Rape, The Friend Zone, And Why You're Entitled To Nothing.

So I went out with some good male friends of mine this evening. As often eventually happens in a diverse group of friends, we discussed subjects designed to ascertain the views and motives of the opposite sex. Like all such nights, after a few beers, the conversation turns playfully antagonistic as we discuss what has become known to the experts as "the friendzone". If you're somehow not familiar, the friendzone, or the just-friends-zone, is the sexless and frigid outersphere of the dating world where your beloved sends you when she decides she's never going to be in to you and there isn't anything you can do about it. In previous conversations, for reasons I couldn't quite explain, the friendzone had irked me. Why?

The answer I arrived at, after much deliberation, is one that I'm sure many people have arrived at before me, and I don't say it with venom or with the paranoid malice of a rabid feminist. I don't say it because I don't understand or empathize with the pain of loving someone who doesn't love you. I say it because it's true.

The friendzone is just inherently sexist.

Typically, when women discover that the men they secretly drool for don't reciprocate, we internalize. I'm not the type of person he's looking for. Perhaps he isn't the type of person that could be good for me either. Holy shit, this was embarrassing. Time to seek greener pastures.

But over and over, I see my guy friends rush to the aid of their friendzoner, helping her move, fixing her car, listening to garbage about other boyfriends, and I'm not saying she bears no responsibility for being either callous toward his obvious feelings or determinedly oblivious to them, but I am saying the suffering is the responsibility of the sufferer in this case.Why, I would ask, does he never break his lease in the friendzone and stick his thumb in the breeze? Why, oh why, does he leap at opportunities to be chivalrous? Why does he sit glassy-eyed while she describes her day in detail in order to seem a good listener? Why would he be doing this to himself over and over? Why does conversation about her always turn, well, a little ugly when he finally does decide to move on?

The truth, as far as I can tell from the outside, is that you men... you love the friendzone a little. The friendzone would not exist if you didn't secretly want to be a resident of it. Just a little. Because even when they're the purveyors of their own misery, men have described the situation the way a war veteran describes combat, the way a man soon to be martyred declares his beliefs, all with this determined, unabashed, and infuriating insistence that you have fought the good and blameless fight. That it's her that doesn't recognize what she has. Doesn't she know how happy you could make her? Doesn't she realize that you're made for each other and you'll never love again? The arc bends towards justice, damn it, and if I hold out long enough, this will happen.

Dude, seriously. She has thought of all of this and arrived at the same conclusion time and again: no.

But this train of thought does not seem to be limited to crushes and fantasies. An argument that was brought up tonight at the bar was that men seem to have different ideas about what they should be getting (not always, I know, but statistically more than women), which is why you hear of more guys befalling the perils of the friendzone than women.  And here's where we get into the really seedy side of the friendzone. This is my subjective, totally-based-on-personal-experience-but-I-think-still-accurate theory: women, I think, are motivated by the things they think they want. Men are motivated by the things they think they deserve. You see this in careers, in personal belongings, family life... and relationships.

The cold hard truth, friends, is that I don't care how nice of a guy you are. You are not entitled to affection, sex, or reciprocated feelings. You are not entitled to be the one man out of billions that a girl chooses simply because the list of things you've done for her is longer than some other guy's. One might even say you don't have the logical right to be offended when she chooses that guy over you. You are entitled to respect and human dignity from any and all types of friends, but only to the extent that you give it. No amount of boyishly charming dogoodership is going to earn yourself somebody falling in love with you.

Or anything really, because it isn't hard to see how this insistence on what a man is owed translates into more sinister scenarios.
I bought you a drink. You made out with me. Look at what you're wearing. You already said you would.
When you consider that 85% of rapes on college campuses are committed by someone the victim knew, the picture becomes something completely different. Is it likely that 85% of college-aged rapists just like to get chummy with their victims first, or is it possible that the majority of those men, whether drunk, sober, emotional, or violent, simply disagreed with their victim, formerly their friend, about what was owed?

The real problem with the friend zone is that it's a subtler and quieter version of the mentality that says women must do what they're asked to do. Women are in the wrong if they disagree about what a particular relationship is or isn't. They're either mistaken or just malicious. I have no responsibility to accept her wishes, the friendzone says, or take responsibility for my own happiness and move on. I have every right to inflict guilt, blame or worse on the object of my affections, because she is what I deserve.

My guy friends are not rapists. Of course not. They're good people and good boyfriends when they are ones. But this mindset is a tricksey little impersonator of genuine affection, of a steady wish for the loved one's ultimate good. It is self-serving instead of selfless, and is damaging even when in its quieter and cuddlier form. Entitlement never lets the person in its sway suspect that he might be the victim of unrealistic expectations, because there will always be an external target to blame. In its purest state, at its furthest and most straight-forward intention... it's dangerous.

The Future Of The Abortion Debate

In honor of the 40th Anniversary of Roe v. Wade, the landmark Supreme Court case that legalized abortion in the United States, the Center For Reproductive Rights released a video commemorating the occasion. Instead of a meaningful and honest video of, say, emotionally engaging clips cut together of women explaining what "the right to choose" meant to them, possibly with inspirational music, and a plea to the pro-life movement for understanding and compromise, what we got instead was this:

With no less than seven uses of the word "baby," this video goes above and beyond what I'm sure was supposed to be comedy and straight to horrific and creepy what-the-fuck-were-they-thinking.

And what were they thinking exactly? At least one faction of the pro-choice movement (and I beg you to know that it is very much the minority) will insist that this is just comedy, that its intended audience is the percentage of Americans that are pro-choice anyway, and that those anti-choicers can learn to take a joke. Meanwhile, the pro-life movement is up in genuinely heart-broken arms. "You see?" they say. "You see how evil and unconcerned they are, how the slaughter of unborn innocents is just comedy to them?"

Both of these groups are missing the point. This video is, in all reality, the culmination of a year of long and ugly political debate on the topic, of hate speech and legislation, of personhood and ways to shut that whole thing down. This video isn't celebrating dead babies or making light of abortion. It is, quite simply, a determined middle finger to conservatives everywhere.

Nobody knows better than someone who has had an abortion how very not funny the subject is. This video isn't saying that abortion is tons of fun, that it's a sexy thing to do, that feminists revel in the number of lives they've taken (whether or not we're in agreement that we're discussing a life). If you believe that, you're not looking at the whole picture. You're not looking at the coerced minors, the rape victims, the terrified women everywhere who don't see having a child as being an option. You're not seeing the desperation.

The fact of the matter is, this type of rhetoric is the inevitable result of the poisonous atmosphere of debate that has become American politics. These are people who believe whole-heartedly that they are defending women's futures, women's bodies, women's health. They believe they are doing good for the world and righting an injustice. The pro-life folks believe the exact same thing, except in the case of the baby. Can we stop pretending that we're all just a bunch of baby-killers and women-haters? Are we really that polarized?

If we stopped for a second to cut the name-calling and if we really asked one another "what is it that you want"... we might actually get somewhere. What if there was a way for everybody to get what they wanted? How could we reduce the rate of terminated pregnancies and at the same time reduce the number of women being forced to give birth?

The answer: free and available birth control. This is an issue that the pro-choice movement has fought long and hard for, and I cannot for the life of me understand why the pro-life movement is against it. If the reason is that there shouldn't be a thing as consequence-less sex, or if the reason is that "free and available" means tax dollars and resources, my one and only response is that these are lives we're talking about. Infants, boys and girls, infinitely unique creations that are being terminated by the millions every single year before getting the chance to live. Millions of women, sisters and daughters that have their lives derailed and futures ruined. What are they worth to you?

Compromise. It is time to acknowledge that demonizing each other doesn't solve anything. If our aim is problem solving, if we want to save lives... we're doing it wrong.

Why Barbie Is An Accurate Barometer For Women's Equality

Since our beloved Barbara first made her appearance in the American toy market in 1959, she has been quite the ambitious and successful young lady. Once only an avid shopper, Barbie quickly learned that all that shopping would require a steady income. Perhaps for a few years, she would be willing to let Kenneth pay the rent and handle her finances, but she only caught the tail end of the fifties, and so that wouldn't fly for long. Here, we saw the first indications of what the corporate toy industry thought of women, or at least what it thought the public thought women should be.

Barbie's first jobs, in keeping with traditional gender roles, included stewardess, school teacher, and nurse. It would take another two and a half decades for someone to look at Stewardess, Teacher, and Nurse Barbie, and think that perhaps the blonde was capable of working the higher-paid gigs in the corresponding male-dominated fields: Doctor Barbie hit store shelves in 1988, Pilot Barbie followed two years after, and eventually throughout the nineties, Barbie explored more specific areas of study such as art, dance, sign language, and Spanish, presumably in order to find her calling.

While it does me old heart good to see my childhood friend succeeding and pursuing no small measure of personal and professional excellence, it is worthwhile to note that Barbie, being the international consumable that she has come to be, was (and is) primarily designed and distributed to generate as much money as she possibly can. As such, she must reflect what the market expects her to be. When the market of the 1960s expected her to be in a traditional female role, so she was. When the 70s and 80s brought about radical change for women's equality, Barbie began to assert her competency in many male-oriented professions. But much about Barbie has not changed.

Take a look at UNICEF Diplomat Barbie:

Beauty queen, maybe. Diplomat, probably not. Late eighties though, so what about modern Barbie? Like Pediatrician Barbie?

Hmm... That's quite a bit of lip gloss for a day on the job there, Barb.

I don't know if you see what I'm get at here, but what I want, what I really wanted as a child... I wanted Barbie to look like me. I wanted Barbie to be really real, and really be someone I could look up to and envision myself being one day. And that just wasn't Barbie. When was Barbie going to be flat-chested? Have frizzy hair? Be a little pudgy? Come to work without her mascara? Perhaps Barbie's creators have focused for two long on the wrong thing: maybe little girls never wanted Barbie to be like a man, never wanted her to break out of her traditional roles. Not specifically anyway (what do kids know of tradition and roles?). Maybe what girls really wanted was to see someone like them do the things they wanted to do, whether it was being a mommy or flying an aircraft.

But Barbie has to be pretty, you say. After all, she has to be appealing to consumers, they expect Barbie to look like Barbie.

Exactly. Because no matter how far women have come, no matter how many professions we've excelled at or obstacles we've conquered, we are still expected to look attractive in everything that we do. That's where we are. Miles we've crossed toward equality, yes, with better pay, better choices, better prospects.... But still the single thing that is most expected of us is to be beautiful. Barbie isn't allowed to be normal-looking. And neither are we.

Is It Safe To Come Out Now?

Have you ever seen that movie Gremlins? Epitomized 90s cheese, to be sure, but feed them after midnight, and the sweet and fuzzy friends that you know and love suddenly turn ugly, turn into mean and vicious creatures that'll rip your throat out as soon as look as you.



Eh, I don't know what made me think of that, whatever.

Well, as it has been a solid two weeks since the election, I figure it's right bout time us moderates could come out of hibernation, poke our heads into the air, and fear not for our lives and limbs being pulled from Left to Right. Happily, I can say that the next three years at least will be much as they have been. People will make snide comments about the establishment, will argue fruitlessly about marijuana and religion and marriage and the economy, but none of it will particularly matter because it exists on Facebook and the odd street corner, and everybody but the truly extreme will revert back to the fuzzy friends of yore, the sane and lovable people that made us confirm their friend request in the first place when the political climate was less corrosive.

But then, it was election season. The Obamas and the Romneys took up arms (the Romney camp having already toiled their merry way through a chocolate box of assorted nuts), and the race was on. And their followers slowly came out of the woodwork. People you didn't even know were residents of the woodwork were posting and sharing, shouting and lying, picketing and boycotting, and altogether spewing such insanity that those of us without a Party to call home could only duck for cover.

On THAT side, we heard never-ending tales of revelation. We heard self-righteous prayers for the unborn from people who hadn't been to church since the 90s, and lectures on the sanctity of marriage from men who couldn't remember which mistress they were supposed to be publicly calling a liar. It was lovely being called a moral failure on a daily basis simply for feeling like all the yelling wasn't worth it. And hey, look at that. It wasn't.

On the OTHER side (don't think you're getting out of this just because you won), we heard just as much self-indulgent douchebaggery as anywhere. You lot were just as much the culprits of skewed data and unproductive dialogue, with pseudo-intelligent one-liners that deliberately misunderstood your opponent.

Now the both of you, sit down, shut up, and I don't want to hear from either of you until the next voting cycle. The weather is moderate again.

"The Invisible War"

Today, I was fortunate enough to catch the online viewing of a new documentary called "The Invisible War" hosted by the director, producers, and a few interviewees of the film. If you haven't heard of it, I wouldn't be surprised. Here's the trailer.

I first heard of this film a couple of months ago when I was browsing rottentomatoes.com for a film to stalk as my inner movie geek is bound to do, and I saw that there was actually a film with many reviews that was sitting at 100%, hardly heard of. And a documentary no less! I did some googling, watched the trailer, and knew I had to see it. But there was a problem: it wasn't showing anywhere within two hundred miles of my north Texas city. What in the--? Why was Sundance-winner with such a high critical rating struggling so much with distribution?

The answer, it would seem, matches the theme of the film: denial. Cover-up. For those of you who haven't heard of this brilliant film, "The Invisible War" chronicles the journeys of several survivors of Military Sexual Trauma (MST) in their brave searches for justice. US Government statistics estimate that 1 in 5 military women have been raped while serving this country. There is no police for them to report to when the perpetrator is their police, their commanding officer. Attempts to prosecute are met with hostility, humiliation, resistance, even death threats. The film touches on the scandals at Tailhook in the early nineties, and in DC in 2003, but months before the film's release, the nation was shocked again by a similar scandal at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio.

The real shock in each of these scandals wasn't even the crimes being committed; it was the blatant cover-up. The protection of the assailants and the blaming and counter-persecution of the victims. What in the hell has been going on with our military?

As a moderate, I can see this being one of those issues that gets swept under the rug. One side has bigger things to focus on, and the other will never say anything bad about the military. And before anyone gets any ideas, I am not now, nor have I ever been, anti-military. I am grateful and regretful for the lives that have been taken in the service of this country. However, can we not see how a profession that grants its members a gun and no small amount of power over other human beings would hold a certain attraction for less-than-admirable people as well? There is something inherently broken about a system that refers to sexual assault as an "occupational hazard" of serving this country, as it was officially ruled in 2011, as if it is to be accepted, as if it is unpreventable, as if it isn't a despicable crime against humanity that should never be tolerated.

What many are failing to realize is that standing behind these women, prosecuting their assailants, and making rape a strictly untolerated crime IS supporting the troops. These women are the troops, too. They deserve justice. They deserve a system that protects them, not their rapist.

Is this an issue we can all get behind? Can we put aside some party lines and blind worship for the military aside for half a second to solve a real issue that, surely, we must all be against? An issue this important should not be struggling to be talked about. Be outraged. Demand justice. Speak out.

To vote to bring "The Invisible War" to your city, and for other resources and ways to get involved and spread the word, click here.

Birth Control.

Today, I purchased my second-ever round of birth control. Today I also had a rousing bout of what my beloved physician referred to as "dysmenhorrea," or what I like to refer to as the Cramps of Doom. For those of you fortunate enough to possess either regular and not-hateful menstruation or else not a uterus, the Cramps of Doom cause me to be unable to stand, sit, lie down, move, breathe, think, or do pretty much anything for four to five hours at a time. Imagine someone lighting your internal organs on fire. (I'm completely serious, there's really no way to exaggerate this kind of pain.) This might happen once at the beginning of my "time o' the month" as my body's way of letting me know it is indeed my girly time, or else at the very end, just in case I thought for a second that I was going to get out of it this month. Sometimes I get lucky and it'll happen twice in the same week. When I was twelve, people told me this would go away as I got older. People lied. Lied lied lied.

So finally I go to the doctor last month and she tells me she knows of only one thing that will cure it and sends me to see Deb the Wal Mart pharmacist with a prescription for birth control pills. I called her again after the Cramps of Doom released me from their clutches and returned to the Underworld, to ask what gives. She said it would take a few rounds to start seeing improvement, which just about figures.

Let it be known! I'm not ashamed of my lack of a social life and my complete disinterest in the rigamarole of dating. I am not now, nor do I plan on engaging in romantic escapades of any sort, least of which those that would result in a child.

Am I perfectly able to pay for my birth control? Well, yes. Is nine dollars a month prohibitively expensive for a college student like myself? Not really.

And yet. I was confused as to why my birth control being covered by insurance is even a controversial subject. People acted like it was a tragic loss of freedom and the American way when it was proposed to be covered with the rest of necessary healthcare. My six-dollar antibiotics for strep throat last January were covered by insurance. My mother's asthma meds, my step dad's pain medication, my little brother's x-rays, all have several things in common with my little birth control pill. Some of them are preventative and guard against health threats, or else treat/assist in the treatment of health threats. My pill does both. So am I perfectly able to pay for my pills? Yes. Does it make sense to me why I might ever not be able to, when I need them to be able to function like a normal human being and not miss a day of class and work like I did today? Not particularly. But I like being on friendly terms with my uterus more than I like my nine dollars.

But then I'm forced to consider what I'd do if I couldn't afford these pills. What if I didn't have financial aid to make ends meet? What if I had four kids already? What if my hypothetical spouse passed away and left me with some hefty bills? I'm just saying, worst-case scenario. (And make no mistake, someone somewhere is living your worst-case scenario right this very second.) Why could we then still give me antibiotics for my cough, but not birth control for my monthly agony?

What if I didn't need to prevent one of the many, many medical conditions such as endometriosis or ovarian cysts that can be treated with the pill, and was instead trying to prevent having another child that I couldn't afford? Wouldn't a poverty-stricken mother be the very last person we should be trying to keep from birth control? (Married women can be poverty-stricken too. Or just, y'know, practicing a little responsible family planning.)

If you answered that question with some variant of "Weeell, if she has that many children and no way to raise them, perhaps she should not be having sex at all." Here, we really get into it. So then, the real problem with expanding access to birth control via tax dollars is the belief that there should be no such thing as consequence-less sex. Perhaps you feel that only unmarried women are poor enough to be unable to afford birth control. Even if I were to pretend that were true, it still doesn't explain away why we as a society are okay with allowing a poor, uneducated, unmarried woman to birth a child as some kind of lesson to her about having premarital sex. Why wouldn't we be doing everything we could to prevent one more unwanted baby?

Is that something you could give nine dollars to? It's something I could give nine dollars to.