[I know I have a bunch of readers who don’t live in middle Tennessee and I’m sorry you have to sit through this shit again, but that’s just the way it goes. If upsetting things upset you, go down and contemplate the lovely afghan I’m making W., in part because he’s now embarrassed that I’m making it for him.]
Middle Tennessee, you piss me off. This would not normally be a problem, except this morning, I snapped at the dog. Once you have me irrationally yelling at my dog before dawn, we need to have a little talk.
Here is what I’d rather be screaming at you:
1. Each and every one of you knows someone who’s been raped. You know many someones who’ve been sexually assaulted, even if it didn’t get as far as rape. If you’re thinking, right now, “That’s not true. I don’t know anyone,” it’s either because you come across like such a fucktard that no one’s told you because they don’t think you’ll understand or they have told you and you’re such a fucktard you don’t know how to listen.
2. Many conservatives, it’s obvious that your concepts of freedom don’t include me. You spout all this bullshit about how “your freedom ends where my nose begins,” but your freedom ends way up in my uterus. You get to crawl around in my vagina passing judgment on all the things that end up there and what the result of that is. Why, conservative Americans, do you have the priviledge of bodily autonomy and I don’t? Do only men get to be free?
3. Straight men, for just one day, I’d like you to try this little thought experiment. Just try to imagine the last time you got in a fight, a real knock-down drag out fight. If you lost, imagine that the guy who won stuck his dick in you. Would you go to the police? Would you go to the hospital? Would you tell anyone ever? You don’t have to answer me, but I’m betting that most of you would not. So, try to have a little fucking mercy on the women who are raped and don’t know exactly how to play sympathetic victim.
If someone shoots you, you should go to the hospital and get it taken care of. But, if you’re actually shot, you might find that you’re too busy being blinded by pain and fear and, you know, death, to make the phone call to get the ambulance. Rape is also a violent crime. Rape victims are often too busy being afraid and in pain to act rationally.
4. In the end, there is little women can do to prevent being raped. You might think that you would never go to a party and get drunk. Your friends would never lock you out of the house on accident. Or you’d never walk through the park by yourself. Or you’d never let a stranger into your home.
But what the fuck, women? You’re never going to date? You’re going to always go out in pairs? You’re never going to let your husband or boyfriend or kids invite other boys over? You’re going to treat every single man you meet like he wants to hurt you? That’s how you go through life? You think that’s a practical way for every woman to go through life?
We cannot control the behavior of others.
Read that again.
We cannot control the behavior of others.
We cannot stop men from raping us. Men have to stop raping us.
Yes, there are things we can do to make our own rapes less likely, but in those cases, unless we’ve killed the motherfucker, usually all we’re doing is moving him along to the next victim. We are not the problem. We cannot control the behavior of others.
Okay, I feel better.
But I know we’ve gotten to this point and some of you are thinking, “Has B. ever been raped?” and then thinking “Oh, my god, I can’t ask that.” It’s okay. You can ask it. And I’ll answer you.
Was I ever raped?
No.
Why not?
Because a ten year old Butcher heard me screaming and came downstairs to see what was wrong. He hit the dude and kicked him for all he was worth, but, you know, he was ten and the dude was big. When he started crying, though, the guy stopped, because as important as it was for me to know what a fucking whore I was and how I couldn’t just ignore him without paying for it, it was more important for him to stop and comfort the Butcher and to let him know that boys don’t have to cry about the shit that happens to girls.
Why didn’t I call the police?
I’d already called the police a number of times after he’d broken into my house and left things. They said they weren’t going to get involved in some boyfriend/girlfriend drama, even though I insisted he wasn’t my boyfriend.
Plus, he was at my house because my parents kept insisting that, if only I were nicer to him and worked harder to make him like me, he’d stop being so fucking weird.
I thought that everyone would think I deserved it. And, frankly, I was embarrassed that the Butcher saw me like that. It’s not rational, I know, but there it is. I didn’t want him to have to tell everyone over and over again what he’d seen.
So, there you go. I suppose you’ll think that explains a lot. And maybe it does. It at least explains my love for Evan Seinfeld and David Banner. In my fantasies, I live with a guy who can kick the shit out of anyone who might hurt me.