Short Skirts vs. Loose Shirts

One of the most nonsensical things I have ever heard, in fact, something I have heard from both male and female mouths- is the slut-shaming argument. As defense for rape, it is a flimsy one, at that. "Defense for rape" doesn't even seem like it should be possible. Rape is rape, rape is a crime.
"Slut-shaming" is basically the practice of blaming the victim for "tempting" the rapist with what they wear. Ridiculous right?
No? Well, then let me explain their train of thought;

Some girls wear revealing outfits
Rapists only rape girls in reaviling outfits
Some girls are inevitably going to get raped

Well first, let me start with the fact that the second premise is completely untrue. People have a preconceived notion that only beautiful people attract the attention and desire of others, and therefore are the ones rapists most frequently target. This notion is not their fault, it has been created by the toxic media environment, but regardless- it is wrong. Oftentimes, rape occurs in interpersonal relationships in the capacity that it relates to power and control. Rape of strangers is statistically less likely than rape between associates/colleagues/family/spouses. Rapists will target anyone whom they view as weak- they view girls as opportunities- and are not picky as one is with consensual romantic partners.

That "some girls are inevitably going to get raped (if they are wearing revealing outfits)" seems to be the slogan of late. When girls report rape (which is a feat within itself- most rapes go unreported) the first question that an authority figures asks is "what where you wearing?" Is this question relevant to finding and prosecuting the perpetrator of the crime? No. This question is a silent blame for the victim. Women should be able to walk naked through the streets and know that their only confrontation will be an arrest for public nudity (although that is a whole other thing). We should be able to rely on the characters of men to control their violent urges, divorced from the fact that a woman may be "tempting" you. The victim never deserves rape.

An analogy, for example;

One day you wear a red shirt. As you do every day, you walk down the street. This time, when you bump into a commuter he punches you. You have bumped into commuter before, and they have never punched you before. You go to a police station.
"I was assaulted by a commuter!" you say.
"Well were you wearing that shirt?" they ask.
"Uh....yes" you answer in confusion.
"Well everyone knows that red is an angry colour. People that wear read and bump into others are obviously going to get punched. It's not his fault. You should know better not to wear that shirt next time."

You leave the station with a sense of betrayal. You were assaulted! How could you trust in the system after that? You feel disgust for the colour red. You never wear it again.

The Female Gaze

Boys, men, and males. Listen up and just bear with me for moment. I want you to close your eyes, and place yourself on a street corner. You may make this any particular corner in any particular place, any place you want, because you are a man and the world is your oyster, and there is nowhere you cant go, nowhere you are told not to go because of the shape of your body. Anyway, just picture yourself. 

You are standing on this street corner, and you are waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green. The light turns green, and you begin to walk. You are wearing a nice pair of khaki shorts and a t-shirt with some sandals. You feel great. You feel comfortable, confident, and handsome. As you walk down the street ahead of you, you glance from side to side. It's dusk. It's getting darker and darker and you start to feel a little tickle of uneasiness. You pass by stoop after stoop and you begin to feel eyes on you. It makes you uncomfortable, but you shrug it off. After all, you are just walking, not bothering anyone, you aren't even wearing anything risque. Twenty feet ahead you see the outline of several tall women lounging by the crosswalk. You slow down, and glance nervously behind you. These women are not moving, they seem to be staring at you, and you are only feet away from the crosswalk. You subconciously pull down your comfortable t-shirt to cover your crotch area because you don't want them to see what you've had since birth. You can't let them see what marks you as male. 

It's no use. 

You approach the green walk sign and your heart sinks as it turns red. The women are emerging from the shadows and inching towards you, laughing, nudging each other, gradually growing in volume and staggering towards you. You want to move, but you're stuck. You are a law abiding citizen, you wont cross at a red. You would turn, but the women are coming from all sides. These are the kind of women who linger on empty subway cars and stare at men, making obscene hand gestures. The kind of women who visit strip clubs daily, and who jeer the men who work there with lewd suggestions. These types of women are the kind every man fears. You feel your heart speed up.

The women begin to call out; 

"Hey Boy!"

You can feel one woman's whiskey breath on the back of your neck. You're too scared to move.

"Hey handsome boy! Smile! Work what god gave you, show us how handsome you are." she says in your ear.

Another woman comes from the side and you can smell her yellow sweat sticking to her twisted leathery face and alcohol coming from her mouth full of rotten brown teeth. She places her greasy dirty hand on your shoulder and squeezes. You jump. 

"Please stop bothering me." You beg.

The woman grips tighter.

"Don't be such a frigid asshole!" The woman snarls.

Her friends begin laughing and grunting agreement. They inch closer to you and you can see that one woman is hairy and muscular, and another is fat and doughy and smells like rot. They stare at you. Not at your face. They smile with their thin lips and don't look away.

You regret not buying a gun when you turned 18. You chide yourself for putting on those khaki shorts, because they are very short and you do indeed look too handsome. You can't look handsome. You can't tempt these women. It is your fault. You can't wear plaid pants because perverted old women will harass you with their schoolboy fantasies. You cant wear a low cut shirt in school because chest hair is distracting to women. It is your fault that women can't get their school work done, because you wore that low cut shirt and forced these women to look at a natural part of you. You shouldn't even have chest hair. If it is so scandalous then you should shave it off, or hide it under baggy sweatshirts. This is your fault. You deserve what these women might do to you, because you made the stupid mistake of walking down a street at night when there might be dangerous women around. You are an idiot.

This is your fault.

Re-imagined Passage

"And so you can imagine how I felt when, one day, in Antigua, standing on Market Street, looking up one way and down the other, I asked myself: Is the Antigua I see before me, self-ruled, a worse place than what it was when it was dominated by the bad-minded English and all the bad minded things they brought with them? How did Antigua get to such a state that I would have to ask myself this? For the answer on every Antiguan's lips to the question 'What is going on here now?' is 'The government is corrupt. Them are thief, them are big theif.' Imagine, then, the bitterness and the shame in me as I tell you this. I was standing on Market Street in front of the library. The library! But why is the library on Market Street? I had asked myself." (Pg.41) from A Small Place, by Jamaica Kincaid

My version:

And so you can imagine how I felt when, one day, in my house, laying on my couch, gazing at the tv screen, I asked myself: Is the Dr.Pepper I see before me, extra-delicious, really not meant for me to consume happily just because I am a young woman? How did advertisement culture get to such a state that I would have to ask myself this?  Well the advertisers would answer the question "Why do you target women as inferiors?" by saying "Women are weak. They are dumb, they are not important." Imagine, then, the bitterness and shame in me as I tell you this. I was sitting on my couch drinking male soda. Male soda! But why can't I have this soda? I had asked myself.

Things I Wish Would Change

School

• We need a common room, not just for CGS. A place for kids to go when they have a free or study hall that isn't messing around in the hallways, and can be social.
• The art program should get more funding creativity is the key to happiness for some people who may not be strong in academics.
• Teachers should try and coordinate test schedules, at least within CGS
• The dress code should not penalize for being too "revealing" (ie. How dare you show that you are proud of your body, and you are inherently distracting as a woman!)
• Less paper waste!
• more serious qualifications to take AP classes. (some people are actually interested in Psychology!)
• Support AP classes even if they have a small amount of students, (AP Bio and AP Art History)
• Encourage people to join yearbook!
• SCF and Peace Project in general need to be changed, no more special treats during lunch and time out of class to hold meaningless signs. (you should not receive privileges for fulfilling your basic civic duty, you shouldn't be rewarded for what you should be doing anyway)
• A few mandatory community service hours
• More classes that allow study in less academic-based careers. (Auto repair, Carpentry, Electrician, etc...)
• Can we make the parking lot less confusing?
• Non- Academic success should be considered more in college applications and in general school reputation

Laws

• Gay marriage everywhere, for g-d's sake
• Please stop making us say, "In g-d we trust"
• The driving regulations are bullcrap
• No intelligent design
• Laws/Programs to keep kids in high school
• Stop censoring TV shows...

Women

• Equal pay
• Abortion rights
• It's embarrassing that I have to say access to birth control
• LEGITIMATE RAPE?
• No one deserves rape, no exceptions
• "women's" sportswear- Now you can get your favourite team's shirt- made just for you! (how about we just classify them as fitted or not fitted??)
• Advertisements shouldn't make women look weak, pathetic, and endlessly concerned with their appearance and men
• I agree with Ms. Parham - let me keep my last name! 

My Name, Dissected

My Name
September 5th 2012

There are too many things to say about my name. As someone who loves to talk about themselves and has a severe case of word vomit, this is particularly difficult considering I have a 600 word limit. However, I must try.

Let's start with my first name; Cordelia.
A name which immediately suggests several things to the average human. The first thing it suggests is that I have bitter parents who live vicariously through me because they were given painfully normal names like Amy and Michael. The unfortunate second, which I have often heard, is that I have a "porn star name." (I like to interpret this comment as meaning that my name is dramatic and easily captures the attention of those who hear it.) The third thing it brings to mind is not necessarily immediate. This is that my name comes from one of Shakespeare's great works; King Lear.

 This is were we begin to see a pattern. Drama and theatre have always been a large part of my life, and as my name would imply- a large part of my parents lives as well. My parents met as theatre managers, and both my parents are extremely well read in plays and literature. This comes as no surprise when looking at their educational background- my mother studied philosophy at Brown and went to graduate school at Columbia, my father studied English at Oxford and went to Yale Theatre School for graduate. My father was the ultimate chooser of my name, and the name says a great deal about our relationship.
"Cordelia"- the "good daughter" in the play King Lear. Even after being cast away by her foolish father, Cordelia awaited him in exile. She was the picture of loyalty and good nature.
Now, my father has never been the type to count his chickens before they hatch, but this was an embarrassing gamble on his part. The question was; would I live up to my name? Would I be a loyal and good natured daughter to my father, and just as importantly, my mother? I like to believe I do, for the most part. Some of my contemporaries would argue that my nature is far from "good." Actually, I have been told on numerous occasions that I am devious and fairly evil, and likened to a cold emotionless reptile. However, I doubt any of my peers would denounce my loyalty to my family. My love for my family is so obvious that it sickens certain friends (who will go unnamed, Sydney).

This is why I choose to embrace the implication of loyalty that my name gives, and not so much the good natured one. I don't want people to assume I'm nice because my name has a ring to it or is a metaphor in some dead guys play. I tend to think of my name as symbolic of familial duty as well as rather imperious sounding. As a family borne from England, imperious names are familiar to us. As you can tell by my style of writing and my tone, I tend also to convey an imperious attitude. I went from being dramatic and emotional as a child to being solemn and sardonic as an adult (by Jewish law). But through all these changes, I carried a sense of entitlement through my name.

Even if I was unremarkable, my name would stand out. "Cordelia Diamond," it is a name laden with references to wealth and history, works of literary genius and precious jewels. My name makes me feel smart even in my dullest moments. Actually, I once wanted to change my name to Harriet simply because I admired the wit and intelligence of Harriet the Spy, a character in my favourite book series as a child. What brought on this intense craving for intellectual recognition? From the outside it seems I have a painful case of "inflated ego," and I wont completely deny that. However, I think my name has had a lot to do with how I presented/present myself. I've always felt I had to make my appearance and behavior as dramatic or intelligent as my name implies, and I've grown as a person chasing this image down various rabbit holes. How could I possibly be deserving of such a name? Me, who prefers dreary days to bright ones, who likes to go unnoticed in a crowd, and who would rather be behind the scenes than on the stage? I'd rather not become a porn star just so my name will fit.

 As I grow older I realize the true value of my name, which is one of a kind. No longer do I let my name create my image for me. Instead, I look to my name as a template. With such a commanding name, I see an example of the person I could be, and the person I strive to be. I hope one day to fulfill the expectations of my name- not for my parents, but for myself.