“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.

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

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.

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.

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 had to watch it like three times before I completely understood the accent, but unfortunately the scenario itself is not so foreign. A sexy woman is enjoying herself at a party – drinking some wine, laughing, being fabulous, maybe flirting a little – and a male bystander (presumably a stranger) seizes the opportunity to interject that her skirt indicates that “she’s asking for it.” The viewer is left to make an obvious observation:

Um, asking for what, dude? Asking for another drink? A stick of gum? Directions to the Scottish Parliament?

The short PSA illustrates the absurdity of the “asking for it” rape myth while placing due gravity on its pervasiveness. Yeah, the guy’s an idiot, but he’s also engaging in a pattern of violence, and the real problem is that our culture condones and encourages his violent behavior.

The “asking for it” myth is so deeply ingrained in our rape culture that it’s become second nature to most of us. Sexual violence is treated as an inevitable consequence of certain behaviors, and, when you think about it, that’s a pretty effective way of maintaining social control over women and other disenfranchised groups. We’re frequently asked to surrender our rights to even the most basic of human freedoms in order to avoid being victimized. Don’t live in that part of the city, you’ll get raped. Never walk alone at night, you’ll get raped. Don’t talk to strangers, wear revealing clothing, leave your doors or windows unlocked, take drugs, drink in excess, take public transportation, travel alone, or sleep around – because you will get raped. The list of don’ts goes on and on, each rule wildly impractical, blatantly inconsistent with actual statistics related to sexual assault, and specifically crafted to distract us from the culpability of rapists. Why do we have entire dossiers on How to Not Get Raped and no guidelines for How to Not Rape People? We need a cultural revolution.

I can just imagine the headlines:

Police warn rapists against crime.

Campus leaders urge students to engage in consensual sex.

Why is that message so absent from discussions of sexual assault? Why focus so much time and energy on training women to avoid danger while men walk around with carte fucking blanche? In thousands of ways, our culture has conditioned us to anticipate rape as a natural consequence of violating social norms. Rape myths serve to keep women out of the public sphere, and rape culture wants you to believe that the only safe place for a woman is her kitchen.

You have the right to live your life however you like without being subjected to violence. You have the right to live without fear. And no one has the right to violate you. Ever.

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.”

The story of interest was circled in red.  See if you can guess which lines the commenters all found absolutely HILARIOUSLY ludicrous.  About three-quarters of the way down this police blotter transcipt, there is a notation about a crime committed in the West precinct of Huntsville, Alabama – a woman “told police she was raped about 4:30 p.m. Saturday in a field near Triana Boulevard and Johnson Road after accepting a ride from a man she said raped her two years ago. “

Now, when I saw all this, I was, first and foremost, brokenhearted.  My first thought was to the tragic cycle of abuse that would lead a woman to get into a car with a man who had raped (and likely otherwise abused) her before.  Being the internet masochist that I am, I was foolish enough to read all the comments, knowing exactly what I would find.  There were about a hundred of comments, the tamest of which said only “LOL WTF” and dozens calling her a stupid whore, a slut, a liar, and the like.  I read variations on the theme until I felt sick and closed the tab.  I’m actually almost glad I can’t find the link to the site I read originally because I’d prefer to spare you all the agony.  As it is, this link to the transcribed blotter has two victim-blaming comments.

But let’s think about this for a second.  It is clearly not as simple as a girl getting into a car with a man she knew only as her rapist.  The first thought of most commenters was clearly not that this man was a former partner and possibly that this woman had nowhere else to turn – it was of the Rapist as an identifiable criminal, a stranger to his victim except on the occasion of the rape.  Society at large has been so thoroughly indoctrinated with the myth of the stranger rapist springing from the bushes that we fail to comprehend the realities of sexual assault.

Even if you turn off your critical thinking abilities for a moment and just look at the statistics, a rapist is most often a friend, a partner, a relative — almost anyone BUT a stranger.  This is not to erase stranger rape as an experience or a possibility, but to assume this girl “deserved to be raped” because she got in the car with a shadowy, evil, lurking Rapist-with-a-capital-R is absurd.

And, let’s all please remember, revictimization isn’t further “evidence” that the victim is bringing it on herself — it’s part of a pattern of violence.

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.”

Hello, everyone! My name is Sarah Haack, and I am part of the new crop of bloggers here at Where Is Your Line?

Originally from Richmond, Virginia, I now attend American University in Washington, DC (along with the fabulous Carmen Rios, fellow Vagina Monologues cast member and she-ro) as an Environmental Studies major. I will be studying Linguistics and Scandinavian Studies at the University of Gothenburg in Sweden next year, but in the meantime, I am living in New York City, interning with the Girl Scouts of the USA, and learning the finer points of navigating bureaucracy, planning potlucks, and empowering women and girls.

I toured AU during the April of my senior year in high school, taking in the campus one last time before sending in my acceptance letter, and vividly remember the painted t-shirts strung throughout the student center in preparation for Take Back the Night, part of Sexual Assault Awareness Month. One statistic struck me in particular: that one in three women are sexually assaulted. Still in high school and rather naive, this number resonated as tragic, but hollow, sympathetic but not empathetic. Two years later, I found myself standing on the before those t-shirts as a survivor. It is selfish, I admit, to not really take up a cause until it affects oneself directly, but when I was puff-painting my own statistic on that white v-neck after a realization that took a full year, I finally understood the impact of today’s hookup culture and its implications, and how important it is to open the lines of communication not just about sexual assault, but about sex itself. The perceived “gray area” of sexual assault needs to be eliminated, and replaced with standards where a YES! is just as important as a no.
I was drawn to Where Is Your Line? by its sex-positive attitude and celebration of sexuality. Consent is more than knowing when to say no, but also knowing you can say yes; it’s feeling safe enough to enjoy sex that meets your standards, whether it be with a long-term partner or a total stranger, and being strong enough to draw a line that is either non-negotiable or ever-changing. The pervasive rape culture in which we find ourselves dictates that our demeanor, our alcohol consumption, and even our outfits, are all indicators of our willingness to be sexual- and can be interpreted as such without any discussion. And yes, my miniskirt and five-inch heels are an expression of my sexuality, but that does not (necessarily) mean I want to share that with you. Believe me, if I did, you’d know it. I’d tell you. Just ask.