“Handing down the verdict, Tzvi Segal, one of three judges on the case, acknowledged that sex had been consensual but said that although not “a classical rape by force,” the woman would not have consented if she had not believed Kashur was Jewish.”

It’s a pretty clear cut racist thing here, so even most radical feminists will disagree with this verdict, but that doesn’t answer the more profound problems posed by the notion of “consent” by such a verdict.

Could a man claim “rape by deception” if a woman later reveals she is in a relationship even though he was *at the point* happy to have sex with her? Should a woman be allowed to claim rape by deception because a man she wanted to have sex with lied about his financial status? Is there specific information that potential sexual partners should be legally obliged to declare correctly prior to enganging in sexual activity?

There is no doubt that “lying about oneself to get him/her into bed” is not exactly good behaviour, but consent to personal interactions cannot be dealt with with standards developed for commercial interactions, because personal interactions cannot be undone once they happened. And ex-post declarations about what one would have or would not have done knowing what has been revealed thereafter are nothing but hypothetical.

She may claim that she would not have consented to sex given the information that he is not Jewish, but who knows whether she may still have consented in the moment because she was sufficiently aroused to not care about the guy’s ethnicity… maybe her later retraction of “consent” has nothing to do with consent to sex and a lot to do with the state of her community.

It’s a crime to punish people based on hypotheticals, and it’s a ridiculous assumption that people are always aware of the criteria they use for making decisions in the moment.

Giving them the opportunity to later withdraw their decisions based on criteria formulated ex-post is absurd – in other words – it’s crossing the line.

———————————————————————————————————
Editor’s Note: This piece was submitted to us by Sam.

My name is Danielle and I moved to London in 2000 from Boston. In December 2006 I was out for holiday drinks in the West End with co-workers and after being turned away from the Cro-Bar for being too drunk I found myself alone at 1 am and drunkenly tried to find my way home. I was spotted by an opportunist who took me for a few drinks, spiked it and then raped me. When I got home just before dawn I was confused and uncertain and told my husband as soon as I got in that I may have had sex with someone though not sure with whom or why I would have had sex (we had just celebrated our 7 year wedding anniversary and were happily married). I had him examine me for bruises or signs of a struggle before getting into the shower.

The next morning I went to the GP to get examined and see if sexual intercourse had actually taken place and if so would they be able to determine if any protection had been used. If some stranger had unprotected sex with me I wanted to be able take any precautions against possible exposure to HIV/AIDS or hepatitis. After explaining what little I could recall my GP looked alarmed and said that it sounded like I had been drugged and raped. He urged me to go to the police at once. I told him that I couldn’t possibly be a rape victim since I was notorious for countering advances at bars by punching men in the face (knocking one to the floor on one occasion). I also recall seeing so many stories of false accusation in the paper and would not want to put someone through that. I assured my doctor that if more of the details came to me and I had been raped I would call the police. I returned home and lay in bed shaking uncontrollably and feeling freezing cold. I put 3 layers of clothes and blankets on and called the GUM clinics with no answer. I found out later that this was a classic symptom of coming down from GHB or liquid ecstasy which was the only drug the forensic team hadn’t tested me for. Around 3 in the afternoon a detail came to me confirming my worst fears- that I had been raped. I wept uncontrollably and began what has been the hardest, most traumatic journey of my life.

Having known friends, family, colleagues who have been raped or fallen prey to some form of sex assault I had always vowed that if it ever happened to me I would come forward and pursue the matter. After all, I didn’t rape anyone so what did I have to be ashamed of? I should point out that I am not a big drinker, and probably on average get drunk about 3 or 4 times a year. I dress conservatively and try hard not to draw attention to myself. I am married, have a teen aged daughter a professional job and am a home owner. I am also now further proof that anyone is vulnerable to rape or sexual assault.

I was examined by the forensic doctor after 11 that evening. I was not thrilled about being examined by a man considering the circumstances but was already aware at how much time had passed and how important this exam was to find my attacker. He took my blood and while doing so informed me that drug rape was an urban myth and that no case had ever been linked with rohypnol when I asked about the possibility of it still showing up in my system. I have since learned that it is very hard for rohypnol to be found since it leaves the system very quickly which is why it is commonly used for rape. GHB, or liquid ecstasy is similar. Later in the exam he told me to stop crying and tried to joke with me that it was like having a manicure while he swabbed under my fingernails for traces of my attacker. I cried even harder. He was also growing increasingly frustrated that I was unable to relax while I was being swabbed and that by that point I was sobbing uncontrollably.

If being raped in itself was a dreadful experience, my dealings with the Islington Police Sapphire Unit were in some ways more harrowing and traumatic. The Sapphire Unit was a special unt specifically trained to handle rape cases. If this unit was trained to deal with rape, I hated to think what the other departments were like. I had a detective constable (or DC as they are called in the UK) who treated me with doubt and suspicion from the outset and who almost seemed to find sadistic pleasure in ringing me up at work and leaving me in a tearful state. Afraid they wouldn’t do their jobs properly I was afraid to make trouble so had my husband contact the police liaison to see if she could deal with me exclusively since the DC had a tendency to upset me. The police liaison agreed with my husband that some people found the DC’s manner a bit brusque and intimidating and assured him that she would look into.

We never heard a word from the police liaison again and from then on dealt exclusively with the DC. Against all odds they actually managed to find a DNA match in the criminal database using the semen sample they were able to swab from my cervix. They couldn’t give me his name or details of his previous conviction although I was just relieved they found him and could prevent him from putting any other woman through what I had gone through.

The DC interviewed him and had apparently informed her that I wasn’t very drunk at all (despite the CCTV footage of me reeling uncontrollably and stumbling about in front of the Cro-bar) and that it was my idea to go out. I also allegedly told this man that my husband wouldn’t mind my sleeping with him and that I did that sort of thing all the time. This struck me as unusual since I have never in my life done anything of the sort and this incident had a profoundly traumatising effect on my husband, daughter and family. The DC then began to cross examine me over the phone as I sobbed about details that had at that point taken place 6 months ago. I had a hard time piecing details together for that night since I had blacked out for most of it.

That night I was inconsolable. After about 4 hours of sobbing tears anger, frustration and defeat I resolved to call the DC and get another officer on the case. The next day I stayed home from work and I rang the DC to confront her about her about her interview/questioning manner and explain that I find her manner towards me hostile. She responded that this exactly the sort of questioning I would get in court and is unapologetic about her manner. I ask if there is anyone else I can liaise with and she says no, that I have no choice but to deal with her. She then said that personally she doesn’t think that I was raped but that I just got drunk and had sex with this stranger and then hangs up. Horrified, I immediately ring back and request to speak to the DC’s boss, the police Sergeant. After several attempts the Police Sgt rings me back and I explain what his DC said and how she hung up and that I do not want her on my case since she clearly does not believe I was raped and that her presenting to Crown Prosecution Service on my behalf would prejudice the case being brought to court. The sergeant assures me that I can liaise directly through him but that the DC has to present to CPS and that her opinion will have no bearing on my case. He also tells me that she is a very senior officer who has worked very hard on my case. I don’t doubt this and tell him so but it still doesn’t change what she said to me, how she treated me or that she hung up on me. I tell him I want to file a complaint against his detective constable.

The following week the Islington Police Sergeant comes to my office to tell me that the CPS have decided not to pursue my case as it was unlikely to result in a successful prosecution. They cited my testimony as unreliable with the blackouts and suggested I had gone along with the attack rather than fought him off. The sergeant then went on to refer to the attacker as “this gentleman”. I was horrified at his choice of words considering this man had raped me. This man had a pre-existing criminal record and was now being called a gentleman. This gentleman was at best an opportunist, at worst a rapist but never a gentleman. I told the sergeant I would also like to file an official complaint against the DC. He asked if I was sure I wanted to do that as she was a very senior officer and had worked very hard on my case. I said that I wanted to ensure she never treated another victim in the manner I had been treated again. I wanted it on her record should anyone else make a complaint.

I felt utterly hopeless and depressed at the loss but took consolation knowing that I did what I had to do. A friend of mine in the US sent me the details of Women Against Rape in London and suggested I get in touch. I rang them and told them my story and about the police treatment and was both comforted and horrified to learn that the treatment I had received was not uncommon. They ensured my attacker’s details were circulated to the various Police stations throughout London in the (likely) event he should strike again and his next victim decides to come forward. They also petitioned the CPS to review my case a second time which though unsuccessful still made me heard. They gave me the details of a wonderful solicitor who specialised in cases such as mine and helped me file a complaint against the Islington police for both the treatment I had received for the DC and the sergeant’s referral to my attacker as a gentleman. I paid £500 to file this to ensure it was done properly since I could have done it myself for free but had no faith in the police or the justice system whatsoever. A year later I was told that after an internal investigation they found no wrongdoing on behalf of the DC though ironically the Police Sergeant would be officially warned in his treatment of me. The solicitor also told me that I could make an application with the CICA (Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority). It usually took over year to process but would probably result in a small settlement that I could use towards therapy or a much needed break.

Since my attack I have been candid and open with colleagues, friends, family and even the media (appearing on BBC as well as in the Washington Post) about my experiences. The reaction I seem to receive most often from people is that they or someone they know (friend, family member, partner, etc) has had a similar experience. I found that nearly every time I shared my experience with someone I realised with increasing horror that sex attacks on both women and men alike occur a lot more frequently than anyone would think. One evening a dear friend of mine suggested we compile stories of people all over the world to illustrate just how widespread and far-reaching sexual abuse/ assault really is. It can happen to anyone anywhere. I think that by speaking out candidly about my experience I have grown stronger and stronger and have hopefully shown others that there is no shame whatsoever in being the victim of a sexual assault or abuse. If anything I have felt empowered by coming forward and standing up to my attacker who will hopefully now think twice before accosting another drunken woman in London as well as the detective constable who will hopefully treat her cases with more humanity.

I don’t remember the first time I was catcalled- or the last. I have actually become so accustomed to street harassment that I don’t bat eyelashes at it anymore; I walk on, I attempt to be fearless. When I was 18 and had started school, it terrified me to be out alone and encounter a talkative stranger. To this day, I walk a little faster around men who whistle and men who yell. When I was 18 and had started an internship, an older man on the metro asked me to live with him, and then backed off and remarked that he would leave me alone “because I looked like a nice girl.” (This was a feminist awakening, and I wish he knew that he spurred what became my feminist career.) When I was 18 and had just ventured DC alone, a much older man asked me where I lived, and if he could fly me back to New York with him.

Street harassment is a daily exercise in the life of a woman. It happens to women regardless of their lifestyle, appearance, behavior, location, status, ethnicity, or life experience. Street harassment happens to women when they are alone, traveling with others, and even (in one of my cases) when they are walking with their colleagues or supervisors. Street harassment is a pervasive form of verbal and physical violence against women. For many women, the problem is too pervasive and stubborn and appears impossible to solve. Many have given up in the face of comments like “why did you wear that?” or “why were you in that neighborhood?” For many women, street harassment has become an annoying, embarassing, and secret activity. For many women, it is a form of verbal and physical violence that goes ignored by them and their friends and loved ones.

For those women, there is Hollaback!, an organized movement against street harassment. Founded by Emily May in New York City, I began to consult the project on social media when they had already chaptered Hollabacks in other countries and continents, as well as across the nation in a host of cities. On July 8, Hollaback! will be celebrating its launch in Brooklyn, New York – the beginning of their second stage will be ushered in by a series of applications (for the iPhone, Android, and more) and a new focus on exposing street harassers, mapping where harassment happens, and then attempting to legislate against it.

I was probably no more than 13 when I began to struggle with street harassment. It is a behavior that confounds me, and frustrates me. The Sexist at Washington City Paper has published stories about violent street harassers who strike. (Similarly, she also reported on Miss DC’s recent badass attack on her harassers.) For women in the United States and around the world, freedom of movement is still a fantasy, hindered by misogyny that is manifested in catcalls, wolf whistles, and other forms of dangerous and dehumanizing behavior.

This spring, I was asked to lead my school’s Take Back the Night march against sexual assault, rape, and other forms of violence against women. I marched defiantly and proudly, finally free from the constraints of acceptable behavior and finally free from the overwhelming inability to fight back that so many women encounter in situations of street harassment. From the past week, I can recount around five examples of street harassment directed at me, all while I was walking to and from work, networking receptions, and concerts- and I’m done.

This July 8, I am giving street harassers exactly what- and all that- they deserve: a big fuck you.

Hollaback PSA! from Emily May on Vimeo.

Flying Broom kicked off its 13th year with an elaborately staged feminist (?) version of Macbeth. Much of this was lost on me, but I was transfixed by the smoke, and the actresses moving around the stage and the unapologetically political opening speech. The festival creator decried the stereotype of “woman as evil” in society. The festival coordinators Bilge Taş and Irina Inostroza were fantastic. Some tweets collected from the event:

Flying Broom opened w/famous actors playing Macbeth and three witches subverting the plot. Live drums. Capes. Brooms. #weird

Director of Flying Broom gave speech about FGM, sexuality rights, political oppression, sexism, & freedom. Not your usual thank u blah blah

Abortion is legal, available and a non-political issue in Turkey *shh we don’t want to jinx it. Its just there, available & not an issue

Flying Broom gourmet Buffet: cheese puffs, cucumbers, yogurt/dill, lamb meatballs, chick pea salad, bread. #heaven

The theme of the festival was “Bad Women in Cinema” with a focus on “Evil”. The filmmakers would continue to ponder the theme throughout the festival. Were they talking about the evils inflicted on women in the name of tradition, culture, patriarchy and religion? Sure seemed that way from the films that were selected. Or did they mean, that we women were evil, according to society? And whose society? I prefer to think of us as “bad-ass” not “bad” women in cinema, riding broom sticks and kicking up our heels.

These bad-ass women included German, Swiss, Dutch and Turkish film directors, academics, cultural presenters and activists, including the wonderful @ClinicEscort who took amazing pictures. We spent the days watching films, drinking beers and wine, discussing international feminism, the German film system v. the American system, dating Turkish men when you’re a feminist Turkish woman, and what films scandalized the Turkish right-wing papers, mainly Baise-Moi.  To make sweeping generalizations: Turkish feminists are incredibly brave and German women are fierce and assertive. A great crowd.

My screening was advertised as “Body Politics” and the translation of the title was “One-night Stand”. We had a full house with 90 minutes of questions, answers, and sometimes 4-part statements. The room was filled with secular men an women, and Muge was my fearless, concise, clear, and skilled translator. It was exhilarating to share the film with such a passionate audience, to out myself as a Jew, a slut, a rape survivor, all of it. In all, during the film, the audience was quiet, no laughter, really, but an audible murmur went through the crowd here, especially when he said: “I’m not trying to put the blame on you, don’t misunderstand me.”

Some questions from the audience:

How do you think about women in the East (Turkey, Jerusalem) who are considered “precious”, so they are covered, but also oppressed, versus women in the West (USA, Europe) considered “free”, so they are liberated, but treated as commodities?

Do you have good sex w/your husband?

How do you think pornography factors into “rape culture”?

Can you describe the physical repercussions of the assault?

That last question made people go nuts. I took it at face value that the man who asked the question was curious about the physicality of what happened. Fair enough. I answered. A woman lept to her feet arguing that he was a “wanker” for asking (poor Muge had to translate the term “wanker”). I countered that the movie is clear and detailed, and I’ll accept it as an innocent question. Turns out, 1. he’s a jerk, the women know him from other events 2. by asking me that question, in that room, in front of the group, he was being pornographic and purposely offensive.

Fascinating, because his question in that context seemed alright, but in my language I would have been more skilled at sniffing out who/why/how that person was asking. Made me wonder if my film is pornographic? I detail sex acts, I film girls at Spring Break? If Baise-Moi had the Turkish press up in arms, why was mine ok?

The Turkish audience was not shy!  They love to talk, debate and argue, felt right at home. I was chided in ways for being too inclusive in the way I answered questions. I try to acknowledge people’s biases around rape and help them along, while a member of the radical feminist organization would have preferred if we had excluded men from the conversation. Throughout the dialogue, I was clear in any discussion of “culture” or “tradition” as a means to excuse behavior, that no matter how violent, sexist, traditional and/or misogynist the culture you come from, each person does make a choice to rape or not to rape, to listen or not to listen, to violate or to respect. Sexual violation is incredibly complex and very simple.  Clearly something we could have kept discussing.

Other amazing films presented:

The Day I Became A Woman, Marzieh Makhmalbaf, (2000) Iran – loved this, beautiful, haunting story of three Iranian women at different stages of their lives. Incredibly moving, with incredible images.

Te doy Mis Oyos, or Take My Eyes, Iciar Bollain, (2003) Spain – I’m going to have to agree with Manohla Dargis here. A sometimes chilling film about a domestic violence set in Spain, but muddled by over-acting and  irresponsible writing. Because we know so little about the protagonist, her psycho-sexual dynamic w/her abuser doesn’t make sense, and confirms the myth that “she likes it”. Considering this story from Spain, possibly did more harm than good.

The Jungle Radio, Susanne Jaeger, (2009) Germany- In heart of rural Nicaragua, deep in the jungle, Yamileth Chavarria has founded a citizens’ radio station with a unique mission: the fight against the all-prevalent domestic violence.  The endemic levels of violence, corruption and sexism women in the village faced was overwhelming, makes our online debates about feminisms seem pretty luxurious. I loved the film and the incredible protagonist, Yamileth Chavarria – everyone should know about her work. *present at festival, official drinking and exploring partner.

Close to You, Almut Getto, (2008) Germany – quirky, polished and sophisticated comedy and love story between dysfunctional German man and blind cello player, featuring a tortoise. It was a breathe of fresh air among all of our heavy, intense films. Almut’s first feature Do Fish Do It apparently had more sex and feminist themes, and I’d very much like to see it. *present at festival, official drinking and exploring partner.

Turkish Films:
Tulay German: Year of Fire and Cinders, (2010) Turkey, Didem Pekun & Baris Dogrusoz- personal documentary about the singer Tulay German and the director. Tülay German was born in 1935 to a rather privileged family. Her choice of career and a relationship with a leftist contradicted the wishes of her parents and their relationship suffered infinitely as a consequence. Taken from the singer’s autobiography: ‘The Black Box of The Plane Which Never Crashed’. Beautiful music – and fantastic archival footage. *present at festival, official drinking partner.

Men on the Bridge, Azli Olge (2009) Turkey -tells the story about the young generation who lives in the suburbs of Istanbul and come to the center of the city, the Bosphorus Bridge, to make a living. The film is a hybrid documentary/narrative, based on real people and characters, but scripted and acted by non-actors. Great film about class, politics, poverty, assimilation, a real window into the lives of people in Istanbul.

Films I didn’t see by fabulous women I had drinks with:

Winter Silence, Sonja Wyss (2009) Holland -experimental narrative film about a widow and her four daughters set in a snowy Swiss landscape. *present at festival, official drinking and exploring partner.

Shortcut to Justice, Sybille Fezer & Daniel Burkholz (2009) Germany – women in rural India take justice into their own hands and start their own courts to serve the community, especially the women. Sybille is a first-time filmmaker taking her skills and experience working for women’s justice and health  at various NGOs and translating into film. *present at festival, official drinking and exploring partner.

NOTE: At the time of this reposting, there are seven days left to give to HB!

Hollaback! is a movement to end street harassment. They believe that street harassment isn’t the price you pay for living in a city, taxes are.

Hollaback! started in 2005, when they combined cell phone cameras with blogs to give women and LGBT folks a bad-ass response to street harassment. The idea was simple: to create a world where everyone could feel safe, confident, and sexy when they walk down the street. The movement grew, and Hollaback! is now in eight cities across the world.

Street harassment is poised to be the next significant women’s movement, in the same way workplace harassment was in the 1980s. To push this issue over the tipping point, Hollaback! is revamping and combining mapping with real-time reporting to collect the first-ever data on when and where street harassment happens. They are developing an iPhone app to make this possible, with SMS texting to come. Using the collective voices of women and the LGBT community, they are going to use the map to bring awareness to this insidious issue.

But they need your help. The are running a campaign on Kickstarter right now and they’ve already raised $5,000. But here’s the catch: they don’t get any of the money unless they raise the next $8,000 in 9 days.

Five dollars can buy you a footlong, or a cocktail, or some expensive coffee. Now it can also buy you a world where you get to be your sassy, fearless self all the time. A world where you don’t have to “check” your gender or your sexuality before you walk out the door.

Donate to Hollaback! today to create the world you deserve. Do it for yourself, do it for the future.

You have the right to feel safe, confident and sexy when you walk down the street.

From: Nancy Schwartzman, Jerusalem

To: Ex Boyfriend, Brooklyn

Sent: Tuesday, June 27, 2000 9:50 AM

Subject: Jerusalem Morning

We’re all jaded. Ears Accustomed. Eyes averted.

We’ve heard it all before:

Cat calls and whistles up and down Atlantic Avenue-

Little boys too young to call you beautiful, men too old to even look at you-

Spanish, Spanglish, Chinese, English, whispers, shouts, hisses…

Canal Street, Houston, Park Ave., 4th Ave., Douglass, Amsterdam, the A, B C and D.

But this one was different:

9:00 am. Blazing Sun. Pale, pale me. Stumbling along through the park to my office – no coffee, too vain to wear a hat,  shielding my eyes from the desert sun searing over the Hinnom Valley.  Dressed in New York black, red Kenneth Cole Slides. Feeling Fierce.

From between the cracks in my fingers,  a vision of the tiniest, most wrinkled man, appears out of a cloud of desert dust, a scarf flapping carelessly over his shoulder. A brown grisled hand clutches his crotch as he hobbles toward me.

I avert my eyes.

He continues on his bowlegged path, crotch in hand, destination unclear.

No, not him. He needs to relieve himself. He’s a grandpa! Not him, not now. So old, so small, too early in the morning, and I can’t run on slippery Jerusalem stones in my sloping Slides.

The inevitable happens. Crotch grabbing, scarf flapping, legs bowling, teeth missing -leans in real close, reaches out to touch and asks:

“do you speak English? I love you.”

When I’m no longer living in the Middle East, am I gonna miss mornings like this?

love,

nancy

And to try and answer that question now, I can say that yes I miss hot, desert mornings and no, I don’t miss feeling intimidated by a wrinkled old man. Next time, I’ll have my camera with me… Anyone wanna start a HollabackJerusalem?

Jamais si je peux pas me regarder le lendemain dans la glace

Jamais defoncee

Want to hazard a translation?

A few clues: Never, mirror & trashed

I actually really love talking about sex with my parents. From that special moment when I was watching Bernadette of Lourdes and asked what an ‘immaculate conception’ was and was informed more about ‘conception’ than my 9-year-old mind could take, my parents have always been pretty open about sex, and I as well. Though we don’t always get along or agree, I respect the two of them a lot, and as awkward as it sounds, am happy that they still have a sex life after twenty-three years of marriage, and are looking pretty damn good for their age.

I went out to dinner with them last weekend; my dad was in town to run the Marine Corps Marathon. I’m not exactly sure how it began, but we started talking about societies’ views on sex and nudity – how boys don’t shower together in gym like they did when my dad was my age, about an conversation that my mom once had with her students, while teaching a study-skills class back in New Jersey.

Hey, Mrs. C, we got a question.
What is it?
Do you think it’s okay to go for it if the girl is drunk?

My mom sat down with a sigh, about to humor their question.

Why are you even asking that. Do you really want to go for it and have sex with a drunk girl if you’re sober?
No, no, no! You don’t understand, don’t get me wrong, I want us both to be drunk!

Where I come from in New Jersey is almost a majority-minority town. The public high school, which I attended for two years, was 75% Latino, and speaking from observation, Spanish girls tended to be more willing to be submissive to their men, and the young men were extremely masculine – willing to fight, take risks, carry weapons, and dominate women and each other. My mom found it tough sometimes, especially when she had to deal with study-skills sessions, which weren’t the smartest or most well-behaved kids, but they respected her enough to give their honest opinions, one guy said—

Well, girls should be careful when they get drunk, they should know what us guys are like.

As my mom had said later, even if she had wanted to slap him for his words, or even if every other person we knew had scorned him for the statement, it was undeniably his honest opinion, and right or wrong, that’s what he felt and that’s how he acted in his life – that guys are a certain way, and they can’t control themselves when it comes to girls.

Feminism wasn’t something I considered back in New Jersey as ever having an impact on my life. I lived in a town where women seemed to be subservient to men by culture, and I went to an all-boys Catholic school, where the only talk of women was in the most objectified way possible – even more so due to our lack of opportunity to interact with women in school.

When there’s no girls around, it seemed that there was no check on the misogyny and masculinity of eight hundred teenage boys. But I knew something was strange, as I didn’t adhere to the beliefs of my peers, who talked about the newest bitties of the weekend, and called out at young female teachers in the hallway. I dated in high school, and was in a long-term relationship with an older, extremely artistic and open-minded girl for two years. We were inexperienced, but I couldn’t imagine an arrangement in which we were anything but equal. Other relationships I saw and witnessed in high school struck me as so foreign – how could some of these girls be so blind as to not realize how little he cared for her? How could they even call this a relationship?

In college, things are different. People are feminist, and queer, and polyamorous, and unconcerned with gender roles in a way that was impossible back in New Jersey. (There were also hipsters, a very rare sight in Bergen and Hudson Counties.) When I came back in the summer and began delivering at a local restaurant, it was a return to the masculinity of working-class New Jersey, and a culture shock for me. During the day I worked in urban Hudson County with men who called at women on the street, customers who would be abusing their wives when I rang their doorbell, and every vulgar thing said about lesbians who ‘just need to get fucked in the ass to make them straight,’ but at night I’d be in a whole new world, whether with my amazing feminist friend Carmyn in the leafy northern suburbs, or with my open and egalitarian family, or with my friends who disavowed the kind of sexism that seemed to be so pervasive in the city.

I don’t know where to go from here, and I don’t fully feel comfortable singling out the black and Latino people who always seemed to be the most sexist and the most spiteful towards women. For every Salvadorean man who would be coming into the restaurant barking at his wife and daughters there would be an equally repulsive white man throwing his wife into walls right in front of me, the delivery boy. For every Blood that came in with a sneer, his girlfriend weeping, there might be a Norteño covered in tattoos smiling at his wife and taking a sincere interest in what his daughter had to say.

Generalizations mean everything, and nothing. I don’t have enough experience in all-white areas to say whether they’re just as sexist – but I don’t think it really matters. In any population you can find good and bad.

It’s hard for me to imagine a world where sexism is dead; we hope for every generation to be an improvement on their parents’, but I see no clear improvement in mine, decades after the civil rights and first- and second-feminist movement was relevant. The people of my generation associate feminism more with the hateful ideals of Dworkin rather than the tolerance of Paglia or other modern feminists. Personally, I keep it real with the people I work with, and even if I can’t change their minds, I will never agree with their views on women for the sake of fitting in with them, or even endearing myself to them. I’ll continue trying to treat every girl I interact with, whether romantically, as friends, or even just in passing, with all the respect I can afford.

What was it like growing up in your town?

This is my very first little video shot with the Sanyo Xacti and edited on iMovie. A little bumpy and uneven, but its a learning process. Makes you realize how important sound is. Even if the picture jumps, if you’re sound is continuous you’d notice it less.

Back in September, my film opened for Deborah Kampmeier’s VIRGIN, starring the incredible teenaged Elisabeth Moss at the International Women’s Film Festival in Israel. After our screening they took us out for a yummy lunch with food and wine. This is what film producer and festival programmer Sigal had to say about her line. I love the idea that when you speak your mind, and do it clearly, some folks might still try and act like you’re talking about the birds!