Rape culture

“Rape culture is when I was six, and

my brother punched my two front teeth out.

Instead of reprimanding him, my mother

said “Stefanie, what did you do to provoke him?”

When my only defense was my

mother whispering in my ear, “Honey, ignore him.

Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.”

As if it was my sole purpose, the reason

six-year-old me existed,

was to not rile up my brother.

It’s starts when we’re six, and ends

when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man

is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to

not “rile him up.” Right, mom?

Rape culture is when through casual dinner conversation,

my father says that women who get raped are asking for it.

He says, “I see them on the streets of New York City,

with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”

When I used to be my father’s hero but

will he think I was asking for it? (will he think)

Will he think I deserved it?

Will he hold me accountable or will he hold me,

even though the touch of a man - especially my father’s -

burns as if I were holding the sun in the palm of my hand.

Rape culture is you were so ashamed, you thought it would

be easier for your parents to find you dead,

than to say, “Hey mom and dad,”

It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for it.

I never asked for this attention, I never asked

to be a target, to be weak because I was born with

two X chromosomes, to walk in fear, to always look behind me,

in front of me, next to me, I never asked to be the prey.

I never wanted to spend my life being something

someone feasts upon, a meal for the eternally starved.

I do not want to hear about the way I taste anymore.

I will not let you eat me alive.

Rape culture is I shouldn’t defend my friend when

an overaggressive frat boy has his hand on her ass,

because standing up for her body “makes me a target.”

Women are afraid to speak up, because

they fear their own lives - but I’d rather take the hit

than live in a culture of silence.

I am told that I will always be the victim, pre-determined

by the DNA in my weaker, softer body.

I have birthing hips, not a fighter’s stance.

I am genetically pre-dispositioned to lose every time.

Rape culture is he was probably abused as a child.

When he even has some form of a justification

and all I have are the things that provoked him,

and the scars from his touch are woven of the darkest

and toughest strings, underneath the layer of my skin.

Rape culture leaves me finding pieces of him left inside of me.

A bone of his elbow. The cap of his knee.

There is something so daunting in the way that I know it will take

me years to methodically extract him from my body.

And that twinge I will get sometimes in my arm fifteen years later?

Proof of the past.

Like a tattoo I didn’t ask for.

Somehow I am permanently inked.

Rape culture is you can’t wear that outfit anymore

without feeling dirty, without feeling like

you somehow earned it.

You will feel like you are walking on knives,

every time you wear the shoes

you smashed his nose in with.

Imaginary blood on the bottom of your heels,

thinking, maybe this will heal me.

Those shoes are your freedom,

But the remains of a life long fight.

You will always carry your heart,

your passion, your absolute will to live,

but also the shame and the guilt and the pain.

I saved myself but I still feel like I’m walking on knives.

Rape culture is “Stefanie, you weren’t really raped, you were

one of the lucky ones.”

Because my body wasn’t penetrated by a penis,

but fingers instead, that I should feel lucky.

I should get on my hands and knees and say, thank you.

Thank you for being so kind.

Rape culture is “things could have been worse.”

“It’s been a month, Stefanie. Get out of bed.”

“You’ll have to get over this eventually.”

“Don’t let it ruin your life.”

Rape culture is he told you that after he touched you,

no one would ever want you again.

And you believed him.

Rape culture is telling your daughters not to get raped,

instead of teaching your sons how to treat all women.

That sex is not a right. You are not entitled to this.

The worst possible thing you can call a woman is a

slut, a whore, a bitch.

The worst possible thing you can call a man is a

bitch, a pussy, a girl.

The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl.

The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl.

Being a woman is the ultimate rejection,

the ultimate dismissal of strength and power, the

absolute insult.

When I have a daughter,

I will tell her that she is not

an insult.

When I have a daughter, she will know how to fight.

I will look at her like the sun when she comes home

with anger in her fists.

Because we are human beings and we do not

always have to take what we are given.

They all tell her not to fight fire with fire,

but that is only because they are afraid of her flames.

I will teach her the value of the word “no” so that

when she hears it, she will not question it.

My daughter,

Don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love

you have for yourself

and the lengths you go to preserve it.

My daughter,

I am alive because of the fierce love I have

for myself, and because my father taught me

to protect that.

He taught me that sometimes, I have to do

my own bit of saving, pick myself off the

ground and wipe the dirt off my face,

because at the end of the day,

there is only me.

I am alive because my mother taught me

to love myself.

She taught me that I am an enigma - a

mystery, a paradox, an unfinished masterpiece and

I must love myself enough to see how I turn out.

I am alive because even beaten, voiceless, and back

against the wall, I knew there was an ounce of me

worth fighting for.

And for that, I thank my parents.

Instead of teaching my daughter to cover herself up,

I will show her how to be exposed.

Because no is not “convince me”.

No is not “I want it”. 

You call me,

“Little lady, pretty girl, beautiful woman.”

But I am not any of these things for you.

I am exploding light,

my daughter will be exploding light, 

and you,

better cover your eyes.”