Today I am 28: A Guest Post

Today's guest post is written by my friend Elle, who is one of the coolest and funniest people I follow on twitter. Elle is a born and bred Georgian, Coordinator of Toddlery, and living life just trying to get a piece of Aggro Crag.


Today I am 28 years old.

When I was a little girl I wanted to be married and having my first kid by the time I was 25, just like my mom.

I’m single, with no cats, and I have an unhealthy attachment to my couch.

I am pretty happy with my life.

However, I’m not happy with society.

I have kept quiet for many years, and at 28, I feel that I can finally talk openly about it, because now I don’t have anyone telling me to stay quiet.

I remember the first time I was body shamed

I couldn’t have been 10 years old. I was with my father visiting family friends in Florida.

They had a pool, and two sons.

I am sure some girls know what happens next because they themselves had to go through the same thing.

My father made me put a big, baggy, t-shirt on over my bathing suit before I got in the pool.

“Your body is changing now, and boys can’t handle that.”

I wasn’t even 10, and I was taught that boys could not control themselves when it came to girls.

I remember the second time I was body shamed

My stepdad got a work transfer the summer before 5^th grade started. We were moving from a smallish, southern town, to an affluent suburb of a major city. I didn’t want to be bullied so I worked on losing my southern accent, and learning to forget about all the “southern” things that I enjoyed.

A few weeks into school I started hearing the rumors.

“Her boobs are fake.”

“She had a boob job and that’s why they moved here.”

“She had her nose done, too.”

I had never thought of my body as being different. My mom had worked on a college campus, and I was around college-aged women all the time--I thought my body was pretty normal compared to all the women I was surrounded by.

Still a child, and I was body shamed by my peers this time.

Shamed because of something I could NOT control.

Victim-Blaming: A Guest Post

Two weekends ago, I worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at JCP. Because my boyfriend loves me, he still spent the weekend with me. And because he really loves me, he surprised me with a clean apartment, multiple home-cooked meals, and a blog post.

Hi, it’s me, Beau... I know I haven’t written a guest post in a LOOOOONG time (sorry for being all Mel Brooks and never making a part II). But while Belle is working her second job today, and between that and spending time with me doesn’t have time to blog, I am looking for ways to help her out. Way number 1 was me doing some laundry and washing her sheets (hey, they are dirty and at least half my fault). While I was down there stuffing sheets and towels into the washer--and hoping I chose the right cycle--I noticed a bulletin on the wall (conveniently located under Belle’s pleading for the return of her sexy panties [which I miss by the way]). After reading said bulletin, I couldn’t help but to compare it with another bulletin posted throughout the building. I am posting both bulletins here for your consideration (sorry for the crappy phone camera quality). I have removed some key information to protect the innocent. Please read them before continuing... I’ll wait.

Let me preface (or midface if you prefer) this blog post a bit. You all are aware of Belle’s fight against victim blaming. What you may not have caught is that I have not always been on her side on this issue. As a logical individual who is all about dealing with consequences and being self-reliant, I have at times in the past engaged in what I now know to be victim blaming... Sad story, but as someone who has seen the light (pardon all of the religious metaphors coming from an atheist), I now find it necessary to point out the message that hit home with me in these two bulletins. Which happens to be way number 2 I figured out how to give her a helping hand this weekend...

My Bikini Answer: I Am Not Cake

Okay, so this is definitely turning into multiple posts. Consider the real-life story to be an intro to all the posts. Then each post will include some quotations from the original offensive text, some quotations of other commentary, and then my own thoughts.

Saturday, June 22, 2013

 
Y’all.

The CRAZIEST thing happened on Saturday. My besties Lauren and Hardy invited Beau and me to hang out at the pool with them. I wore a bikini. So did Lauren.

And nothing happened.

When Hardy hugged me hello, he didn’t suddenly lose control or grab my boobs or my butt. When Beau hugged Lauren hello, he didn’t suddenly lust after her or treat her like a sex object. And when Lauren and I hugged hello, not a single guy whipped out a dick to start an orgy.

It’s almost as though Hardy and Beau (and the other dudes who were at the pool) are human beings, not animals, who are capable of seeing women in skimpy clothing without immediately needing to be sexual with them. In fact, they’re capable of TOUCHING women in skimpy clothing without that touch or their thoughts turning sexual.

So I guess it’s not so much that the craziest thing happened on Saturday, but that it’s totally crazy that nothing happened.

Or at least, that’s what the author of the viral post “The Bikini Question” would have you believe. Apparently all men are visual creatures who are incited to lust by a woman’s body. Apparently all women should wear one-piece bathing suits… no, wait, apparently we should all wear shirts and shorts over our bathing suits… But wait, I’ve been complimented on my legs before, and my hair, and the tattoo on my foot… Does that mean I should go swimming in a burqa? If women have to dress a certain way to keep men from lusting after them, that’s the logical conclusion… right?

Those paragraphs were a nice combination of hyperbole and sarcasm, just in case y’all didn’t catch on to that.

Without My Consent: A Guest Post

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. I dream of a world when we don't need to raise awareness for sexual assault, but sadly, we're not there yet. The more I speak out on sexual assault and consent, the more men and women come forward and confide in me. Another friend of mine asked me if she could share her story.

I want to preface this by saying that when I first read her guest post the other night, I started crying. Beau had to hold me for about ten minutes until I could stop. When I tweet angry things, and when I argue passionately on my blog, it's because hearing these stories from people I love just wound me so deeply.

I was anything but innocent (and definitely wasn’t a virgin), but that still doesn’t change the fact that it is my choice who I do and don’t have sex with. Just because I had sex with your friend doesn’t mean that I am obligated to have sex with you. Just because I had sex with you previously doesn’t mean I am obligated to have sex with you again. These are some fundamentally misunderstood issues in our culture.

You, and only you, are in control of your sex life in every single instance, no exceptions.

I was violated without my consent.

Because I have had sex before, my friends wrote it off as me getting what I had coming. The fact of the matter is that this philosophy on sex is NOT okay.

This is my story.

Men Are Statistically More Likely to be Victims of Rape Than to be Falsely Accused of Rape

Confession: I regularly tweet at work. And not just because I manage all the social media for my company. I work for a start-up company, which means my job description includes the ability to “hurry up and wait.” In-between actual job tasks, I read the latest on Jezebel, stalk my new favorite blogs, and tweet about sexual assault.

Today, as I was getting ready to leave work, I tweeted two things. 

The response to the first was typical.

The response to the second is the most number of retweets and favorites I have ever received. By far.

Not surprisingly, I also received a small number of hostile replies to the suggestion that men shouldn’t be nearly as worried about being falsely accused of rape as they should about being victims of rape. Maybe because it’s easier to think women are more likely to lie than men are to be violent? I don’t know.

In light of the recent Steubenville case, and the disgusting amount of victim-blaming on the Internet, and the fight I had with my twin brother (the rape apologist) last week, and the replies I received to this tweet… I give you…

A post on men and sexual violence.

Stand Up, Take Action: A Guest Post

Yesterday was International Women's Day, and March is Women's History Month (at least in the States). Women have come a long way in our quest for equality, and some might argue (incorrectly) that we're already there. As much progress as we've made, sexual violence against women, largely by men, is still a problem worldwide. American society has improved in taking rape seriously, but as a whole, we still dismiss sexual assault that falls short of rape. 

Every time I have opened up about my own sexual assaults, another friend confides in me about her own experiences. One of them has asked to share her story, on the condition of anonymity.

Just under two years ago, I was almost raped. I was 21, spending the summer in a foreign country. I was at a party with both Americans and foreigners. I was drunk, so I went upstairs to sleep it off. I’m not sure how long I was asleep, but the next thing I knew, I woke up with one of the Americans with on top of me, with his tongue shoved down my throat, his hands exploring my body. I was drunk and disoriented, but I managed to throw him off of me. I was so shocked that I just went back downstairs. I don’t (can’t) think about what may have happened had I not woken up at that exact moment. I didn’t say anything that night—though I did tell a few of my friends in confidence a few days later (they were sort of in disbelief; they didn’t know really how to think, or react). Not that I can blame them—I didn’t know how to react either. I didn’t report the incident because I didn’t want to start drama (how fucked up is that?) Perhaps what is even more fucked up is the could-have-been repercussions. What if I had been raped, and could not access Plan B (or the country’s equivalent?) I don’t even know if one can access it over the counter there! What if I hadn’t been able to access Plan B and I had gotten pregnant (well, I guess then it wouldn’t have been a legitimate rape, right Todd Akin)? What if I would not have been able to access an abortion? Thankfully, none of these things happened to me, but these are issues that women who are raped face. Every. Single. Day.

When I was 17, I was still a kissing-virgin.  I wanted my first kiss so badly. As a teenage girl you are taught that your worth is determined by your sex appeal (and seriously, what high school student has sex appeal--so disgusting). In addition, I had tons of body insecurities all throughout high school—I was very athletic and was frequently teased to the point of bullying about my “manliness” (and therefore lack of sex appeal). Anyway, as inexperienced as I was, I was desperate for any sort of action. The opportunity came along, and I found myself alone in a hot tub with a guy I had known since freshman year. It was sort of like a movie; we got closer and closer until our lips touched and our tongues intertwined. (And for the record, the kiss sucked—I have never experienced a more awkward, dispassionate form of affection). However, the next thing I knew, he had pulled me onto his lap, he was massaging my clitoris through my swimsuit, and he was feeling me up like I was some sort of stuffed doll. That was my first ever sexual encounter. I have never felt more violated (until I the incident abroad when I was 21), and though it happened six years ago, it still affects me.

I always knew I didn’t like what had happened between that guy and me in the hot tub when I was 17. What is even more sad is that I didn’t even know it was sexual assault until I took a Women’s Studies class my senior year of college (I will forever be grateful for that class). I thought I “deserved what I got” when I was 17. I had kissed him, so therefore I had led him on, so therefore he was allowed to do whatever he wanted to me (because society believes that men should not be held responsible for their sexual urges and actions). Because the kiss was consensual, he was therefore allowed to feel me up and fondle my vagina (again, you can’t hold men accountable). The clitoral stimulation, as badly as I didn’t want it happening, technically “turned me on.” Have you ever heard the question: “If a woman orgasms during rape (or sexual assault), then was it actually rape? She must have wanted it.” (In case you were wondering, I didn’t orgasm during this encounter, and the answer to that question is YES, women [and men] can, in fact, involuntarily orgasm during rape. It is STILL rape or sexual assault). Finally, I was wearing a bikini. You know that men cannot control their dicks (penises have their own brains) so, because I was dressed so “provocatively,” I was clearly “asking for it.” As for almost being raped when I was 21; well, let’s be honest: I was drunk, and therefore put myself in a vulnerable situation. If I didn’t want to be raped or sexually assaulted, I should have stayed home (because women belong in the home). I should not have been drinking (because bad things can happen to women who drink). Finally, I definitely should not have been wearing a dress in 100+ degree weather—I was clearly “asking for it” because I was dressed way too “provocatively.”

My Boobs Have Nothing to Do with You

According to twitter, clearly the world’s authority on everything ever, today is Cleavage Appreciation Day. Obviously some women have gotten really into it, tweeting shots of their cleavage (or even just their bra-clad boobs), with the hashtag #CleavageAppreciationDay. Other women are pretty against it, and they’re calling out basically all women who show cleavage ever as 1) lacking self-respect 2) being desperate for attention and/or 3) acting slutty. Some men are all “Woo, boobs!” and some men are all, “How darest these harlots cause me to have sinful thoughts?”

This is a pretty clear example of a larger debate in American society. Hell, to an extent, it’s an example of a lifelong issue within Christianity. Women are either the Virgin or the Whore, and we are criticized heavily regardless of our choice.

But I’ve already discussed the prude/slut dichotomy. This post is about boobs, a companion piece of sorts to my previous rant on boob-shaming. If I write this correctly, I will somehow tie together my problem with the Church’s view on modesty, my support of female sexuality, rape culture, and body autonomy. All with pictures of my cleavage and pissed off indignation that some people have the audacity to think they know anything about me based on my aforementioned cleavage. 

Age 19, Delta Nu* Initiation Banquet. An outfit heavily criticized for showing "too much" cleavage.

Why I'm a Feminist (Part Three): Gender Inequality Makes Me Angry

Assholes like to belittle women’s rights activists, dismissing us as “angry feminists.” Normally I bristle against stereotypes of any kind, but especially ones that try to limit who I am as a person. Just like being a virgin doesn't make me frigid or judgmental, being a feminist doesn't make me a bitch or a man-hater.

But the assholes have one thing right. 

I am angry.

I’m angry that the War on Women isn't just a political catchphrase. Republican legislators across the country, at the federal and state level, have introduced, and often passed, legislation 

• to force women seeking an abortion to undergo unnecessary procedures, or 
• to force women to carry even stillborn children to term after 20 weeks, or 
• to legalize the murder of abortion providers, or 
• to redefine rape, or 
• to force doctors to lie to patients, or 
• to restrict access to birth control while criminalizing all abortion.

I’m angry that Bill Clinton is still the Democrat’s Golden Boy. I don’t care that he cheated on his wife—that is his personal business. But how many women have accused him of sexual harassment, like Paula Jones? Of sexual assault, like Kathleen Willey? Of rape, like Juanita Broaddrick? Accusations date back to BEFORE he was even governor. So all you rape apologists who want to doubt his victims’ credibility can just stop. I thought the Democratic Party supported women’s rights…

I'm angry that my twin brother called me a slut and a whore for years, in front of all our mutual friends, and not a single one of  them stood up for me. I had committed the unforgivable crime of developing breasts, and I had to be shamed for it.

I’m angry at the number of times I had to ask to choose a famous person not on the proposed list for essays, papers, and projects. Why? I wanted to write about famous women.

I’m angry that I earned a reputation in my non-WGS history classes as the feminist. Why? I was the only one who consistently questioned gender bias, who asked about the women. In today’s day and age, what kind of history students ignore the history of half the world’s population?

I’m angry that my home church won’t allow women to serve in ordained positions. Women are allowed to be deacons, but not elders or ministers. My father is an elder, and I know he does his best to represent my mother and me, along with my brothers. I remember how proud I was when I found out he had been nominated. I cried when he told me he almost didn't accept it. He had to pray about it and talk to my mother because he wondered if it was wrong to accept a leadership role denied to my mother.

I’m angry that women are held up to an impossible standard of beauty. Be skinny, but not too skinny. Be curvy, but not too curvy. Be really pale or really tan, but not in-between. Always wear make-up in public, but never look like you’re wearing make-up. Wear the latest styles, but only wear styles that flatter your figure. Wear the latest colors, but only wear colors that flatter your skin tone. 

I'm angry that a sexual double standard still exists. My blood boiled when I first heard the comparison of men and women to keys and locks. 

I'm angry that most movies and TV shows fail the Bechdel Test.

I'm angry that so many of the twitter accounts I follow do stupid trending topics like #MyPerfectHusbandIs and #HowToMakeAWomanHappy, both of which just reek with outdated gender stereotypes.

I'm angry that I can't tell anyone from home that I'm bisexual. I'm angry that my sexuality is dismissed as greedy, or experimental, or denial. I'm angry that I have to lie to my family, to all my friends from high school, to most of my friends from college, to everyone at church. I'm angry that I can't marry a woman in my home state.

So go ahead.

Call me an angry feminist.

You are 100 fucking percent correct.

Consent: For the Rape Apologists

It's time for this country to create a conversation about a bizarrely controversial topic.

I'm talking about consent.

For whatever reason, we're still stuck in this backwards culture of victim-blaming. Then, when I have the “gall” to point out how fucked up victim-blaming is, rape apologists proceed to act offended.

But in this series on consent, I will do my very best to give my readers the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes very legitimate questions about consent are asked. Because we don't talk about it, consent can be confusing.

As is almost always the case in my blog, I will use examples from my own life of when I have given or received consent in sexual activities.

Before I proceed, let me anticipate a few possible reactions by rape apologists. I don't mean to ruffle any feathers, but these are reactions I've heard in similar conversations with my friends, some of whom read this blog. Reactions that are inappropriate and piss me off.

What about teh menz?!