My brother sent me some links. Some infuriate me. Some make me happy. Guess which is which!
A big yellow rabbit
Awesome DIY surgery!
Really? You have that much cash, New Hampshire?
I do love my brother, but he sometimes pushes my buttons.
(And in case you were wondering, who wouldn't love a huge, wooden rabbit? Every town should have one!)
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Personal revelations WARNING: not a nice story
This won't be an easy post. It's all come about over the past few days, as a result of something that has happened in the skeptical blogosphere. Rebecca Watson, one of the Skepchicks (probably the person everyone thinks of as "the" Skepchick) was in Dublin recently for a conference. At the end of the evening, after she had spent some hours stating that she didn't like to be hit on, that it creeps her out, she got hit on in an elevator. It has been established that Elevator Guy, as he is now known, was in a position to have heard Rebecca say that being hit on like that creeps her out. He was also in a position to have heard her say that she was going to her hotel room, alone, to sleep. It was 4 AM. She posted a video on Skepchick about this (at http://skepchick.org/2011/06/about-mythbusters-robot-eyes-feminism-and-jokes/). The video is just over 8 minutes long. The part where she starts talking about Elevator Guy is at 4:30 into it. She talks about the incident for about a minute and 15 seconds.
Another blogger had something to say about how Rebecca may have jumped to conclusions about the situation. Rebecca subsequently mentioned this at a conference held by CFI, where she was a keynote speaker. I don't know precisely what she said, having not been there, but the blogger she mentioned was there. Then all hell broke loose. From what I've been reading, some people side with Rebecca, that Elevator Guy was creepy and possibly a threat. Some side with the other blogger, that the situation was somewhat overexaggerated. Some say... well, you can see for yourself. Greg Laden has a link farm over at his blog, detailing all the relevant posts (it's at http://scienceblogs.com/gregladen/2011/07/elevators_and_privilege_a_lett.php ). Just click on the different links; you'll get the idea what a storm this has caused.
For purposes of this post, I have nothing to say about Rebecca mentioning names in her speech. I do, however, have something to say about Elevator Guy. I have to agree with Rebecca; being propositioned in an elevator, whether in a strange country or not, whether early in the morning or in the middle of the day, is creepy as hell. It doesn't really matter what was said, whether you were invited for coffee or what. There is something unspoken there, whether real or imagined. It is this: "Come to my hotel room with me. We'll have 'coffee'. And I will feel justified in putting my hands on you, because you consented to come to my room with me." The other unspoken implication is this: "If you don't come to my room with me, if you say no, then maybe I'll pretend that what you really said is yes, and I will take you now, by force if necessary." And that's what frightens many of us.
Here's where the personal revelation comes in. And this won't be easy.
Some years ago, my family moved from our home state to the state where we (my brother and I, at least) now live. Before we moved, I had been involved in my first physical relationship ever, and I left that to move here. We remained very close friends. In the first few months here, I met a few people. Construction started on our new house. Because I wasn't working, I got to know the construction crew. I saw them every day, interacted with them, and started to feel comfortable with them. One day, in October, one of the guys invited me to a Halloween party. He said he'd introduce me to some people, and that people I already knew would be there. Normally, I don't like situations like this, and he wasn't my type at all, but I was still unhappy (very) after the move, and I felt like I needed something to do, so I said yes to his invitation.
A few days before the party, this guy told me that he didn't really have a costume to wear. I'd been a bit of a punk chick back home, and I had a lot of pieces that I knew would fit him, so I offered to help him pick out something to wear. We decided on a few pieces, and he thanked me. He seemed like a nice guy.
The evening of the party, I put on my favorite punk dress, and he picked me up. He was using the construction foreman's pickup, as he didn't have his own transportation. We went to the party, which was at a bar that had been closed for the occasion. It was kind of a "locals only" party. There really wasn't anyone there that I knew, so I spent most of the evening sitting at a table with my date, or standing in a corner feeling really uncomfortable with so many strangers around me, while he made the rounds. He kept getting me fresh drinks, which tasted very watered down. There were pitchers of vodka and orange juice all around, and you could see the melted ice water sitting on top of the orange juice. I didn't really think twice when he took my drink, which was only half gone, to get me a new one. Repeatedly. I was very naive.
A few hours later, he decided it was time to go. We left the party and got into the truck. It was a cold evening in late October, so I was hoping to get home quickly, since the heater wasn't working in the truck. I wasn't real sure where we were, and I was equally unsure of the way home, since I hadn't really tried to scope out the area since moving. I hated it here. I am positive, though, that the way my date chose to take me home was not the most direct route, and it certainly wasn't the route we'd taken to the party. I was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. I realize now that my date had been taking my drinks back to the bartender, who was adding more and more vodka to my drink, and just enough orange juice to make it look like it had been sitting in the pitchers, like the rest of it. All along the way home, my date kept trying to touch me. He'd try to pull me over to him on the bench seat. He'd put his hand on my thigh, or my breast. He even stopped the truck once at a particularly scenic view and tried to make out with me. Each time, I said that I wasn't interested, please stop, and I just wanted to go home. I was trapped in a vehicle with someone I now didn't trust all that much, but the alcohol was getting to me, and I wasn't really feeling very well.
He finally seemed to get the message, because he said that he would take me home after he changed his clothes. He said he wanted to give me back my costume items, because if it waited until the next work day (this was a Friday or a Saturday, and he would have to wait until Monday), he would forget them. What was I going to do? He was driving, so I was kind of under his control. We stopped at his apartment, which was in the basement of a house owned by the construction foreman's family. There was nobody else in the building. He told me to come inside and get warm, and he would just be a minute. I didn't want to go inside, but it really was freezing ,and as I said, the alcohol was screwing up my judgement. So I went inside.
Once inside, he left me in the living area, while he went to the bedroom to "change". And change he did. The person I knew while building my family's new house turned into a monster. He came out of the bedroom, grabbed me by the wrist, and pulled me into the room. I fought, I yelled at him, I said no, I pulled back, but he was bigger and stronger than me. He forced me to my knees, and held my head down while... I can't. I just can't write that part. But I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move, even though I fought with everything I had. And when he'd had enough of that, he pushed me back onto the bed, ripped off my underwear, and... once again, I just can't. I'm feeling sick all over again, just going over this.
When it was all over, he handed me my costume items, took me out to the truck, and took me home. Like nothing bad had happened. And it hadn't, as far as he was concerned. To him, "no" and "I just want to go home" clearly meant "yes" and "fuck me now, against my will; you know I'll love it". Only I didn't. I hated every microsecond of it. I hated feeling so violated, and incapable of defending myself. Nothing really bad had ever happened to me before, because my family and friends had protected me from badness. Now I'd had this evil act committed upon me, and I was completely incapable of doing anything about it.
Did I tell anyone? No. This is the first time I've told the whole story. A very few people actually know that I was raped; in fact, I've only ever told 3 people, and none of them knows the whole story. Two of those people have been not only my physicians, but very close friends. One of them, the first person I told, was the one to whom I gave my virginity. And I didn't even really tell him. I said that something horrible had happened, and he knew from the look on my face and the tone of my voice what it was, and he offered to "take care of it" for me, which essentially meant that he would pay $50 and travel expenses to someone in the city who would "take care of it". I told him no.
Did I tell the police? No. For one thing, at that time, date rape wasn't really considered a "crime". The perception was that I had consented to go out with this guy, and he'd paid some money to buy me drinks (not really; they were sitting out on the counter, and we're not counting the extra alcohol he had the bartender add), so obviously I owed him. For another, the local police force was comprised of a chief who had retired from somewhere else, and therefore wanted to do as little as possible, and one other officer who had also retired from somewhere else, and also wanted to do as little as possible. The Sheriff's dept. stayed away from this town as much as possible, so they wouldn't have been any help at all, either. And like I said, date rape wasn't a crime, remember?
Did I tell anyone in my family? No, because I didn't want to have to visit my dad in prison after he killed my rapist. And even though my brother and I weren't getting along all that well at that point, I was pretty sure that he'd inflict some damage on the guy, too. Mom? No, because she would either kill the guy herself, or tell my dad.
Being raped was bad enough, but maybe the worst part of it all was that I had to see the guy every single fucking day after that, except weekends, because he was still on the crew that was building my house. And I had to be nice to him, because if I didn't, someone in my family would catch on, and he'd end up stripped naked, tied to a tree, and covered in some sweet, sticky substance that the bears would like. Not a bad idea, actually, but I probably would have added a disemboweling. And cut his nuts off. At least. Also, a few weeks after the incident, he caught up to me alone outside the house we were living in, and asked me if I was sure I wasn't pregnant. Well, thanks for asking, asshole. No I'm not, but thanks for caring. Now fuck off and die.
Do I know where he is right now? No, but I hope he's at the bottom of a swamp somewhere, rotting. The statue of limitations on prosecution for rape in my state has long since passed.
This is why I feel so strongly about incidents like Rebecca was relating. For ten years after I was raped, I didn't go out with anyone who had a Y chromosome. At all. Not unless I was accompanied by at least one other female. There was one guy I could be alone with, and I'm really not sure why I was more or less comfortable with him. I kinda had a little crush on him, I guess, but I was pretty certain nothing would ever come of it. And I was desperately lonely. It sucks when you're as lonely as I was, but really too scared to do anything about it, because you're afraid you might get raped again. It took working with someone, getting to know him, beginning to realize that a relationship with him might not be such a bad thing, before I even thought about dating again. That ended not well, but after 17 years.
And now I've just screwed up another friendship. I've hurt someone who I care very deeply about, and I can't do anything about it. I feel terrible. I don't really know what to do, except punish myself some more. Hence, this blog post. I fear this was my last chance to be happy, because I'm still - STILL - afraid of dating, still afraid of being anything close to alone with people, men actually, who I don't know really, really well. Life sucks. Hopefully I'll get over this. I need to go snuggle my bunnies.
Another blogger had something to say about how Rebecca may have jumped to conclusions about the situation. Rebecca subsequently mentioned this at a conference held by CFI, where she was a keynote speaker. I don't know precisely what she said, having not been there, but the blogger she mentioned was there. Then all hell broke loose. From what I've been reading, some people side with Rebecca, that Elevator Guy was creepy and possibly a threat. Some side with the other blogger, that the situation was somewhat overexaggerated. Some say... well, you can see for yourself. Greg Laden has a link farm over at his blog, detailing all the relevant posts (it's at http://scienceblogs.com/gregladen/2011/07/elevators_and_privilege_a_lett.php ). Just click on the different links; you'll get the idea what a storm this has caused.
For purposes of this post, I have nothing to say about Rebecca mentioning names in her speech. I do, however, have something to say about Elevator Guy. I have to agree with Rebecca; being propositioned in an elevator, whether in a strange country or not, whether early in the morning or in the middle of the day, is creepy as hell. It doesn't really matter what was said, whether you were invited for coffee or what. There is something unspoken there, whether real or imagined. It is this: "Come to my hotel room with me. We'll have 'coffee'. And I will feel justified in putting my hands on you, because you consented to come to my room with me." The other unspoken implication is this: "If you don't come to my room with me, if you say no, then maybe I'll pretend that what you really said is yes, and I will take you now, by force if necessary." And that's what frightens many of us.
Here's where the personal revelation comes in. And this won't be easy.
Some years ago, my family moved from our home state to the state where we (my brother and I, at least) now live. Before we moved, I had been involved in my first physical relationship ever, and I left that to move here. We remained very close friends. In the first few months here, I met a few people. Construction started on our new house. Because I wasn't working, I got to know the construction crew. I saw them every day, interacted with them, and started to feel comfortable with them. One day, in October, one of the guys invited me to a Halloween party. He said he'd introduce me to some people, and that people I already knew would be there. Normally, I don't like situations like this, and he wasn't my type at all, but I was still unhappy (very) after the move, and I felt like I needed something to do, so I said yes to his invitation.
A few days before the party, this guy told me that he didn't really have a costume to wear. I'd been a bit of a punk chick back home, and I had a lot of pieces that I knew would fit him, so I offered to help him pick out something to wear. We decided on a few pieces, and he thanked me. He seemed like a nice guy.
The evening of the party, I put on my favorite punk dress, and he picked me up. He was using the construction foreman's pickup, as he didn't have his own transportation. We went to the party, which was at a bar that had been closed for the occasion. It was kind of a "locals only" party. There really wasn't anyone there that I knew, so I spent most of the evening sitting at a table with my date, or standing in a corner feeling really uncomfortable with so many strangers around me, while he made the rounds. He kept getting me fresh drinks, which tasted very watered down. There were pitchers of vodka and orange juice all around, and you could see the melted ice water sitting on top of the orange juice. I didn't really think twice when he took my drink, which was only half gone, to get me a new one. Repeatedly. I was very naive.
A few hours later, he decided it was time to go. We left the party and got into the truck. It was a cold evening in late October, so I was hoping to get home quickly, since the heater wasn't working in the truck. I wasn't real sure where we were, and I was equally unsure of the way home, since I hadn't really tried to scope out the area since moving. I hated it here. I am positive, though, that the way my date chose to take me home was not the most direct route, and it certainly wasn't the route we'd taken to the party. I was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. I realize now that my date had been taking my drinks back to the bartender, who was adding more and more vodka to my drink, and just enough orange juice to make it look like it had been sitting in the pitchers, like the rest of it. All along the way home, my date kept trying to touch me. He'd try to pull me over to him on the bench seat. He'd put his hand on my thigh, or my breast. He even stopped the truck once at a particularly scenic view and tried to make out with me. Each time, I said that I wasn't interested, please stop, and I just wanted to go home. I was trapped in a vehicle with someone I now didn't trust all that much, but the alcohol was getting to me, and I wasn't really feeling very well.
He finally seemed to get the message, because he said that he would take me home after he changed his clothes. He said he wanted to give me back my costume items, because if it waited until the next work day (this was a Friday or a Saturday, and he would have to wait until Monday), he would forget them. What was I going to do? He was driving, so I was kind of under his control. We stopped at his apartment, which was in the basement of a house owned by the construction foreman's family. There was nobody else in the building. He told me to come inside and get warm, and he would just be a minute. I didn't want to go inside, but it really was freezing ,and as I said, the alcohol was screwing up my judgement. So I went inside.
Once inside, he left me in the living area, while he went to the bedroom to "change". And change he did. The person I knew while building my family's new house turned into a monster. He came out of the bedroom, grabbed me by the wrist, and pulled me into the room. I fought, I yelled at him, I said no, I pulled back, but he was bigger and stronger than me. He forced me to my knees, and held my head down while... I can't. I just can't write that part. But I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move, even though I fought with everything I had. And when he'd had enough of that, he pushed me back onto the bed, ripped off my underwear, and... once again, I just can't. I'm feeling sick all over again, just going over this.
When it was all over, he handed me my costume items, took me out to the truck, and took me home. Like nothing bad had happened. And it hadn't, as far as he was concerned. To him, "no" and "I just want to go home" clearly meant "yes" and "fuck me now, against my will; you know I'll love it". Only I didn't. I hated every microsecond of it. I hated feeling so violated, and incapable of defending myself. Nothing really bad had ever happened to me before, because my family and friends had protected me from badness. Now I'd had this evil act committed upon me, and I was completely incapable of doing anything about it.
Did I tell anyone? No. This is the first time I've told the whole story. A very few people actually know that I was raped; in fact, I've only ever told 3 people, and none of them knows the whole story. Two of those people have been not only my physicians, but very close friends. One of them, the first person I told, was the one to whom I gave my virginity. And I didn't even really tell him. I said that something horrible had happened, and he knew from the look on my face and the tone of my voice what it was, and he offered to "take care of it" for me, which essentially meant that he would pay $50 and travel expenses to someone in the city who would "take care of it". I told him no.
Did I tell the police? No. For one thing, at that time, date rape wasn't really considered a "crime". The perception was that I had consented to go out with this guy, and he'd paid some money to buy me drinks (not really; they were sitting out on the counter, and we're not counting the extra alcohol he had the bartender add), so obviously I owed him. For another, the local police force was comprised of a chief who had retired from somewhere else, and therefore wanted to do as little as possible, and one other officer who had also retired from somewhere else, and also wanted to do as little as possible. The Sheriff's dept. stayed away from this town as much as possible, so they wouldn't have been any help at all, either. And like I said, date rape wasn't a crime, remember?
Did I tell anyone in my family? No, because I didn't want to have to visit my dad in prison after he killed my rapist. And even though my brother and I weren't getting along all that well at that point, I was pretty sure that he'd inflict some damage on the guy, too. Mom? No, because she would either kill the guy herself, or tell my dad.
Being raped was bad enough, but maybe the worst part of it all was that I had to see the guy every single fucking day after that, except weekends, because he was still on the crew that was building my house. And I had to be nice to him, because if I didn't, someone in my family would catch on, and he'd end up stripped naked, tied to a tree, and covered in some sweet, sticky substance that the bears would like. Not a bad idea, actually, but I probably would have added a disemboweling. And cut his nuts off. At least. Also, a few weeks after the incident, he caught up to me alone outside the house we were living in, and asked me if I was sure I wasn't pregnant. Well, thanks for asking, asshole. No I'm not, but thanks for caring. Now fuck off and die.
Do I know where he is right now? No, but I hope he's at the bottom of a swamp somewhere, rotting. The statue of limitations on prosecution for rape in my state has long since passed.
This is why I feel so strongly about incidents like Rebecca was relating. For ten years after I was raped, I didn't go out with anyone who had a Y chromosome. At all. Not unless I was accompanied by at least one other female. There was one guy I could be alone with, and I'm really not sure why I was more or less comfortable with him. I kinda had a little crush on him, I guess, but I was pretty certain nothing would ever come of it. And I was desperately lonely. It sucks when you're as lonely as I was, but really too scared to do anything about it, because you're afraid you might get raped again. It took working with someone, getting to know him, beginning to realize that a relationship with him might not be such a bad thing, before I even thought about dating again. That ended not well, but after 17 years.
And now I've just screwed up another friendship. I've hurt someone who I care very deeply about, and I can't do anything about it. I feel terrible. I don't really know what to do, except punish myself some more. Hence, this blog post. I fear this was my last chance to be happy, because I'm still - STILL - afraid of dating, still afraid of being anything close to alone with people, men actually, who I don't know really, really well. Life sucks. Hopefully I'll get over this. I need to go snuggle my bunnies.
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