I have to admit I had not heard of rape epistemology, though I read Susan Estrich’s book Real Rape — as you can imagine, right away, or should I say the moment I knew about it and it was published — as I and another person in my nuclear family had it happen to us. (This is their story to tell). Witnessing the aftermath being washed away is almost more horrific when it happens to someone else than when it happens to you.
That said, I witnessed before I experienced — aftermath only — as for this person I was not ashamed but outraged — or at least enough to watch . . . I remember feeling powerless, and being afraid. Given the absence of clothing (i.e. pants), I figured it was a gang — so my only comfort years and years later was that mine was not. We, who were awake, were all agog.
Now, decades upon decades later — I was a child, a minor, therefore was I agog or we were encouraged — to do this was to do the “right” (i.e. wrong) thing.
Rape epistemology — as I sat there in a friendly audience of most, not all, who accepted the premises — is just remembering: Rape jurisprudence means that it was the men — fathers, sons, brothers, uncles — who were to blame.
We lived in a household with no brother, uncle, son, let alone father — had no one to ask, therefore my nuclear-family member and I simply did the right thing — not report it so as not to bring shame to THE family — THE big family or the extended nuclear family.
What I can now see — and this echoes one of my mother’s favorite expressions — is that curiosity kills cats, and we knew better than to ask — only do the right thing. In this case, the right thing for the family was to swallow it all, if you were a witness, or had gained this terrifying experience. How is this different than honor killing — this took me years and years to face — and then neotribalism said it all.
My mother made sure that we remained silent — and all did the right thing. I had an early lesson learned that I would not need for 5ish years, as my situation took that long. I was no longer a minor, nor was s/he/they.#
I woke with a start after only four hours. I had been listening to a podcast late at night, when the name of my own #MeToo surfaced. I had also seen a map of the town this week where he came from (it’s small enough that I’m sure I could track him down. Being a smart neocon, I bet he’s probably successful. Who knows? I don’t have the strength to look it up, yet).
I lived through Anita Hill’s debacle. Do we have to go through it again? I lived through Christine Blasey Ford’s nightmare. I too could not face what I knew, what every woman my age knew: that reporting leads to escalation, and escalation leads to the victim — boy, girl, woman, man — and you’re thrown out. I told about it only to intimate figures in my life — husband, boyfriends, children who came of age.
On Saturday I couldn’t look at the press. My husband, Fred, an editor who knows politics, had spared me the news of nominee Brett Kavanagh’s rape (which at that point was still an anonymous accusation) until after work on Friday. (Fred says: “I waited to tell Ruth because I knew it would disturb her, especially in view of her history, and would distract her from her work.”)
Now the question was whether it would derail his nomination. I knew the news that was released on Friday would be played out by Monday, with three possibilities in the “blame the victim” rape culture in which we live:
- The information that came to light will be dismissed, and the rapist will be put on the Supreme Court. This seemed the most likely outcome on Saturday, when the story was not on the front page above the fold of theNew York Times.
- The vulnerable hero will bravely come forward and will be roundly belittled and dismissed. (This is the nightmare that all persons who have been raped fear the most.)
- The vulnerable hero will bravely face the nation, as Anita Hill did. She will be put on trial in the court of public opinion, and her loved ones, colleagues, and most of all she herself will have to field all the horrific comments, death threats, etc., for doing the right thing, the brave thing, that very few victims of rape can do.
It’s no excuse that “men think with their dicks” or “boys will be boys” or any other outrageous statement that a content, complicit man will say, think, or do.
How can Christine Blasey be so brave, is all I need to know. Plus two other things:
We cannot shield children from allegations that their fathers are rapists, and witnesses will testify no matter how many decades old — then it’s time for them to step back to resign for “family” reasons. (Think of your children, Brett).
Congress could institute real, national changes in laws to protect women now. Recess for Mid-terms, or no.
Enough is enough. #MeToo should now flip into #Enough. Meanwhile, Congress — Democrats and Republicans — should amend (ERA) and legislate. After all, it had to make lynching a federal crime though murder has and had always been illegal and a state and local crime.
Vice President, Pence – Please. I’m losing patience. Let’s get it over with. Out of 253 articles today, you and your willingness (along with your staff’s) to sit happily in this chair wins. You prevailed.
Hey you could be our VEEP preview. Who said the dog wags the tail? And how is this woman alone in a room with a “man?!*”
#TFA. Thanks Omarosa!! I “get-it” — the 25th Amendment, and Trump’s fear of fear or fear of his Cabinet’s fear gives me hope. #hashtag Trump’s hopeful future #THF.
Of course this means Paul will be President when you fail. Or some Speaker. Hmm… this is even more hopeful. The new Speaker will be President. First Trump, then Pence, then — not Paul or Nancy — but . . .
Who said the Democrats needed to wait to 2020 to get there?
One of my colleagues, now long retired, put it this way. Frankly, I can’t remember who said what — who gets the credit. Or who gets the blame, depending, of course, on your perspective. Anyway, the question is this: Why do Republicans own red?
When I was a U.S. congressional page for the Republicans, they wore red. Red neckties and red party dresses abounded. Later, when I switched sides, I began to relate more to my friends from the other side of the aisle. This wasn’t hard, since Tip O’Neill was the speaker of the House when I was a page, and the Republican party was so small (circa 1977–78) that my friends were pages borrowed from the other side: Southern Democrats, Blue Dog Democrats, bold Democrats, or just plain curious Democrats coming from the closest city to red that we had: San Francisco. The Republicans, in other words, did not have enough leg power, or person power, to run all their errands. So, back in the day, the Democrats were gentlemen* and would help them out — at least at the level of running errands to the House floor.
Getting back to the conversation at hand, I didn’t turn blue for long. The Democrats, I quickly learned at Claremont Men’s College, were not as, but almost as ______ (fill in the blank) boring in the absence of agents of change as the Republicans. In a two-party system, they were Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
So, I moved left. Moving left after college meant leaving the country. Going abroad, I ended up in the one country that could be counted back then as dissident, or had a dissident history — the former Yugoslavia.
Here we all embraced the red. Indeed, one of my going-away gifts was a basket of red stuff — red nail varnish, lipstick, etc. — and the biggest movie that spring, when I got to decide if I wanted my diploma to read Claremont Men’s College or Claremont McKenna College, was Reds, by Warren Beatty.
Back then, red was the color of communists — and I never quite put it together why it was also the color of Republicans.
Anyway, listening to Max Boot on a Forum podcast got me thinking: Now we do know — not why they, but at least he, wears red. And this got a laugh out of me.
It made me think: “Better dead than red” made sense to my relatives and I decided to resist my relatives with “Better red than dead.” But today’s Republicans are so anti-intellectual that you might say: “Better-read? Then dead.” Whose color is it anyway? Or are we all seeing red, knowing that some say or dance around it that our president is committing treason.
* I say gentlemanly because the House was a gentlemen’s club. We were taught that the number-one reason a woman sat in the House was because her husband had died in a plane crash. I still have yet to check the veracity of that statement.
** you guess
Why do I find the liberal media so annoying? It isn’t that they’re dominant — they ARE NOT. It isn’t that they’re not critical if we want to remain a REPRESENTATIONAL democracy — they ARE. It is that they let the Republican Party elite (the fringe, the not-so-fringe, the land Repubs or Trump Land — divided into rural and urban — or the used-to-be-suburban or ruraburian). No, that’s not it either.
It’s all the room that the so-called liberal media (i.e. tepid Republicans) give to the faith-based . . . and here I won’t insult people with cognitive problems, so let’s just call them the faith-based fringe who belong in tents where so-called tongue is a language . . .
Having a Weedpatch/Santa Barbara (Buckaroo/yacht club) — heritage gives me some insight. I come from the land of opposites. And yes, you can just call it land power politics.
It’s the type of land that dictates the power that the developer (a nice word for landlord of land, buildings . . . the people who pillage, evict, and decimate whole communities) will have, which is annoying.
The liberal media should stop allowing those who have raped and pillaged this nation to keep redefining themselves.