The Vagina Monologues are in town! As many of you know, the Monologues - performances celebrating the woman and the vagina - inspired a global movement to end gender-based violence against girls and women. This movement was titled V-Day and, happily, it's been a relatively successful universal effort to promote an end to violence against females as we know it. So if you get a chance to attend the Vag Monologues, the performances are definitely worth it. Even if you can't attend, I highly suggest checking out some of the monologues on Youtube. They'll make you laugh, they'll make you cry - but most importantly, they'll make you think. =)
Today I had an ... experience. I don't think I would have immediately classified it as a "good" one, but after a while I've decided that although I was initially offended when first confronted with it, it ultimately gave me some good thinking material to mull over for the day (even though I should have been paying attention in class).
I was sitting on a crowded bus on the way to campus, in the seat facing the rear door. Two women stood in front of me, hanging onto the poles for support and discussing their recent experiences with boyfriends. Somehow the conversation turned to a male friend who loved having deep conversations with his female friends. These females would all subsequently 'fall in love with him' because of his willingness to share sensitive information with them – as one of the women said, “They must think, ‘Oh, you’re willing to tell me all these secrets about you – we must have a special relationship!"
Anyway, I digress.
The first woman continued to complain that the male friend was completely clueless as to why his female friends would “fall in love” with him. The other woman chimed in:
“He needs to stop thinking there’s something wrong with the women, and re-evaluate what he might be doing. I mean, it’s the same as a woman who walks around with her cleavage hanging out, wondering,” and here the woman affected the voice of a typical ditzy airheaded girl, “‘why are all these guys staring?’”
I slightly winced; I was myself wearing a shirt with a relatively low neck and these women were literally hovering over me. Apparently they noticed my flinch, because there was an awkward silence before the other woman piped up again:
“It’s not the issue of asking for trouble, it’s the issue of demanding attention.”
The first woman nodded in agreement. “If a woman goes to the same bar every night and she gets raped each time, she needs to realize that maybe it’s something that she’s doing that’s causing it to happen.”
At this point, we had reached the bus stop on campus and everybody was getting up. The women both briskly walked off and I watched them continue their conversation out of my hearing.
The myth we’ll be busting today, as you may have figured out, is:
Do women ask for attention of the bad sort when they dress in revealing clothes?
The quick answer is: Of course not! Do men ask to be wolf whistled at, grabbed at, or even raped when they walk around with tight spandex shirts or their pants sagging halfway down their butts? Why don’t we call these men sluts? Why is it just women?
Look at them, walking around like that. It’s scandalous! They are so asking for it.
What’s important is who you are, not what you wear – and what you wear will NEVER justify the accusation that you asked for rape, period. And yes, that includes prostitutes, call girls, and strippers - everyone is a human being, deserving of equal respect. A ‘business contract’ between the client and the service provider does not legitimize violence, even within the sex trade.
How in the world did victims become guilty of perpetrating the crimes committed against them? Have you ever heard of a shopkeeper blamed for having his window display broken into, or the jury at a hit-and-run trial whispering, “That child was ASKING to be run over, he was playing near the street”?
There’s a gigantic double-standard society created that somehow we've all been tricked into thinking is natural. A girl who is open about her sexuality is a whore, a slut, the local neighbourhood bike. A man bragging about his sexual conquests while (very tastefully, might I add) grabbing at his crotch is a stud, a player – in other words, a ‘real man’. Those two women on the bus today truly, truly believed that a woman could be blamed for an individual attacking her, violating her bodily rights in the worst way imaginable, and then adding insult to injury by claiming no fault since the victim originally asked for it.
But I guess those women were right to an extent. Women who dress confidently are not asking for trouble, but demanding attention. I am one of them. I wear shirts with low scoop necks, and tight jeans. But when I say I demand attention, I don't demand it for my cleavage. I demand attention for issues like rape, relationship abuse, and violence against women. And I demand attention as to just how ridiculous it is to say that the tops of my exposed breasts would justify ANY violence as the fault of the victim.
And just to bring it back to V-Day and the Vagina Monologues, here’s a relevant monologue I particularly enjoyed:
It is not an invitation
a provocation
an indication
that I want it
or give it
or that I hook.
My short skirt
is not begging for it
it does not want you
to rip it off me
or pull it down.
My short skirt
is not a legal reason
for raping me
although it has been before
it will not hold up
in the new court.
My short skirt, believe it or not
has nothing to do with you.
My short skirt
is about discovering
the power of my lower calves
about cool autumn air traveling
up my inner thighs
about allowing everything I see
or pass or feel to live inside.
My short skirt is not proof
that I am stupid
or undecided
or a malleable little girl.
My short skirt is my defiance
I will not let you make me afraid
My short skirt is not showing off
this is who I am
before you made me cover it
or tone it down.
Get used to it.
My short skirt is happiness
I can feel myself on the ground.
I am here. I am hot.
My short skirt is a liberation
flag in the women's army
I declare these streets, any streets
my vagina's country.
My short skirt
is turquoise water
with swimming colored fish
a summer festival
in the starry dark
a bird calling
a train arriving in a foreign town
my short skirt is a wild spin
a full breath
a tango dip
my short skirt is
initiation
appreciation
excitation.
But mainly my short skirt
and everything under it
is Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
YFNF (Your Friendly Neighbourhood Feminist)
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