman working as a maid would, of course, consent to rough sex while at work. We have, in my estimation, a "blame" society, where victims have asked for it in some way, through profession/economic status/failure to insist on male protection...
Well written post. :-)
Pearl
True story: I got mistaken for a prostitute once while wearing jeans and a man's sweatshirt that was slightly too large for me. In San Francisco.
ReplyDeleteSo, really, that just convinced me even more firmly that clothing has nothing to do with sex.