Rape-y

*trigger warning

We are a country of technicalities. We want to know the letter of any law so that we can summarily break it or skate the fine edge of it- a hair’s width from stepping over the line, gleeful at our success either way. But rules aren’t everything and just because something is legal – or rather, isn’t illegal- doesn’t make it right.

This article in The Guardian works through complicated feelings about a sexual encounter. Far from the narrative some people try to paint of the air quotes rape survivor flinging false accusations, the author chooses her worlds carefully, measuring the full weight of the rapist label on both her and the man involved. She lays bare where and what she consented to, when she feels herself complicit and also where she believes fault lays at her then-partner’s feet. It is a nuanced perspective I have never read before, a perspective that moved beyond the legal definition of rape and even the general accepted understanding of what rape is. Laws about rape, while necessary, only address the obvious and odious result of rape culture; a brutal and penetrating act. Laws don’t even hint at the underlying issues.

I don’t understand the underlying psyche of serial rapists, for this discussion I am referring to the “rape-y” type behavior the guardian article focused on. I’m talking about the rape culture we nurture and feed without realizing that manifests in muddled consent, confusion, and fear. I’m talking about the gray areas that women find themselves in where they haven’t said yes exactly but haven’t said no and leaves a partner feeling violated.

We shorthand violation to rape, there is shock value there. There is rawness and brutality there. No sane and moral person wants to be on the side of rape culture.

But we also limit ourselves with that language. We limit ourselves. We set the bar for disdain at one level and ignore anything below it…even though violation and humiliation and degradation can and do exist below that line. In our world of absolutes- of living by the rules – if there are no rules against something than it must be ok.

More rules aren’t the answer. I understand the cumbersome nature of too many rules. I understand the pushback from affirmative consent rules/laws. But it isn’t about the rules…or rather, the conversation shouldn’t end at the rules. It shouldn’t be that people must ask “Can I kiss you on the lips?” “Can I kiss you on the neck?” “Can I slide my hand down your pants?” the point is permission. The point is consent. The point is communication. Sometimes we make rules for things and miss the point all together- I fear we have done that with sex. We have done that with relationships. We have “ruled” ourselves out of an ability to connect with another person. That doesn’t mean every sexual encounter has to be filled with love and marriage, only that engaging with another person’s body- even if your only interest is in their body – does not abolish their humanity.  

John Hughes movies are cemented into my brain from my youth– complete with soundtracks and quotes. But re-watching those movies as an adult I am dismayed by what I was consuming without realizing it. Sixteen Candles showcases rape culture. Washed away by her after-the-fact consent and the assurance that she liked it, the truth is that her trusted partner “gave” her, in her inebriated state, to another teen. Gave her to him and told him he could do whatever he wanted with her.

And therein lies the problem. We have raised our boys and our girls to view violation only through a lens of violent rejection of advances. We have molded the definition in such a way that it almost doesn’t exist in any way removed from holding someone down and penetrating them. But violations happen every day. Violations of trust that lead to violations of body. I ended up in a conversation about consent with a student once a. I don’t remember what led to the conversation only that his face changed when I talked about power dynamics and socialization. I mentioned the different reasons that people sometimes say yes to sexual activity. He stared at me as I talked about the desire to please, feeling as if you can’t change your mind, that you owe someone something, I mentioned fear of repercussions – emotional and physical, I talked about being “liked”.

“I never thought about that,” he said quietly, his burger resting uneaten in his hand.

I don’t believe he was a rapist- but willful or by accident, I do believe he, and almost everyone, is capable of violation. Capable of walking up to the state-declared line never dreaming of crossing it but crossing it just the same. If we don’t dare to have conversations about that than we are destined to have rape-y experiences populating women’s (and men’s) lives. If we don’t have conversations about what consent means and why it is important, how can we expect to have anything but pain?

Some people are assholes.

The truth is some people hurt people because they are hurt, because they are horrible people.

Others…others make bad decisions never having thought through their actions and the repercussions of them. And we must hold people responsible - bad information or not. But oh how I wish we could have better information, better communication and less violation.

Mistaken

The thing about mistakes is that really they are small things. Mostly. Tiny. Things that, small as they are, have huge consequences. Like grains of sand on a dune spiraling downward, disrupting its neighbors until it all come cascading down the side, burying everything in its wake. Like a tiny snowflake barreling down a mountaintop, freezing to other flakes and careening down into an avalanche to bury and freeze everything below.

Mistakes start out so innocuously. 

And in a moment that you can’t get back, they become so much bigger. In a moment you can’t get back they have changed the course of your life- maybe someone else’s.

Of course, everyone makes mistakes. That is the common bit bandied about. Everyone makes mistakes and it is best to learn from them. While everyone does make mistakes, how and when and what kind of damage everyone’s mistakes leave…well that varies greatly.

The thing about my mistakes is that I can usually see the instant things went wrong. The thing I said, or didn’t say. The thing I did or didn’t do. The thing that if I had a time machine, I could blink back to that singular moment and take my life on a decidedly different path.

Only I can’t. 

There are no take-backs, big or little mess-ups there is no undoing, instead I am left to fix what can be fixed and leave the rest as it is. There should be no wallowing. No playing over and over in my mind the way things might have been different. The point is, things aren’t different.

When I first arrived in South Africa, Peace Corps gave us all a copy of The Gift of Fear. I remember very little about the book, all 432 pages, except its overarching theme that fear is a precursor to something horrible. Fear is a gift of sorts, a portent of horrible possibilities. Only, once something horrible happens, fear leaves. In some ways, fear is connected to the unknown (pain). You can’t be fearful of what has already happened. 

I want to believe that guilt or shame or whatever it is that makes mistakes feel so bad (aside from the consequences of them), is the same. That once the mistake is made there is no space for the bad feeling to accompany the error in judgment or miscalculation. Only, it doesn’t work that way for me.

My friend had little patience with me today as I sorted through the freshness of something in my world gone wrong. She saw my distress as self-indulgent, I imagine, or at the very, least unproductive. She wanted me to own my fault and move on; I only managed half of that. She’s right, I know she’s right. All I can do is move on, try to fix what is fixable – yes - but move on. There is no magic time machine. There is nothing that lamentations can do except make me feel bad. And that serves no one.

I’m not quite wired that way. 

I can’t seem to immediately dismiss the icky feeling that messing up fills me with. I carry it – at least a piece of it – with me always. 

It isn’t that I want to. It isn’t that I think it makes me a good person or serves a greater purpose, I know it doesn’t.  I just haven’t figured out how to put them down yet- not entirely. They get lighter over time, recede into the shadows and only pop up periodically, but I do carry them. I’d like to say they help me not to make the same mistakes again…and mostly that is true…but I think the extra weight does at least as much harm as good.

I bought some white sage a while back, thinking that I might want to cleanse my space. Maybe it’ll air our more than my apartment…cleanse my mind as well and let the mistakes, and my lamentations about them, go up in white smoke.