On Rape and the Temptation of Misguided Anger

*The idea of being raped and murdered- or just raped- terrifies me.

It’s terrible, terrible, terrible. It’s one of those things that makes me want to cry, “Why, God, why?” (But I don’t think there’s actually a god listening, unfortunately.) 

And it makes me hope that it never happens to me. (Or anyone I care about. Or anyone, ever.)

It’s difficult not to take issue with men. At least with the abstract concept of men. 

Throughout my life I've been informed of countless brutal rape-murders. 

All my life I’ve been warned not to listen to the emotional manipulations of men, because ‘he will say whatever needs to be said to get what he wants from you.’ I want to believe that it isn’t true, that I can trust people, that “men” could not be so cruel and that they must see me as more than… I’d rather not be crass. As more than a toy to be used. But it’s hard to hold on to that belief when your father and your uncles and most everyone you know tells you this. 

That’s the scary thing, really. I could shrug it off relatively easy coming from a hurt woman. Pain clouds personal judgment. Just because he did that to you doesn’t mean it happens all the time. 

But when it’s all of the men who are in a position to care about me that say it (with an unspoken, trust me, we do it all the time lurking in their eyes)… my faith in “man” falters despite my stubborn adherence to a belief in the goodness of people.

I have been instilled with a fear of walking alone. Anytime, anywhere. Especially at night (Of course. I mean it’s really out of the question).
Maybe I am too precautious, but given the stakes, I say better to be safe. 

But it does strike me as a bit unfair when I realize that my male friends have likely never hesitated at the thought of walking to the grocery store by themselves- for fear of the possibility of being kidnapped, raped, and discarded on the side of the road somewhere. And when I wonder whether I will be able to travel through Europe next fall, because I am not going with a group of people I know, and what if I don’t make friends with similar travel destinations while I am abroad? Is it safe to travel alone? I want to believe so… but…. I don’t know. Perhaps I’d better not. 

These are fears that ought not be necessary. But they’re there, and I can’t ignore them or shrug them off easily. Of course, travelling alone is also dangerous for a male, I suppose… but not nearly as dangerous as for a female. Men may have their wallet taken from them. Just about anyone who attacks me will make sure to seek other advantages. Even if they primarily just want the money, why not make the best of the situation and rape a lone female? And even if both scenarios (male victim and female victim) end in death, why must the murder of my counterpart almost always be preceded by rape? Perhaps it seems to make no difference, but it does to me. Why can’t we be spared that shred of dignity?

I know a large number of men-- in the same way that I know a large number of women-- whom I respect and who I firmly believe to be individuals if integrity. There are those whose esteem I prize, and a very few whom I would trust with my soul. It’s not a matter of male or female; it’s a matter of character. This I believe more deeply than any anti-male sentiment I may utter. I may be called a fool, and perhaps I am, but I refuse to let go of the belief in the goodness of individuals- not of men or women (or of Muslims or Christians or atheists or any ethnic group or just any group), but of individuals.   

So forgive me, fellow believers in justice, when I slip into anger toward the concept of “man” when I hear that “in a survey of college-aged men, 35% admitted that they would commit rape if they believed they could get away with it” (http://www.uic.edu/depts/owa/sa_rape_support.html). Or when I recall the confusion and sadness and incredulity that filled me when I expressed to a dear male friend- whose honor and decency I would pledge to in a heartbeat- that I could not understand how someone could rape someone, could take pleasure in the act despite the pain they were inflicting upon another, despite the screams and the struggles and the tears and all of that… and he shook his head and told me that no, he could see it… It makes sense… (And I wanted to scream that no! It can’t make sense! It doesn’t make sense! How could it ever make sense? I still want to deny that. There must have been some error, some misunderstanding, some discrepancy in terminology that prevented the clear communication of ideas.) Or when I think of women impregnated and abandoned to raise their child alone. (This seems unfair to the woman, but my real pain here is for the child, who deserves better.) I’ve never understood why responsibility for a child tends to be considered so disproportionately… but it’s another one of those warnings that haunted my girlhood. And then there’s that whole history of inequality between the sexes, which produces the occasional pang of disappointment.

I know this sounds ironic, but it actually isn’t. I mean it, and am only trying to provide you with my perspective, that you may understand the temptation. So please do forgive me when I slip into anger toward the concept of “man.” I ought not to name this character so. But I have yet to conjure a title for this beast. 

(A note: I should clarify. I do not put men who do not play in equal role in raising their children and that long line of men who played a role in the oppression of women “beasts.” They may be weak, but they are not beasts. The beast is the rapist, the murderer, the torturer.)

So reader... I trust that you are good. You may have your flaws and your weaknesses, but so do we all, and I believe that you will do the right thing when put in a sticky situation. You are strong.
I trust that you will keep an eye out for the weak and protect them if possible.
I know that you will support survivors. I know that you will remind the people around you that we are to treat people with dignity, and that you will teach by example.
I know that you do your best to live with integrity and honor- and for that, you have my utmost respect.
We are good, strong men and women… and we must do our utmost to keep the beast at bay.

*These thoughts, on this particular occasion, were provoked by the following sites:

http://canyourelate.org/2011/05/24/rape-prevention-tips/

http://womensstudies.homestead.com/tipsformen.html

It's a matter of ____.

Well, I have just returned from a four-day cruise, a novel experience for mia famiglia. The most notable feature of this cruise was probably the amount of reading that went on. This is not unusual for my father or myself (actually, it's pretty typical), and my sister also enjoys a good book (plus, summer reading makes demands upon her!)... but my mother? My mom does NOT read books. Ever. At one point my dad remarked that this was the first time he'd ever seen her reading a book in all the time they've been together. This is a big deal. Years ago, when I first read The Five People You Meet in Heaven, I insisted that my sister read it... and we decided to purchase a Spanish translation for my mom. Well, after much taunting and questioning and pleading, my mom announced she would be taking it with her, seeing as the rest of us were all loaded with plenty of pages of fine reading material. I will admit, I was incredibly skeptical, and showed as much. But... she finally read it. And she enjoyed it!
Could this be the start of something new? I'm not sure, but I feel pretty pleased with myself.

For myself, I was indulging in a bit of Margaret Atwood's writing: Alias Grace. Thus far, every encounter with Atwood's writing has been fantastic. The Handmaid's Tale was very good, and I remember coming across "Bread" in a literature book, and being quite struck by it. As soon as I read the first paragraph of Alias Grace, I knew I was going to be enchanted by it. I was.
The novel is based upon the story of Grace Marks, a nineteenth century Canadian maid accused of murdering   her employer and his housekeeper-mistress, whose conviction was highly controversial.
A young doctor, interested in the possibility of opening his own insane asylum, becomes interested in Grace's case, and begins visiting her in hopes of determining whether Grace has really suffered from insanity- she claims to have gaps in her memory, and cannot recollect taking part in the murder.
So Grace begins telling her story, from the day of her birth into poverty in Ireland, her emigration to Canada, the loss of her mother on the ship, her father's drunkenness and general uselessness, her efforts to look after her numerous siblings, until she is almost thirteen and finally gains employment as a maid in a local household, after which she looses her ties to her family.
Grace's life is marked by poverty and hard-work, and her few moments of happiness end in sorrow with the tragic loss of her only friend. Cue more hard-work, unsupplemented by appreciation, or any monetary or social gain. Then throw in advances from unwanted men who believe themselves free to take advantage of worthless serving girls. It's a cheery life, that's for certain, but Grace manages to retain a sense of dignity throughout her account, which all the while leads to the question-mark of a bloody murder scene.
Grace- heartless murderess? Victim of circumstance? She couldn't have done it... could she? Is she feigning? Who is she?
You should really read the book if you get the chance.

While walking around the cruise ship, it is hard to miss the numerous people hard at work: waiters taking care of plates and bringing people food... women (and men) paid to clean bathrooms and change sheets. This reminded me of my many stays in lovely Mexican hotels with my family, surrounded by such individuals paid (a pittance) to basically wait on you hand and foot. I remember walking out of my room and delivering meek good mornings and hello's to young women laden with sheets and cleaning materials, waiting for my family to declare we were no longer sleeping in so that they could return our room to a state of cleanliness.
I have never been quite sure how to back my hello's and smiles.
I feel guilty. Excuse me while I gently traipse out of my room, and could you please make sure to put enough towels in the bathroom? There are four of us, you know. I want to be grateful for their hard work. I am tempted to pity- Wait, wait pity?
Pity strikes me as unfair. Pity suggests there is something indecent about their work. Pity emanates shame.
No, I do not think there is reason for shame. There is considerable room for pride.
My mother has spent nights sweeping floors, my father has seen suns rise while delivering papers up and down in a beat-up car.
There is no shame in making an honest living. There is dignity in working for the improvement of one's circumstances.

Now my thoughts flash back to Grace Marks, to suspicions of how much those hardworking, humble, helpful Mexican workers are paid- or not paid, to questions of justice and dignity and mobility.
I don't feel guilty because I see those men and women before me. I feel guilty because I fear I will see those same faces two, five, ten years from now, and I wonder why that would be so.

In the last four days I accumulated a good bit of email. Nothing terribly exciting. But then I came across one alerting me about "Target's rape factory". Young women working in factories, trying to make a living for themselves, trying to feed their families... Raped. Abused. Worthless serving girls.

My heart is heavy. Sad. It wants to be angry, but more than that, it wants to tend to bruises, to soothe haunted eyes, to hold hands.

This is a matter of... Of what? Just wages, equal opportunity, human dignity, basic decency, economic mobility, safe working places, education? Yes. Yes, it is all that.
It is a matter of chapped hands, tired backs, swollen feet, stiff necks, cracked nails. It is a matter of bright eyes, warm smiles, soft baby's feet, silky hair. It is a matter of stories, of jokes, of confidences; of hopes, fears, and dreams; of getting lost in someone's eyes, of watching untroubled sleep, of looking after a sickbed, of endless hugs of greeting; of trembling first steps, first kisses and final farewells.
It is a matter of looking at someone, and seeing them.