Voices matter

In the last seven days since my Big Speech, I've received a flood of emails and, for the first time in forever, genuine dialogue in my blog comments! Not all of them agree with me, but that's okay; people are talking. There's never a shortage of words, never a true end to the discussion of something as heavy and provocative as rape culture. One week later, the dialogue is still continuing. I'm so grateful. I hope it lasts.

I never thought I'd be comfortable talking about this. Writing a book, and having my words filtered through a fictional character is one thing; talking about rape culture in relation to my own life is quite another. When I think about the bare facts, it's easy to get depressed once again. But if I can't press charges, if my vindictive-laced attempts at justice are failing, then my story is all I have left to fight with.

About 30 people showed up, mostly women I didn't recognize. My friends from my writing group were there, and a handful of classmates. The responses afterward were so incredible. And you know what I realized? I have a definite bias I need to overcome: a bias against men being redeemed. There is nothing to gain by turning the entire male species into an enemy. I have only one enemy, besides the devil -- my greatest enemy is myself. I am my biggest roadblock to recovery. I don't need my ex to apologize, and I don't need to appeal to God with the hope of triggering some kind of spell that will make him repent. That's not what healing is.

Healing is taking my story to a wider audience, because I realize how much it matters. Most importantly, I matter. My voice matters too much to keep silent.

It also helps that the more Josh and I talk about our future as husband and wife, the memory of the person who hurt me fades a bit. His influence matters less. That's not to say that I'll ever be able to forget. But it gets better.

I still struggle to believe these words as I write them. But they came to me somehow, so they must resonate somewhere.

I don't know if I'll end up a rape crisis counselor. I don't need to seek that profession in order to still care. It may have been a grief-motivated decision, not a genuine "calling." Anyone who knows me will tell you I am meant to be a writer. All six copies of Someone You Already Know were autographed and sold, and several business cards given away. So maybe, just maybe, that means something.

A very wise friend of mine told me that we don't get to choose our story sometimes, and we might hate it, but it's ours, and we're stuck with it. We can ignore it, stifle it, or tell it, and see what happens. The first two options made me crazy(er), so let's see what happens with the third.

Christians for Biblical Equality presents: Rape Culture in the Church

The following post is what I talked about during my presentation on rape culture for Christians for Biblical Equality. Delivered the entire message without tearing up, throwing up, or tripping in my heels. AND I got to sign some books. Success!

You may be wondering what is meant by the title “Rape culture in the church.” To start, let me just explain what “rape culture” is, for those who have never heard that term before. Rape culture is living in a society that excuses rape by placing the blame on the victim. Rape culture is perpetuating a cycle of irresponsibility for rapists who are in relationships with their victims, which is more common than you think. We often tell women that because they consented to sex before, they can’t say no, now. We teach men that sex is a right, and one that is theirs for the taking, especially in a marriage where a man is considered the head of the household, according to Christian tradition.

Rape culture is also making jokes about rape. When I was a freshman in college, it was an inside joke in my sorority to say “It’s not rape if you call pin rank” (“Pin rank” referring to the order in which the pledges were initiated). This wasn’t referring to actual rape, but was used as an extreme expression to show the amount of power and authority the older pledges had on the newer ones. To my knowledge, no one thought anything of it, and I laughed along as much as everyone else did.

This topic is very personal to me, because I myself am a statistic of rape. Rather than beat myself up, I channeled my anger and grief into my self-published book, Someone You Already Know, which tells the story of two teenage victims and their efforts to understand each other. One character was raped by her boyfriend; the other by a stranger. It wasn’t written as a Christian book, but I intended for it to be a teaching tool for classrooms and churches.

Now you’re probably wondering, what does this have to do with the church? If you’re active on Facebook and other forms of social media like I am, you may be familiar with a certain blog post regarding female modesty that went viral this summer. It was written by a woman named Kim Hall, and in her post she talks about looking through her sons’ Facebook friends’ lists. She is writing to their female friends asking them to “cover up” so her sons don’t stumble. She writes, “Once my boys see a suggestive photo of you, they can’t un-see it.” To be fair, this woman’s intentions were good: modesty is a forgotten virtue in our culture that must be brought back. But Kim Hall is not the only Christian going about this important subject in a way that shames women. We Christians care a great deal about modesty, but we teach it in a way that is completely backwards.
I want to tell you that it is not a woman’s responsibility to prevent men from lusting. Not to mention, telling women to “cover up” for the sake of helping out their brothers in Christ is demeaning to both sexes.

First, it implies that women’s bodies are shameful and something to be hidden, which they’re not! Remember that Adam and Eve were originally naked in Eden. It was after the Fall that the body was viewed through corrupt lenses; but there is nothing inherently shameful about our bodies to begin with. Secondly, this mindset implies that men are barbaric beasts who are slaves to their hormones. It implies they have no self-control, and need to rely on women to take responsibility for them.

Men, I don’t know about you, but I’m highly offended by the implication that your brain is next to your balls. If men become animals and lose all self-control at the sight of a suggestively-dressed woman, and seemingly have no ‘choice’ but to either lust after her, or assault her, then what we’re saying is that the default status of all men is "rapist."

Think about it this way: we all know better than to take things that don’t belong to us. We know better than to trespass onto someone else’s property. Such actions have serious consequences, and rarely do we tell the person whose car was broken into that it’s their fault for not hiding the GPS under the seat, or in the dash. But when it comes to rape, there is something unique about this crime where it’s easier to excuse the perpetrator. We blame the woman’s skirt. We blame the fact that she was drinking. We insist she should have known better. Why her, and not the rapist?

So now, you may be thinking: okay, rape culture is a problem, but what does this have to do with the church? The answer is simple: the line between “She caused him to stumble” is not a far cry from “She was asking for it.” The reality is, women are just as likely to be raped in burquas as they are in string bikinis. This happens every day in the Middle East, especially right now in Syria.

I’ve had well-intentioned Christian friends preach modesty during Bible study, in a way that suggests “Only you can keep your boyfriends’ minds in check.” Well, my ex-boyfriend raped me when I was wearing sweatpants: not my first choice of ‘asking for it’ clothes. So clearly, sinful behavior is a deliberate choice. It’s not something one ‘stumbles’ into by accident. The relationship began when I was 17, an age where I thought I knew everything, and it ended when I was 22. He was a leader in the young adult group at his church; if you knew him, you probably looked up to him, as I did. He told me he was “making me into a woman,” and because he was a leader in his church, this raised an important question for me: what kind of womanhood is expected of me as a Christian?

It’s time the church starts taking responsibility for one another by changing the way we see each other. We are created in God’s image, meaning we are creatures with inborn dignity. Men AND women should care about modesty out of respect for their own bodies, a vessel that should not be revealed to just anyone. What would it look like if we taught our sons and daughters to view each other as dignified human beings, instead of ‘stumbling blocks’?

When we teach our daughters to cover up to prevent men from lusting, we are telling them that their bodies are shameful. And when we tell men that the control of their hormones are a woman’s responsibility from the way we dress, we are teaching them to view women as temptresses, not human beings. Attitudes like these are further traumatizing for rape victims in particular, who may already blame themselves for what they endured. That’s what society does, but the church is called to be different. The church is called to set an example.

According to RAINN, the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network, approximately 28% of victims already know the person who raped them. These victims are often sitting next to you in church, and are further shamed into silence by their pastors and fellow congregants, who ignorantly promote a view that modesty is about preventing men from lusting; and should they fail, then rape is not only excusable, but asked for.

How can we better address this issue in the church?

On breaking up with Christian Culture

Life is getting a little intense here in Seminary Land.

If you know me in real life, and have known me since my early college days, you may have been very concerned about the way I'd be influenced at a conservative Christian seminary. It is, after all, a complete 180 from Kent-read-Kent-write-Kent-remember-what-I-did-last-night Kent State. Of all the places in the world to find faith, when so many of my peers finally had the freedom to leave it!

But that's what I did. And I remember quite clearly, in the midst of cold-sweated fear of what my family and friends would think, the excitement of jumping head-first into a brand new world. It was exciting and terrifying like the first day of school. There were many things I embraced, or tried to, back then that I find very uncomfortable now. Ironically, going to seminary for the last year has done a lot to flip my faith inside out, and cause me to wonder what I thought was so appealing about it in the first place.

My theology hasn't changed much; the Gospel message never changes. But my view of church has. And other Christians I'm supposed to be in community with. Church culture as a whole.

Maybe I'm using the wrong words. I don't know if "Christian culture" is what I should be criticizing, or rather, Christian stereotypes. Can one really embrace a religion without its culture? The real problem may be that Christian culture is fine as it is; the flaws I find within it are a result of comparing it to the Jewish culture I grew up with, and miss dearly (is it obvious I still have soul-searching to do?).

I keep forgetting that belief in the Gospel is what makes one a Christian. Nothing else. But the Christian culture thing is problematic: something I find myself rebelling against, because I realize how much pretending is involved on my part. How much fakery and pretension. See, I'm not and never have been the happy-clappy, hand-holding, Christian-ese speaking kind of Christian. I've written before about my distaste for church groups that seem to imply worship music is the only kind of worship, period, and being forced to lead prayers as an introvert...or sit and listen to someone else pray them over me, because I'm too nice to say "I'm sorry, but that makes me uncomfortable. I appreciate the offer, though."

I've endured awkwardness many times in church settings, telling myself it will get better as time goes on. It never occurred to me until recently that it may not be a sin after all to speak up and be honest, but polite, about things I'm not comfortable doing. Things like praying out loud that contradict my personality and the ways I relate to God. Doesn't the beauty of community include diverse worship practices?

I hope the answer is yes. If not, then Church Culture and I may need to go our separate ways, because I am not growing. I am not learning. Instead, I sit pretending to be just as moved as everyone else, but inside I'm wondering what is wrong with me. In the end, I can't pretend to be something I'm not, just because that's what other people expect. That's not authenticity. That's wasting my time. Furthermore, it doesn't allow anyone else the chance of really getting to know me (I'm worth knowing, aren't I???).

I don't know what the ideal solution to this dilemma will be. But, while everyone else is standing and holding up their arms while the worship band is playing, doing what comes naturally to them, I'm doing what comes naturally to me: sitting, and writing in my prayer journal. Because worship goes beyond the bounds of Christian culture stereotypes. Worship is authentic, or nothing.

I am either an authentic Christian, or no Christian at all.

With thanks to the chutzpah of Rachel Held Evans for tackling subjects that many "good Christians" sweep under the rug, thus giving me courage to write a few of my own.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 7

Is a motorcycle ride ever just a motorcycle ride?

Catch up on previous chapters here!    

     It’s Easter Sunday, and Tess has convinced me to resume our routine of going to church together. We used to go every week, but laziness and self-pity kept me from going to any of my usual places, including the gym, in the weeks after Jared broke up with me. Now, finally, I’m taking responsibility and re-immersing myself in the world I’m used to.

     Not surprisingly, as I return to the dorm that evening, the shout “Hey, AK-47!” stops me in my tracks. I’ve barely crossed the parking lot, and already my presence has been detected. Playfully I ask “Are you stalking me or something?” but I’m not entirely kidding. It’s starting to feel a little weird, the way he keeps surprising me like this. There might be a small chance it’s a coincidence, since we do live in the same building, but what are the odds of that? Why doesn’t he hang out in the student center like everyone else?

     “You flatter yourself, AK. I’m just about to indulge in some bad habits.” He holds up a pack of cigarettes, which is a perfectly convenient excuse not to kiss him!

     Asking where I went in such a pretty flowered dress, I remind him that today is Easter. His response: “Right, Zombie Jesus Day! How could I forget?”

     For the life of me, I cannot figure out what it is about this guy that still tempts me. I’ve never poked fun at his beliefs – actually, I’m not sure what his beliefs are, exactly, but I don’t pick up any religious vibes from him – so what gives him the right to make fun of mine? His only purpose in my life right now is to validate my sick need to feel loved, however temporarily. That makes me feel pretty despicable.

     Stuffing the cigarette box in his pocket, he says “On second thought, I’m kinda hungry. How do you feel about an Easter dinner? My treat.”

     Oh goodness, this is tempting. A meal I don’t have to pay for? Can I really refuse that, broke almost-graduate that I am? Or am I a tool for blatantly using him for food?

     Ugh, that smile. It’s infectious and entirely too convincing. Maybe, if I lay down the condition that this is between friends only, one meal with him would be harmless.

     “Sure,” I tell him. “But only if –”

     “Excellent. Would be a shame to waste that pretty outfit.”

     I’m pitifully speechless again. He is constantly full of surprises. Rather than walking toward the student center, where I assume he meant to eat, he takes my hand and walks into the parking lot, saying he wants to show off his motorcycle. He’s as gleeful as a small child showing off a new toy, and I can’t help but indulge him a little. “All right, show me your motorcycle.”

     Well, he does more than show me. He hands me a helmet, and my first thought is, Hell no. Honestly, it’s not him I don’t trust; rather, it’s the thought of my body brutally scraping against pavement if he rounds a corner too quickly in an attempt to impress me, or something.

     Sensing my apprehension, he pouts. “Oh come on, AK. Live a little. You can’t graduate college without riding a motorcycle.”

     Oh, hell. Chalk this up to one last undergraduate hurrah, I suppose. I take the helmet, which doesn’t fit easily over my ponytail, and nervously wrap my arms around him once I climb on. Who would have thought I’d ever have to literally cling to him for dear life? He’s loving every minute of this, I can tell.

     It should come as no surprise, once he revs up the engine a few more times than is probably necessary, that he drives us away from campus. Briefly, I panic. What if I’ve been wrong about him this whole time? What if these last few weeks of flirtation were nothing but a ruse to charm me into trusting him, all so he could drive me away like this, completely unsuspecting, into some remote wooded area, where God only knows what could happen…

     “Where are you going?” I hiss, having no choice but to hold on to him tighter as he speeds up.  “It’s a surprise!” is his predictable answer. Joy.

     We end up at Bellacino’s, a semi-fancy (by college student standards) Italian restaurant. Much too fancy to accept the school’s dining plan, which is accepted at some places outside of campus – usually places that are no fancier than McDonald’s.

     I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this irony: I’ve longed for a genuine, loving relationship for so long, and the first guy since Jared to show an interest is someone I shouldn’t want. Is this a normal phenomenon, or is my life sitcom material?

     I wouldn’t feel guilty about having Collin pay if we were dining at McDonald’s: but Bellacino’s? It doesn’t seem fair to accept this dinner off him when I have no intentions of dating him. At the same time, it’s too late to tell him now that we’ve already been seated, and he’s placed an order for a bottle of sparkling grape juice. Besides, he never actually used the word “date.” So, technically, this could be an outing for which the only goal is to enjoy each other’s company. That’s a stretch, I realize, considering his offer to pay. Still, I don’t want to be one to assume…

     Staring at the menu, I realize what a mistake this is. I want someone to love me, I want to feel cherished and special, but I hate dating. I hate the façade of putting on a show, the pressure to be my best self. I hate feeling self-conscious about which of my quirks to reveal, because who knows what personality traits are considered cute, and which ones are turn-offs?

     I want to be done with this agonizing competition to try to win a man’s heart. There’s so much pressure to be the prettiest, the smartest, the funniest; pressure to look my best when all I really want is to show up in sweatpants and my favorite T-shirt.

     There was never a “comfort period” like that with Jared. With constant subtle reminders of my imperfections (“You should work out more if you want to wear pants like those”), I could never simply be myself around him. I’m not convinced I can be myself around Collin, either. We’ve built a pseudo-relationship on a foundation of non-stop sarcastic banter that, quite frankly, is a little exhausting to keep up with. It’s like I’ll lose an unspoken competition if I can’t fire a comeback quickly enough.

     Dating, when it comes down to it, is a lot like auditioning for American Idol: thrilling, if you’re approved to go to the next level; devastating if you’re rejected.

     We have just placed the order for our meal, but already I feel sick. Deciding I no longer care about keeping up appearances, I ask a question I’d never dare to ask if this were someone I was truly desperate to impress: “Why are we here, Collin?”

     His confused expression, I must admit, is somewhat adorable. “We’re here to eat dinner, silly.”

     “No, I mean why are we here, in a booth at a fancy restaurant, implying to other people that we’re a couple or something? Where are you trying to go with this?”

     I’ve gone ahead and done what Tess says women should never do: initiate the DTR, or “Define the Relationship” conversation. It’s such a juvenile expression, but a very fitting one. Supposedly, the guy is the one who should start it, but I can’t remember why that is and I’m beyond caring about convention anymore.

     “Uhh,” he stumbles. “Well, I think you’re cute and interesting. I’d like to get to know you better. Is that a problem?”

     There’s still that obnoxiously charming twinkle in his eye, indicating that I’m supposed to retort with something clever. Instead I reply, “I guess not,” even if I think his answer is more than a little vague.

     “The day we met,” he continues, no longer grinning mischievously, but actually appearing concerned, “You seemed upset. Anything you want to discuss?”

     Well, that’s unexpected. Not to mention completely out of character, the little I’ve seen so far. All this time I thought he was being cutely obnoxious to start a casual fling, but that’s not the kind of question you’d ask someone you don’t want to get emotionally involved with. But how could he want to get emotionally involved when he attempted to kiss me before even learning my favorite color?

     “I forgot I had a paper due that day,” I say, attempting to relax. “You might as well know I’m the type who’s extremely anal about her grades.”

     “I see.” He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. “What class was it for?”

     “Great Books. It was a report on Great Expectations.”

     “There would be a book with the word ‘Great’ in the title for a Great Books class.”

     “I know, right?”

     Here we are again: the same old banter that keeps getting worse as it gets better, and damn near impossible to end once it’s already started. Like trying to contain Niagara Falls in a coffee mug.

     When our food arrives, we stop talking for a while. Is it “romantically correct” (as opposed to “politically correct”) to ask the girl to pay for her own meal if the guy decides, mid-date, that he doesn’t want to see her again?

     No, I’m the one who should offer to pay my own way. I’ll end this whatever-it-is first, just to avoid the humiliation of being the one to get dropped all over again. Always better to be safe than sorry.

     The waiter comes by, asking how our food turned out. I seize the opportunity and say “Can we have separate –”

     “It’s on one check,” Collin interrupts. Nodding, the waiter disappears, and Collin reaches for my sweaty hand from across the table. “Chill out, AK-47. I got this.”

     I am hereby excused from any accusation of leading him on. Still, it feels wrong.

     The ride back to campus is more nerve-wracking than before, now that it’s dusk, and pitch black from the tinted glass inside Collin’s helmet. I really have to trust him now that I can’t see a thing, and I hate myself for agreeing to this all over again.

     My paranoia is unfounded. We arrive back at the campus, safe and sound, and I accept his offer to walk me back to my room. Now I can pride myself on having experienced one official date since Jared: it means I’m not a complete loser.

     Yet here we are once more, alone in the hallway, and temptation creeps in like water from a sieve. What, exactly, is protocol here? With Jared, a kiss was the least amount of activity expected to close an evening together; was that just him, or do all guys expect that? Do I “owe” Collin for taking me out for a meal?

     Most importantly, do I want to kiss him, dinner or no dinner, simply because he’s Collin?

     Playing into the moment, he whispers “I had a great time tonight,” and he’s tracing my jawline again. Whatever it is he’s trying to do, he’s good at it – good in a way that tells me, somehow, it’s worked before. It feels calculated: rehearsed, even.

     When his hand cups my chin and slowly tilts my face toward his, I all but lose myself completely. His mouth is a centimeter away from meeting mine when common sense – or is it fear? – kicks in, and suddenly I am wrenching myself away.

     “There’s too much garlic on my breath, right?” he asks, at the same time I think Goodbye, last chance.

     “Uh, no, your breath is fine.” It just now occurs to me that if I were serious about this, I would have avoided kissing him anyway, simply because my breath reeks of garlic too. Or would it matter, if we both smell the same? It’s not like people never kissed each other before there was a standard for hygiene.

     “So what is it, then?” He sounds slightly irritated now, for which I can’t blame him. This was a two-person tango, after all. How can I back out without looking like a tease, or worse: revealing the real reason I can’t do this? Because even if Collin is about six inches taller than the man I used to date, maybe ten pounds heavier, and has blond hair instead of brown, I know I’d be pretending it’s Jared that I’m lip-locking instead.

     And that’s not fair to either of us.

     “I thought I was ready for this,” I stumble. “But I don’t think –”

     “Shhh, AK.” He puts his finger over my lips to shush me. “There’s no pressure here, okay? We don’t need to decide anything right now. I just want to have some fun with you.”

     All the lingering temptation sucks out of me like a vacuum. He thinks I’m nervous because of how kissing would affect the friendship, not because we’re about to kiss, period. Kiss and who knows what else.

     I understand now what I could not see before: I don’t need this. If Collin and I were to hook up tonight, and I imagine with all my heart that I’m with Jared again, a man who no longer loves me, what possible good would that do? I’m tangled enough in hurt as it is. I may not feel worthy of much, but somehow I know I’m worth more than this.

     “I think we’ve had enough fun already,” I tell him. My voice is icier than I intended, but I don’t apologize. Not for that, and not for sliding my key into the lock and slamming the door in his face.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 6

Catch up on previous chapters here.

     The musky air and creaky floors of Book Nook must seem old-fashioned to the average customer, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any regulars. A typical day consists of a few patrons, usually women who could be anywhere from their late forties to early sixties, looking for gifts or classic literature.

     Mrs. Jensen, for instance, is a middle-aged woman with a penchant for strong female protagonists in fiction: more so classic than contemporary. “Just give me anything” she told me on my first day, “with female characters that have more backbone than that flimsy Twilight girl.”

     Eyeing her more closely – blouse perfectly crisp, hair coiffed, lipstick fresh – Mrs. Jensen did not look like someone who would ever pick up a copy of Twilight.

     “My granddaughter loves the series,” she explained, reading my mind. “Such a shame, considering the copy of Anne of Green Gables I bought her for her twelfth birthday…”

     “So you’re looking for a book for your granddaughter, then? Is she interested in romance, adventure…?”

     “Let me handle this,” Julia intervened. “It’s Anna-Kate’s first day, she’s still learning the ropes around here. I’m sure we can find you something…”

     Thankfully, not all customers are quite as picky. Once I direct them to their desired genre, most appear content to search on their own, leaving me to unload new shipments and occasionally dust the shelves. Modern series, like Gossip Girl and my beloved Hunger Games, look very out of place in a building as old and historic as this.

     And so do my co-workers. There’s Eryn, who has a penchant for big earrings and juicy gossip. Her opinions about anything and everything are as loud and attention grabbing as her mountain of thick, brown curls. And then there’s Morgan, her exact opposite, who is so quiet you forget she’s even there. If she isn’t shelving books, she’s constantly checking Facebook on her phone when Julia isn’t looking. Because Eryn talks enough for all of us, and Morgan barely speaks at all, I can’t imagine becoming friends with either of them.

     “I can’t stand that woman,” Eryn says once Mrs. Jensen leaves with a copy of Persuasion. It wasn’t a comment meant for anyone in particular to hear – certainly not Julia – but being the closest to her at the time, I boldly ask “Why not?”

     “She’s clearly repulsed by the so-called ‘loose morals’ of her granddaughter’s generation, so she’s trying to ‘reform’ her by stuffing boring literature down her throat.”

     It’s probably a bad idea, but I can’t help myself. “Uh, ‘loose morals’?”

     “Oh, you know. Hooking up, sleeping around, whatever you want to call it. Her grandkid may be a pre-teen, but I doubt she’s as naïve as that lady thinks she is.” Her giant silver earrings clang like cymbals as she shakes her head in disgust. “Just let the kid read Gossip Girl or whatever she wants! At least those books are more realistic. Persuasion? Please.”

     “In case you’ve forgotten,” intervenes Julia, “We work at a book store, implying we know much about good books. You’d rather have that woman purchase Gossip Girl over Jane Austen, Eryn? Seriously?”

     Completely unfazed by however much the boss may have heard, Eryn simply shrugs. “For her purposes, yes. She didn’t buy Persuasion because her granddaughter is an Austen fan. She’s imposing her relationship values on her, because she can’t stand the fact that her granddaughter’s mother is unmarried.”

     “How do you know that?” Julia asks, incredulous.

     “Well, as much as I’d love to claim I know everything about our regulars, Mrs. Jensen is a friend of my mother’s and goes to our church.” She pauses, and then adds, “I mean my parent’s church,” as if to clear up any misconceptions that Eryn might be a churchgoer as well.

     “I see.” Something tells me that Julia and Eryn have a tendency to clash like this on a regular basis. If this is the case, I may take my cues from Morgan, who has been silently shelving and re-shelving the children’s section this whole time, and remain an unbiased observer.

     This may not be such a boring job after all.

Repost: Rape is nothing to joke about

This is a re-posting of a previous blog entry about comedian Daniel Tosh's rape jokes, which I cleaned up for a writing contest. I think it's way better than the original (but what do I know?) ;)

A certain episode of “Tosh.0,” starring comedian Daniel Tosh, making a rape joke has circulated the internet hundred-fold, and drawn critiques from two different camps: the "it's just comedy, lighten up" camp, and the "some things should never be joked about, ever" camp.

For those who haven't heard, here is what happened: Tosh made a series of generalizing comments about rape jokes being hilarious. A woman in the crowd became outraged, and called him out in the middle of the show: "Actually, rape is never funny!" Tosh fired back, "Wouldn't it be hilarious if, like, five guys just raped her right now?" Maniacal laughter ensued.

You may be thinking that the likelihood of a gang rape occurring in the middle of a comedy act is next to zero. However, it doesn’t matter if the threat of violence was real or not: that comment was meant to "put her in her place," so to speak, which it did: the woman ran straight for the nearest exit.

Why do we tell oppressive jokes? A better question: why do we find oppressive jokes funny?

There are tasteful ways to use humor to promote social examination of serious issues. But there are some lines that should not be crossed when it comes to comedy. When the end result of a joke is further oppression, and further promotion of already existing stereotypes, the joke is no longer funny. It's cruel.

Before you go on to accuse me of stomping on the First Amendment, consider the effect that rape jokes, like those made by Daniel Tosh, have on a society that is already poisoned by rape culture. It's very similar to the reason it's frowned upon to yell "Fire!" in a crowded theater.

Rape jokes trivialize a devastating, life-altering event. It’s racist and inappropriate to make jokes about lynch mobs; why is it not prejudiced and inappropriate to make jokes about other acts of violence?

Rape jokes can potentially justify further violence. However, if a woman was raped outside the set of Tosh.0, Daniel Tosh is not to be held liable. At the same time, a man of his influence is not doing victims any favors by perpetuating a "She was asking for it" mentality. She interrupted a comedy show? She's "asking" to get raped. She wore a short skirt to a club? She clearly wants to get laid. She left her drink unattended? She should have known what was coming to her. There may not be direct causation between Tosh's jokes and men who go and commit rape, but there is definite correlation.

Sadly, Daniel Tosh is far from the only symptom of what is wrong with society's response to rape. We live in a culture that makes it acceptable for these jokes to be told, and look what happened: Tosh’s ratings increased. We live in a culture where making fun of violence is okay, and we forget that the victims can just as easily be people we know. We may already know these victims, but men like Tosh have shamed them into silence.

"Public Displays of Convention" chapter 5

Missed chapter 4? And 3, 2, and 1? Catch up here! 

     “Fake it till you make it” has become my current motto. If I surround myself with bigger priorities, like seeking a job or possibly an internship, the less likely I’ll be to commiserate my lonely single life further. It seems an unlikely possibility at the moment, but reality will hit me at the end of these remaining weeks of my final semester of college if I don’t start looking for opportunities now.

     Unfortunately, there’s not much out there for an English Literature major with no desire to teach, but I apply for everything I can find. The hardest part is waiting.

     It’s a pleasant surprise when, only a few days after submitting an application, I receive a phone call from a woman named Julia who wants to interview me for a staff position at Book Nook. At present, there is no way I can refuse.

     Julia, my potential new boss, appears to be in her early thirties. In typical bookkeeping fashion, she is wearing a grey pencil skirt and black cardigan that somehow doesn’t make her curvy frame look too dowdy. Her thick blonde hair is knotted behind her head and held together with a pencil.

     She’d be completely out of place if this were a trendy Barnes & Noble, but Book Nook is a historic building converted into a shop with floors that creak and shelves that bear the markings of all the business owners who used them since the late eighteen-hundreds. Being the literary nerd that I am, I can see myself here easily.

     “Your application is impressive,” Julia tells me. “You are graduating in May?”

     “Correct.”

     “With a degree in English Literature and a minor in Creative Writing?”

     “Yes.”

     “Well that’s it, then. I’d love for you to start as soon as possible. This store desperately needs employees who believe in what they’re selling. It’s hard, you know, trying to interest people in print media when everything is electronic now…” she shakes her head distastefully.

     We shake hands, and I walk out completely bewildered by what just happened, and so quickly. This is the first glimmer of hope I’ve had since Jared left. It’s small, but it’s something. Now all that’s left to do is graduate. The sooner I do that, the sooner I can formulate a plan to get the hell out of here.

     No sooner than I found myself employed did Tess discover news of her own. “I’m volunteering with my church at an orphanage in India!” she glowed when we met for coffee later this afternoon.

     For Tess, whose faith has always seemed superior to my own, this is a perfect opportunity for her. “That’s great,” I tell her, sipping my latte. “For how long?”

     That’s when her face starts to lose its gleeful shine. “It’s all summer,” she says, staring into her cup. “I feel bad, after what you’ve been through. I should stay –”

     “Don’t you dare.” I feel bad too, realizing I don’t whole-heartedly mean what I just said. Tess should go to India, but deep down I know I’m selfish enough to want her to stay and help me move on from Jared. These situations are what best friends are for; but what kind of friend would I be if I kept her from pursuing her dream? “Those orphans need you way more than I do. Seriously, I’ll be fine. Now that I have a job, I’ll be too busy to think about my broken heart.”

     Her smile is definitely full of relief. “Thanks, AK. I’ll send you letters, I promise. And I know you’ll be okay.”

     I know you’ll be okay. I repeat those words over and over, hoping the repetition will stick and become true. I’m sure it will as more time passes. Until then, ordinary tasks like making my bed and washing my hair feel mundane and purpose-less when I remember that Jared doesn’t love me anymore. It’s a defeatist way of thinking, but it permeates my every thought and move.

     Collin is standing outside my door when I return from coffee with Tess. I want to believe he was just about to knock when I showed up, and hadn’t parked himself there, after not receiving an answer, deciding to wait for me to come back. No, he’s not creepy like that. I hope.

     Whatever the circumstance, seeing him nearly scared the crap out of me. “Don’t freak out now, AK-47,” he chirps. “I just wanted to stop by and say hello.”

     “Stop by and say hello”? For some reason I have a hard time believing this, but decide to play along anyway. “It’s not fair,” I say, attempting to sound coy. “You have such a convenient nickname for me, but I don’t have one for you.”

     This isn’t doing much to stop our apparent flirting game, but I’ve wanted to mention it for a long time. He’s nicknamed me so I can never live down the way we met. If nothing else, I need a clever name for him just to put him in his place.

     “Oh, something might come to you eventually.” It’s ludicrous, and extremely frustrating, how tingly that cocky smile of his makes me feel. Even if it’s probably used to flatter countless girls everywhere he goes.

     Part of me wants to stick around and continue this banter further, but he has an annoying habit of finding me when it’s getting late, my defenses are down, and I need to get some sleep. I have to say “Goodnight” about five times before he gets the message and leaves – though I almost didn’t want him to, for no other reason except that he’s an attractive guy who has taken notice of me. Pathetic.

     If he keeps this up long enough, who knows: my defenses might end up collapsing completely. If I were smarter and bolder, I’d tell him upfront that I’m in the agonizing process of recovering from a broken heart, and these impromptu flirting sessions are nothing but a distraction (I know I’d be lying if I said unwanted distraction). But doing so feels risky, because it will make me look weak and vulnerable: a perfect target for a rebound fling.

     As it is, Collin’s parting hugs are torturous and might be the death of me one day. He always initiates them, and I don’t immediately pull away – ugh, how long has it been since I’ve been held like this? Then his hand starts rubbing my back, slowly and gently, and his other hand is on my neck, so lightly it sends a shiver down my spine. He seems to sense that, and only draws me closer, tighter, and starts to trace my jawline before tucking a stray curl behind my ear…all the while, in the silent oblivion of my troubled mind, I scream do NOT look up at him, do NOT look up, because I’m positive he will kiss me if I do. Luckily, the common sense side of me is running efficiently enough to tell me that should never, ever happen.

     Tempted beyond reason, I manage to pull away and say “Goodnight Collin” a sixth time, and the last. Closing the door on his slightly disappointed face stirs a strange sensation of pride; I’m relieved to know I’m not a girl who is desperate enough to cling like a leech on flesh to the first person who makes me feel attractive and worthy once again.