Because I feel like the dudes need a little love.

[Updated on 7/14/15: I'm leaving this post up, unedited, because that feels like the honest thing to do. But this is just to say that, more than two years in, I don't agree with a lot of what's written here. I've reconnected with feminism, learned a LOT more about it in the process, and am done apologizing for "nice guys" and #NotAllMen-ing all over everyone. So the crux of this piece really doesn't reflect my perspective at all anymore. But, here you go.]

What I’m about to write is uncomfortable, for several reasons.  I’m a little uncomfortable with these thoughts of mine, for one thing.  More so, though, I’m nervous about what YOU might think, which is why I’m going to try very hard to make sure you get exactly what I mean.

With that out of the way: I’ve been reading and thinking a lot about rape culture in the last month or so, in light of the Steubenville events in particular.  It’s disturbing: the elements surrounding the Steubenville rape itself, the media’s response, the way that many people seem to view rape, which is often in a “who cares?” light, a fact that I find fundamentally terrifying.   

Thankfully, there have been many sane, compassionate, and lovely responses as well.  Melissa Harris-Perry’s open letter comes to mind.  So do the many, many people who fired back at CNN’s dreadful coverage of the final verdict for the Steubenville rapists.  I am lucky to live in a community of thoughtful and caring people, and have not, in person, witnessed anyone being angry at the victim of the crime or bemoaning the fates of her rapists.  So I feel like there’s hope.

I also came across this article on Upworthy: There is Actually One Golden Rule to Prevent Sexual Assault.  It’s a list of tips which all come down to, essentially, don’t rape people.  (Derp?)  

Let’s not bemoan the fact that our society has come to such obvious edicts as this, because clearly it has.  If we want to change rape culture, it’s a worthwhile endeavor to start educating people from the reverse direction.  And I’m glad to see media like this that are willing to look at the truth.

But one thing has bothered me in the week since I’ve read it: nearly every one of the “10 Top Tips to End Rape” was directed at men.  You know: “Don’t put drugs in women’s drinks.”  “When you see a woman walking by herself, leave her alone.”  “If you are in a lift and a woman gets in, don’t rape her.”

A few things about this:

• Yes, men rape far more often than women do.
• Yes, men need to be taught from boyhood that rape (or any kind of assault) is wrong.
• But.  

This is the point where I get in trouble with my feminist friends, because I see this sort of thing as an example of when feminism becomes not so much about making women equal with men, but with putting men down.

Rape is bad.  It’s bad when a man rapes a woman, it’s bad when a woman rapes a man, it’s bad when a man rapes a man, it’s bad when a woman rapes a woman.  It’s always bad.  And it should not have been so hard for Upworthy (a generally compassionate, smart website that promotes equality for everyone) to take a look at the semantics in this little article and edit it a little.

Words have meaning.  If you think about it, this article just perpetuates the concept of man as aggressor and woman as victim.  And isn’t that what we’re supposed to be changing?

And please, no jokes about “when a woman rapes a man…is it REALLY rape?”  Men, you do yourselves a disservice when you make jokes about how you have no control over your sexual impulses.  You do have control.  You’ll be fine.

I know this because I am surrounded by many smart, capable, and caring men, who have never raped anyone and are horrified by the very thought of it.  If all of these men got together and were lectured on “how not to rape a woman,” I promise you that they would all be disgusted and offended.

Yes, we need better education on this topic.  We need for people to understand that no kind of assault is appropriate, ever.  We need for everyone to get the concept of no means no, that being asleep is not the same as giving consent, that giving consent and then changing your mind is totally legit.  It’s not even that hard, but apparently we need to do a better job.

I just don’t think it’s necessary to alienate the menfolk in doing so.  If we treat them like dumb animals, how can we expect them to act like anything else?

A review of Give Me Everything You Have: On Being Stalked

 

When I see James Lasdun, the author of Give Me Everything You Have: On Being Stalked, in my mind’s eye, the image that comes to mind is actually that of singer-songwriter James Taylor.  You know the one: he’s the original soft-spoken, white-tee-shirt-wearing, acoustic-guitar-playing, almost-apologetic musician.  Your mom probably loves him.  He’s that kind of guy.  And that’s how Lasdun comes across in his memoir.  He’s overwhelmingly modest, a guy who’s happy to write his books, teach creative writing, and spend time with his family.  A sweet, unassuming soul.  

Perhaps it’s that very characteristic that, in part, led to Lasdun’s role into a haunting, years-long cyberstalking case.  Quick summary: two years after having her in a writing workshop, Lasdun gets an email from a former student, asking him to read some of her new work.  He agrees, somewhat reluctantly, and the two strike up a pleasant correspondence over the next several months.  The former student is often flirtatious, which is worrisome, but Lasdun makes it clear to her that he’s happily married and that sort of thing isn’t welcome.  At first, the former student backs off, but things escalate.  Lasdun receives several emails from her per day, some of them rambling, some sweet, some apologetic, some outright hostile.  She evens refers to herself at one point as a “verbal terrorist.”

As more and more people get roped into this (the former student emails several of Lasdun’s colleagues, denouncing him, accusing him of stealing her work), Lasdun has no choice but to bring up the situation whenever he takes on a new job.  This woman posts insane comments to his articles online, messes with his Wikipedia page, leaves hostile reviews of his work all over the Internet—leaving our hero with a mound of anxiety over his reputation and his career, not to mention his personal well-being.  

At some point in those first 70 pages or so (Lasdun jumps right into the story, with barely any prelude, which I appreciate), as you watch things get slowly more and more creepy, you may start to wonder: Isn’t he going to do anything about it?  

A few points on that: one, yes, he does eventually do something about it.  A detective gets involved.  So does the local police station.  But the authorities are of little help in the end.  The saga begins in 2006, after all, when cyberbullying was only beginning to be seen as a legitimate threat.

The second point: Lasdun is a trusting, affable fellow who wants to give his former student the benefit of the doubt, and everything screams “too late!” once he realizes that this is a much bigger problem than he’d anticipated.  This woman is pleasant and intelligent in the beginning—if just a little too friendly—and our hero is easily charmed by her.  He lives in a quiet, remote area of New York State, and although he’s accomplished in his field, he isn’t particularly well-known.  The attentions of a bright fellow writer are, understandably, refreshing and fun at first.

The third point: in the light of the recent Steubenville rapes, and all the talk afterwards about rape culture and victim shaming/victim blaming, it’s uncomfortable for me to think Why didn’t he do x, y, and z, because it doesn’t matter—it’s not his fault.  So I want to point out the difference between “How could he be such an idiot and let this happen to him?” and “Why didn’t he, you know, delete his email address when things got weird?”

That was the main thing that bothered me throughout—the apparent lack of retaliation on the part of Lasdun—and the only reasonable answer I could come up with was that it’s probably a good thing to have a record of what your stalker is saying, just in case any of it can be used as proof of criminal intent.  

What makes this story different from your average stalking tale is Lasdun’s hyper-awareness of himself.  He’s a smart man and a poet, so he’s inclined to look beyond what’s happening on the surface and see its literary and historical implications.  (Also, if you’re not particularly well-versed in the life of D.H. Lawrence, medieval literature, or the Israeli/Palestinian conflicts, there are several sections of this book that may or may not elude you.)

In the end, there is no end.  When this book was published the emails were still coming in; Give Me Everything You Have, it seems, is not a reflection about something that happened and is no longer happening, but simply an attempt for the author to gain control of his life again.  Because that’s what stalking is about.  That’s what any form of harassment or abuse is about: power and control over another person.  

This book is quiet, inquisitive, beautifully told, and terrifying.  Read it.  And be careful out there.

Okay, life is pretty awesome.

The other night I was helping my boyfriend pick out some new pants in Old Navy downtown, and once he’d selected a few pairs, he came out of the dressing room, took me by the hand, and said, “Come on, Grumpy, let’s get you home.”

I was confused and upset.  How was I being grumpy?  I was FINE!  And I told him so.  “Nah, you’re grumpy for some reason,” he said.  “Come on.  I’ll buy you some chocolate and we’ll go home.”

That, of course, made it worse.  How dare he think that, even if I WAS grumpy, that he could buy back a good mood with CHOCOLATE?  What a jerk!  I refused to let him buy me any chocolate, and after he insisted, I told him I wouldn’t eat it, and after he insisted on that point too, I told him that I might eat it but then I would promptly regurgitate it all back onto him.

Finally he wore me down.  We stopped at Godiva (FINE, WHATEVER) where he bought me a bag of sea salt caramels (FINE, WHATEVER).  Two minutes after I’d eaten one, we were strolling happily down the street, and I was back to my cheery self again.

I hugged my love and apologized.  “I forget that sometimes I can get a little hypoglycemic,” I told him (click here for fun details).  

He just smiled and pointed to himself.  “Guess who doesn’t forget that.”

It’s a good thing when you find someone who occasionally knows you better than you know yourself.  

I like to think that we looked approximately like this.