I am not an outsider who laughs at Greek life. I’m actually part of the system- and I love being in my sorority. There are, however, some issues I have with the Greek life system overall.

I joined my sorority my second year at school, and through it I met so many new amazing women. I was even elected Philanthropy Chair, and that has given me the opportunity to lead my sisters in service endeavors; with 140 women working together this past spring we raised money for girls to go to summer camp in upstate New York, ran a book drive to raise money for Prevent Child Abuse NY, and more. I’m proud to be a part of my sorority, but at the same time there are aspects of Greek life that bother me.

The social structure that we lock into as a sorority is, for lack of a better word, stupid. Here’s how it works: sororities are dry and fraternities are not. This means there is absolutely NO alcohol allowed in the sorority houses. If the fraternities host all the parties, decide who gets to come, and provide all the alcohol, who holds all the power? Frat parties are fun –my friends and I are even known to take our costumes to the next level. But there is a problem with the structure because it promotes an unbalanced social scene.

I asked my sorority sister what she thought:

“it’s a problem, but you wouldn’t immediately say that because it seemingly benefits everyone. Boys throw parties, supply the alcohol and girls don’t have to clean up the mess or live there.”

So if we don’t have to pay for the party or clean up, what are we complaining about? The fraternity brothers have complete control. You are in his house and have to listen to what he says. This gives them a sense of entitlement, which can be dangerous. I’m not trying to say that at every frat party every guy takes advantage of his power, but it does happen: a Jezebel article once said:

In the 1920s, frat guys started worrying that living together and being all friendly with each other would make them seem gay. Solution: public demonstrations of dominance over women, including rape …

men who are in fraternities are more likely to rape than men who aren’t, and [...] frat boys may perpetrate 70 to 90% of college gang rapes.”

My friend thinks sororities shouldn’t take action on this because they “already have a bad rep.” It is not about alcohol though; it is about the unnerving power structure that continues to go unchecked at universities throughout the country. Parties are not places where power should come into play; the idea that sorority sisters cannot host parties in their own houses isn’t preventative action against drinking: instead, it enforces dangerous behavior that encourages male dominance.

That’s right, Oksana Grigorieva. That gold digging Russian woman with augmented breasts.

It started kinda slowly on twitter like:

I’m sure Oksana Grigorieva was hearing the theme song for “The Price is Right”

Golddigging is sad. Expectations of complacency are mental abuse in themselves. You can’t raise a child in that sort of relationship

How the hell is this woman NOT going off on Mel Gibson’s ass in these tapes?! That’s the most confusing part…

These Mel Gibson tapes are like nude photographs taken without permission. There oughta be a law.

Big, loud, fucking sigh over here.

To clarify, a woman who has been punched before by her spouse while holding her baby knows not to escalate a potentially violent situation. Stay calm, or risk another beating.

Thousands of women seek help from the system – only to be dismissed (remember this 911 call?), or to find that there are no more shelters (state of California). Oksana has a chance at justice because Mel Gibson is famous and some folks will want to see him stopped. She also had means, courage and money to consult with lawyers to learn her rights. She was probably advised that she needed to gather evidence to prove her case. Enough evidence to withstand the accusations that would inevitably be thrown at her, such as: dating a married man, dating a married rich man, dating a married, rich famous man, being a Russian woman, getting beaten, etc.

To answer the question, “how did she stay so calm?” Oksana needed to record Mel Gibson threatening her on tape. Audio/visual evidence is golden, and you will suppress fear, anger and emotions to get it. That does not make you a spy or a gold digger. This puts you in control in a potentially violent and life threatening situation.

Ample evidence that Mel Gibson abused her sparked these rumors from Fox News:

Sources connected to Gibson tell TMZ.com that they have proof that Grigorieva attempted to extort the actor, demanding more than $10 million in return for keeping the tapes secret.

Sounds like the whole Rihanna gave Chris Brown an STI spin to me.

Fact: Mel Gibson physically abused and verbally threatened Oksana Grigorieva. There are pictures and audio recordings that prove this. 

Everything else is just victim-blaming.

Yesterday, 76-year-old child rapist Roman Polanski was released from the house arrest he was under with the Swiss government’s decision to not extradite him to the United States, based on a technicality of California law. They blamed a fault in the US extradition request and the failure to provide confidential testimony about his original hearing; the judge in the case is long-dead. Polanski’s exile is a story of more than a single rape, but of a rape culture, the incident emblematic of a poisonous mindset where a rich, troubled artist can drug and rape a nonconsenting 13-year-old girl with utter impunity, and serve no sentence for it.

In the Spring of 1977, Polanski invited 13-year-old model Samantha Geimer to a house for a photo shoot, giving her alcohol and Quaaludes, a potent mixture. He invited the intoxicated girl into a bedroom; she recalls saying “No, no. I don’t want to go in there. No, I don’t want to do this. No!” Despite her protests, he raped and sodomized her, and the next day he was arrested and charged with rape by use of drugs, perversion, sodomy, lewd and lascivious acts upon a child under fourteen, and furnishing a controlled substance to a minor. In a plea deal designed to protect Geimer’s identity, five of the charges were dropped, and Polanski was only facing time for unlawful sexual intercourse – or statutory rape. On eve of his sentencing, Polanski fled the country, leaving behind responsibility for his crimes.

With his thirty years spent in France making award winning films and his vindication now in Switzerland, Polanski has won. He has the high opinion of his friends in Hollywood who defended him – Woody Allen, Martin Scorcese, Jeremy irons, John Landis, and many others – as well as a media who almost monolithically refers to his crime as “having sex with” a 13-year-old girl, ignoring the drugs and the victim’s verbal protests, as if age just were a number. He has defenders among the people of France, Poland, and America, some of whom have compared the hatred of sex offenders to the hatred of Jews in Nazi Germany. His star still lies on the Lodz Walk of Fame in Poland. He even has the forgiveness of his victim, who he paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to in the 1990s. His release was met with joy from the embarrassingly vast amount of supporters Polanski has in Hollywood, and especially abroad. French Foreign Minister Bernard Kouchner stated that “The great Franco-Polish director can now freely rediscover his loved ones and devote himself fully to the pursuit of his artistic activities.” His Polish counterpart echoed his vile sentiments, warmly embracing Polanski as a cultural icon of Poland.

The outpour of support Polanski has received from many in the film community is another example of how “Hollywood liberals” are anything but. There has been sparse condemnation of those who deserve to be condemned, such as Roman Polanski. (A good example: Mel Gibson, who was recorded telling his girlfriend that it would be her fault if she were “raped by a pack of niggers.” His repulsive racism has been met with deafening silence, and while he has been dropped from his agency, there is little outcry against this man who has been known for his racism, sexism, and anti-semitism in the past.) Polanski can count many in Hollywood as his friends, and despite the controversy, remains free and wealthy.

Apologists can accuse the US authorities of going on a witch hunt, or call the 13-year-old a slut, or her mother a gold digger, or Polanski a great artist who should be excused from punishment due to his own personal tragedies, but it’s impossible to avoid the core of this case – Polanski raped a young girl and has effectively gotten away with it. Everything else is irrelevant: there is an unrepentant child predator who will never face justice being supported by a mob of elite and wealthy people willing to make apologies for him and reasons for his behavior.

It took a long time to get there (after all, commuting from New Jersey makes anything in New York ten times harder) but I arrived, in sandals and my favorite dress. The Hollaback! launch in Brooklyn on Thursday, July 8 was an intense celebration, with over 100 hearts gathered for the same cause. There was a raffle, iPhone covers for sale- and I was doing my best to push them, thank you very much- and even booze.

Street harassment is described by Hollaback! as “one of the most pervasive forms of violence against women,” and not many people would argue: as the ladies of THE LINE joined me in what we dubbed a “VIP Lounge,” we were able to laugh about a worry we all had getting to Southpaw: would we be harassed on the way? But street harassment isn’t funny, or light. As Emily May said in her speech, those who are street harassed have few options: walk on and feel victimized, or speak up and risk the escalation of violence from verbal to physical. For many people- of all genders and backgrounds- street harassment is a real and worrisome element of our public lives. And, as Hollaback! correctly pinpoints: “if street harassment is okay, then violence against women is okay. And that simply isn’t okay.”

The connection between street harassment and violence against women is obvious: both are tools used to constrict women’s public space and make them feel lesser and endangered in the public sphere, both occur without consent and imply control, danger, and risk of harm, and both are performances of hegemonic gender paradigms that force women to be objectified, judged by their physicality, and publicly shamed out of control of their own environments.

It is very much so worth promoting the action of Hollaback! not only for street harassment, but for violence everywhere. Do not stand by. Do not stay quiet. Do not walk on. Take action and make everyone- including yourself and your loved ones- safer, more comfortable, and more empowered. Hollaback! is capitalizing on one of the most powerful forces, I believe, in history: voices. By collecting stories and showing our might in numbers, in data, in maps, and in attitude, Hollaback! is going to win the fight against street harassment the same way THE LINE aims to fundamentally change the way people think about sex.

Stand up for what you believe in, but most important, always stand up for yourself.

I have noticed a disturbing trend among women: we do not like to admit we have sex.

Even with “Sex and the City” films galore and Cosmopolitan magazine hitting newsstands every month, women struggle with straight up saying they have sex. I have no problem telling people I have sex; I don’t get shy or embarassed about it. Sex is a normal human behavior that almost everyone does at some point, so why act otherwise?

I’ve noticed the lack of admission that one has sex when I go to the doctor’s office. The first question I’m always asked at the doctor’s office is, “Are you sexually active?” I answer yes. Most women do not answer questions or ask questions about sex to their doctors honestly and openly because they are embarrassed or ashamed that they even have an “active” sex life.

The silence around sex is a product of the slut/whore dichotomy in our culture: women are viewed as virginal or sluts, with no room in between. So even though women have sex, we have to act like we don’t- because people want us to. The whole thing is incredibly stupid and problematic, and is evidence of the double standard women who have sex are subjected to. And it’s dangerous: women who are afraid to talk about sex are also likely not to ask for information about birth control or STIs, and they are also likely to resist tests or treatments for STIs. Rape is also a product of that dichotomy: women are labeled “sluts” or told that they “wanted it” if they’re sexually experienced, especially if that experience was with their rapist. There is a really fucked up belief that once a woman has sex, she is no longer worth anything and has no right to say no, and she must want all sex- even forced sex.

An April 2009 review of Jessica Valenti’s book “The Purity Myth” pinned the nail on the head:

Virgin or whore? According to current news and media, our generation can’t seem to decide. For every report of a young woman sexting nude photos on her iPhone, there seems to be another of girls pledging their abstinence at the Purity Ball across the street. Depending on who you ask, we’re either just saying no to hooking up, or living the Sex and the Citylifestyle, gossiping about sexual conquests over brunch, in between stocking up on emergency birth control. The message we’re getting is clear: for some reason, a woman’s sexual purity (or lack thereof) is not merely the choice or preference it is for men—it’s a reflection of her morals and values.

Women need to start owning their sexual activity. We owe it to our sisters that are struggling with STIs and sexual health, unplanned pregnancies, rape, and slut-shaming. We owe it to them to admit: yes- we do have sex! And yes, we enjoy it, and yes we will talk about it. The longer we keep quiet about sex, the longer our national, cultural, and political discussions about sex will be shut down, silenced, and disregarded. Our sexual experiences are important and valuable- and we deserve to be proud of our decisions to have safe, consensual sex with the partners we choose.

Hot Mess was described as a panel. Having served on a bunch of panels this year, I imagined a table, a discussion, moderators, a series of points to address, group participation and a friendly/feisty/constructive tone. Hot Mess had emailed me the list of potential discussion topics, and I would be part of the rape panel that they dubbed “consent aka ‘the line’”.  Again, flattery will get you everywhere, and using the title of my film to get at the issue, stroke- stroke – stroke.

Some of their “get ready” questions were off the charts problematic, but they followed them up with sound research into the complexity of consent, rape laws, and recent current events in the college sphere. You smart wonderful people on the internet had much to say when I posted the questions for debate in advance of the taping, and speaking from experience, Heather Corinna tweeted her warnings:

@thelinecampaign These are some really uneducated questions they’ve put to you.

@thelinecampaign Don’t suppose they consulted/included a sexuality educator/sexologist, eh?

@thelinecampaign It’s just you and then a bunch of COMEDIANS talking about all of this!? Sounds like they want a hot mess by design.

Things started to unravel when I logged into the live-stream and saw folks lounging on couches. Beaming in from Brooklyn, I went for  the “smart filmmaker” setting, and placed myself in my cluttered (creative?) looking office. Everyone was chatting on leather, I was drumming my fingers on my desktop high above from my plasma screen. I placed the call on Skype testing the sound, and realized there was a delay between sound and image. Gulp. I could hear and be heard in real time, but had to guess who was speaking in the room and when/if if the cameras were going to cut to me.

Can anyone hear me?

Is this thing on?

Remember that Metallica video?

That was me. Alert, aware, but not being heard.

I was told that the 30 second trailer of my film would be used to “kick off” the conversation and we’d go around one by one, with some guidance from the moderator, and discuss the multidimensional and complicated topic of rape. We’d use smart, snarky analysis of a real – not imagined, not whined about, not exaggerated, not falsely claimed- problem.

Instead, egged on by the producer, participants – not the moderators – were encouraged to take what they saw in the trailer and the one sentence synopsis of my rape (she consented to vaginal sex, and then was raped anally) and debate. It didn’t occur to me that a producer would structure a conversation around my film when no one had seen it, nor was it ever articulated that my body parts and my rape would be at the center of this debate.

One comedian played the hard-ass role throwing out phrases like: “play the victim,” “you didn’t say no,” “take responsibility,”, “put yourself in that situation”- and all manner of victim-blaming crap, none of which I haven’t heard before. Choosing to go public with my rape seven years ago, opened the door to all kinds of criticism of my person and of my right to come forward and call out the behavior. People questioned whether or not my experience “counts” as rape, and my personal favorite, whether or not my rape was “bad enough.” In what I call “the hater montage,” I include these presumptions in the film, to highlight and challenge rape myths. It works because its part of a larger, structured story and argument, unlike being broadsided for an imagined audience’s entertainment.

Moderators Jessica and Anna did their best to shut it down by cutting in and correcting rape apologists, but the monkeys flinging shit had been let out of their cage. Here are my freakouts on twitter:

Ok, the room has officially exploded, and I’m not being given the opportunity to speak. At all. Nor has anyone in the room seen my film.

Woah – this is surreal. They are fiercely debating my story – and rape – and responsibility – w/out my fucking voice

WOW – someone just said, unless you kick the ass of the man trying to #rape you, or pull out a gun, you’re not being raped

“You are raped bc you’re unlucky enough to be in the presence of a rapist” – @jessicavalenti (thank you, darling)

Oh, and note to self: Don’t ever debate YOUR #rape on skype when everyone else is in a room, and you’re cutting in and out. TECH FAIL

OMG – we are done. Would you ever want to have #sex w/someone who called your ass “a dirt button”? Gross.

Sisterhood was not alive in that L.A. studio. The gals making Hot Mess thought smart, “sexy” debate meant humiliating their guests, taking cues from Bill O’Reilly, Howard Stern and any right wing talk show pundit with a penis. I am fine with outrage, but — it has to be constructive. Amping people up to be haters for no reason other than to hate or get attention is fucked up. Maybe the bigger question is how do we ever talk about rape in the context of pop entertainment? What are the rules? What do we want to get out of it?” If they’re going for the Jezebel and Feministing audience, those of us weaned on bitchy, smart, funny content that critiques sexism, rape myths and misogyny, being an asshole to be “provocative” isn’t going to cut it. Its just not that interesting.

My experience in the hot seat of Hot Mess reminded me – like a slap in the face- a few basic media principles. As a filmmaker and producer, respect your subjects. They are not objects or props to be used or humiliated. Honor them. And as a subject and author of your life, remember – your story is your story. It is sacred, precious and individually yours. Find and maintain your boundaries about how and with whom you share your story. Call the shots and don’t forget you’re in control.

So yea, if you’re trying to make “feminist” TV, and you’re going to tackle big important lady topics like rape, to quote Jon Stewart, “I’m not going to be your monkey.”

Hey there, readers!  I’m Miranda, a new blogger, and I’m just pleased pink to be here.

My interest in anti-rape activism began sometime in middle school, right about the time I discovered riot grrl music.  Overnight I’d grown great big boobies, and every day I dreaded the inevitable catcalls when I walked home from school.  Then I listened to Bikini Kill.  Here was a group of talented, loud-mouthed women, fed up with street harassment, exploitation and rape apologists, and they spoke to every anxiety and frustration I had about living in a society that alienated me from my own body and my sexuality.  The first time I heard Kathleen Hanna scream/croon, “I believe in the radical possibilities of pleasure, babe,” I knew I was home.

Now I’m 23 and a dedicated anti-rape activist.  I’m a certified sexual assault crisis intervention counselor at the YWCA of Metropolitan Chicago.  When some creep tries to humiliate me, I hollabackand street-shame him.  I do this because I know that the movement to end rape is an uphill battle and everything we say—or don’t say—counts.  So I’m here to do my part to keep the conversation going. And I’m here, blogging for you lovely readers, in case my voice can be that scream/croon that tells you, “You have the right to live in your own body.”

Hey everyone! My name is Ashley Lebesco, and I’m one of the newest bloggers here!

I’m a Women’s Studies/History major at Temple University, and I’ve been a feminist since the doctor said “girl.” I’m known as the crazy liberal hippie feminist to my more conservative family members, and when I’m not fighting sexual bias and injustice, I spend time with my dog and pretty awesome boyfriend Kevin.

(That being said, I am also a die hard fan of action movies and wrestling,  and therefore living proof that feminists sometimes have conflicting hobbies.)

I can most commonly be heard saying, “That is so sexist,” and one day I’ll be a lawyer- so I can kick sexism in the butt, one case at a time.

Hello everyone!  My name is Madeleine and I’m really excited to be a new blogger here! Right now I’m living in Charlottesville, Virginia with my girlfriend, Lauren, and our cat, Dorothy.  I’m taking some time off from being a student at the University of Virginia to figure out what I’m doing with my life.

As a middle child and the daughter of a midwife, I knew how babies were made from a very young age.  When I was just shy of three, I asked my very pregnant mom why she hadn’t had a period in a while, and she explained pretty much all there was to know about baby-making.  At eight, I was humiliated when she brought in a plaster pelvis and a baby doll to teach my girl scout troupe about midwifery on career day.

As a lesbian (and a bit of a late bloomer), though, I didn’t think about sex as anything beyond a straight-forward act of procreation until my line was crossed.  My first year of college, I was raped and beaten by a stranger at a party.  I wish I could say I had a “click” moment after that and became the radical feminist I consider myself today.  It wasn’t until about a year and a half later, though, that I was able to take that experience and channel the anger I felt into something positive.

This past year, I co-founded a co-ed queer fraternity at my university, began speaking on panels to educate the public about LGBTQ issues, and started devouring feminist blogs and literature.  I strive to dispel myths about lesbians, rape survivors, and feminists.  I may not be able to change the world, but I’m dead-set on changing at least a few minds.

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.