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Brock Turner, rape, rapist, Stanford University, reduced sentence

Brock Turner, the Stanford University swimmer, convicted of sexually assaulting an unconscious woman and leaving her next to a dumpster has already had his controversial, barely-there six-month jail sentence reduced by 2 months according to court documents obtained by The Daily Mail.

Brock Turner, 20, has already had two months knocked off his sentence for “expected good behavior behind bars”, which means he’ll be a free man as early as Sept. 2.

Yes, people, lock up your daughters because coming soon to a city near you, this piece of shit rapist will be walking the streets free and clear.

As soon as this fall, Brock Turner will be free on the streets, able to find another victim, force himself on her, claim it was just another misunderstanding and get just another slap on the wrist.

Mr. Turner is also in the process of appealing his conviction and moving his three-year probation to his home state of Ohio. All while his dad is fund raising for his son’s legal fees. A customer service representative for the Wright-Patt Credit Union confirmed that Dan Turner, the father of Brock Turner, established the account into which funds solicited through the Facebook fundraising page would be deposited.  The credit union account is still active as of this update.  It is unclear whether Dan Turner also established the page soliciting the funds, which purported to be authored by a friend of the Turner family. Because you know, this has all been so hard on the Turner family. I bet it is hard knowing you raised a rapist.

The page has since been taken down.

Which makes me wonder, what the hell is going on in high schools in Ohio. Wasn’t it just a few years ago that a group of high school boys gang raped an intoxicated, unconscious girl in Steubenville, Ohio? Why do we keep blaming the victims for ruining the rapists lives? How is society getting this so ass backwards?

What are your thoughts on the Brock Turner case and the reduction of his sentence?

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steubenville, steubenville rape, rapists, Ma’Lik Richmond, 16, Trent Mays, 17Trent Mays,17, and Ma’lik Richmond,16, are not  “stars” of the Steubenville rape trial show. This case was not a cautionary tale movie on Lifetime. It really happened and these boys are monsters and they aren’t the only people who were effected by this trial. There is a young girl, a victim of gang rape, who was publicly shamed, drugged, mistreated, graphically and publicly assaulted, whose life will never be the same again. And yet if you were watching CNN yesterday morning as the Steubenville rape verdict was presented you might have gotten confused and thought that those boys were the victims of some coercing, long island Lolita/ Black Widow type. You might have gotten confused and felt some sympathy. I, myself, was utterly disgusted and flabbergasted.

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misogyny, feminism, Robin Thicke, Kim Hall, Richard Thomas, Universtiy of Vermont, Cherice Morazlez,

It is once again Throat Punch Thursday and after the past two weeks, I feel like I might need to create a tab on my blog labeled misogyny gone wild. People, I don’t want to stay up here on this soap box defending women’s rights and equality but what is going on in the world? People have lost their damn minds and the world has declared rapid fire war on women. So today’s throat punch is plural. It’s ok though, last week I gave you sunsets in San Diego so I owed you one anyways.

Throat Punch Thursday,kim hall, richard thomas, university of vermont, cherice Moralez

First, there is Mrs.Hall, a mom of teen boys, who wrote a blog post titled, FYI ( if you’re a teenage girl) in which she blames all the braless teen girls on social media for her sons’ sexual urges. Look, I get it there are some women who are submissive and agreed to all that “obey” and “submit” shit in their wedding vows, who believe misogyny is a good thing. I am not one of those women. I know that good Christian parents want to raise good Christian children. I do. I get it. I sent my kids to Catholic school for just this reason. I want my girls to be raised with a good moral compass just as much as Mrs. Hall wants her boys to be raised with a “good moral compass.” That’s my job; to raise my girls to have self-respect and be strong, independent women who love their bodies and don’t need societal approval. I want to raise self-confident, intelligent and happy children. I want them to become women who know that at the end of the day, the only person they have to qualify their choices with is themselves and God. Not to me, not to some guy and certainly not to some guy’s overbearing, crazy mother.

It’s not my job to police all the teenage boys in the vicinity and shame them into staying away from my daughters. It is not my job to make my girls feel like they should be ashamed of their bodies and are less than a man. I refuse to teach my girls that men are  slaves to their penises so girls have to operate on the defensive, lest they be raped and it be their own fault. Because men succumbing to their sexual urges is natural but a woman doing the same is shameful and sinful and any woman who does so is not only in danger of going straight to hell but also in taking every penis within her reach with her. This is what Mrs. Hall fears most.

Kim Hall, Mrs.Hall, misogyny

Mrs. Hall you don’t think too much of your boys if you believe them to be so weak. I don’t understand how you can demean young girls for going braless in selfies when you, yourself, posted topless photos of your sons on the beach. Your misogyny and willingness to perpetuate double standards, sickens me. Why not just raise your boys to not look at braless selfies? Or can you not trust them to escape the hold of the braless teen breast?

Bottom line, Mrs. Hall’s post was condescending and seething in passive aggressiveness. Don’t tell me to control my girls. Don’t tell my girls to control themselves. Do your job and teach your boys to control their own sexual urges.Keep your threats of online exile and maybe consider parental controls, limiting social media for your boys or just plain taking it away. By the way, I think it’s pretty effing creepy that you sit around the table as a family and scroll through photos of teen girls looking for braless selfies so you can  pass judgement and dole out consequences. You get a throat punch, Mrs.Hall, for your very unbecoming behavior as a mother and a woman.

Second, a convicted rapist, Richard Thomas, collapsed after police told him he may have contracted HIV from the woman raped while she slept. Thomas “let himself into her home uninvited in the middle of the night and she awoke to find him raping her from behind. He’d been drinking heavily and taking ecstasy and claims to not recall any of it.

Thomas was sentenced to five years and four months after pleading guilty to raping a woman while she slept. He will find out from test results later this week whether he’s contracted the disease.

Okay, let me just say that I don’t give a rat’s ass if Thomas remembers doing it or not. He did it. Whether you remember it or not is inconsequential. He seems to have absolutely no remorse about what he has done, even though he has definitely ruined her life by taking away her sense of security and safety in her own home and violating her in such a vulnerable position, now, does he really expect people to feel sorry for him that he might have contracted HIV?

I don’t. In fact, if he has contracted HIV, he’s gotten what he deserves. He may be the first rapist in the history of the world who has. I wish he’d caught some sort of venereal disease that made he penis shrivel up and fall off because, for what he’s done, that is exactly what he deserves and owes his victim. I don’t feel sorry for you, Mr. Thomas, instead I bestow upon you a Throat Punch. Fuck you and your bullshit story about not remembering, may your HIV serve as a constant reminder that women are not here solely for your entertainment and use.

Third, the University of Vermont frat brothers who are looking via Craigs list for a MILF (a woman over 25. What?) to come clean and cook for them in exchange for free sex with the lot of them. Like a house mother but with, you know, “perks” because that is what every grown woman wants, right? The privilege of having sex with some fumbling, drunk college frat brother who doesn’t know his head from his asshole. EWWWW! Boys, that’s why women almost always date older men; sexual experience, mental maturity and stable finances. What grown woman wants  an inexperienced, selfish lover who smells of Axe body spray and skunked beer?

We are a house of 10 men who all are seniors at UVM and are looking for an attractive older woman to come and cook for us every few days. In exchange she gets her pick of the men of the house to have.

Requirements aren’t lengthy; be a woman older than 25 who can cook and would like to enjoy some hot sex with a number of fit 20 somethings. Hopefully you can come by every week for a meal and some play time. Obviously we can work to accommodate your schedule. 😉

We are located in Burlington, are a fun and clean group of guys, and are all 21+.

These boys clearly have no respect for women, mommy issues and a warped sense of humor. Well, at least I hope this was an attempt at humor, a Craig’s list ad written under the influence of a night of binge drinking. Because if not, the University of Vermont campus has bigger problems and might need to hire some extra escorts and pass out rape whistles to all the incoming freshman and female janitorial staff because these boys don’t discriminate. I wonder of any of them are recent graduates of Steubenville?

Fourth, Facebook and porn! Oh dear Lord Facebook, what the hell were you thinking? Yesterday afternoon, I jumped on FB to check my account and what to my shock did I sit down to see staring me back but a screen full of a close up shot of some woman’s vagina being manually manipulated by herself. At first, I was so stunned and a vagina on my FB tread was so out of context that it really took me a moment to figure out just WTF I was looking at. Seriously. Then, I immediately saw that it was an photo attachment to a comment left on Arianna Huffington’s status. In my shocked state, I was fumbling to unfollow and hide the photo before one of my kids walked into my office and saw it. I am not ready for the masturbation conversation yet. The really crazy thing is that FB will snatch down a photo of a mom breastfeeding her baby in a second and deem it as inappropriate but the up close beaver shot fell through the cracks. Is FB just more of a beaver man than a boob man? I don’t know but I prefer my Facebook without the side of pornography. Thank you. So FB, you too get a throat punch.

facebook, porn, mrs. hall, richard thomas

There were more like itsparenting.com swiping content from bloggers and claiming it as their own, even being so ridiculous that they featured a post about themselves being plagiarist. Huh? Or how about  Cherice Moralez, a victim of rape, being held responsible for provoking her rapist and in some way consenting when she was only 14 when it happened, the rapist was 49 and they both agreed it was not consensual. The judge ruled otherwise giving the rapist only 30 days in jail! Cherice Moralez committed suicide because we live in a misogynistic society who doesn’t protect it’s women from it’s men. This is a fact and a trend and I want better for my girls. I want them to be treated with the respect and reverence they deserve by men, by their government and most importantly by other women.

Who do you think deserves a throat punch this week?

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Emily Doe, victim statement, Brock Turner, Stanford, swimmer, rape, rapist, kid, roared, roar, tantrums, mommy moment, bad parenting

On January 17, 2015, former Stanford University student, Brock Turner, raped an inebriated 22-year-old woman, Emily Doe, behind a garbage dumpster after a frat party. There was no remorse on the part of Mr. Turner for raping someone, only the remorse of being caught. We are all Emily Doe. This could have happened to any of us. It has happened to many of us (to one degree or another) and it will happen to many more of us, if we don’t fight to change it. In fact, it will happen to your daughter, and your granddaughters and all those daughters that come after that.

The attack was only stopped when two Swedish PhD students, Carl Fredrik-Arndt and Peter Jonsson, were cycling past on their way to a party. When the two heroes saw that Turner was on top of an unconscious woman, they stopped, tackled Turner and pinned him down until police could arrive and arrest him. They didn’t have to stop, in fact, most people wouldn’t have stopped they would have gone on about their business.

Because let’s be honest, most people don’t want to be bothered by the inconvenience. It’s so much easier not to get involved. So people pretend they don’t see it happening; the frightened woman on the subway with the stranger’s hand on her ass, the drunk girl at the party being carried off to another room by a group of guys or even the businesswoman walking down the street being harassed by catcalls by men so far beneath her station that the closest thing they’ll ever get to talking to her is yelling sexually lewd epithets at her.

This March, Turner was found guilty of three counts of sexual assault and last Thursday Turner faced a maximum of 14 years in state prison but instead was only sentenced to six months in a county jail and probation. He must also complete a sex offender management program and register as a convicted sex offender for the rest of his life.   This is a slap on the wrist and an insult to his victim. Apparently, membership in the club of white penis has its privileges. I’ve seen worse punishments bestowed on POC simply for being of color.

I’ve been avoiding the news the last few days because I wanted to enjoy my time with my family. After last week’s fiasco, I know to truly enjoy my life and time with my family I have to unplug. Then I stumbled across Facebook and I saw the photo of Brock Turner as the clean-cut good kid. Then I saw the actual mug shot and honestly, what does it matter what a rapist looks like? If you rape a woman you are a rapist. How well you dress or clean shaven you are, doesn’t make it okay or make you less of a rapist.

Brock Turner, Stanford University, rape culture, misogyny, campus rape

I’m sitting on vacation, reading the transcript of Emily Doe’s impact statement. As I listen to my little girl’s playing and giggling in the background, I am pushing down the lump in my throat and it is taking everything in my body not to start sobbing right here in the pool room at the Hyatt Regency. I didn’t realize that I’d be triggered but I was. Rape culture is alive and well and is not going anywhere soon. If anything, it’s growing momentum.

I want to cry for the victim; for what she has had to endure and her revictimization by a system that has failed her. I want to cry for my daughters who will one day soon be at college, alone without me to protect them from the evils of the world. I want to cry for every young woman who has ever gone doe-eyed and naively into the world and not expected to be victimized; myself included.

The judge was lenient on Brock Turner because he was an athlete, had a promising future and could possibly have even gone to the Olympics; made all of us Americans proud in the fucking 100-meter dash or some fucking shit like that. He got six months for ruining this woman’s life because in the world we live in, women’s lives don’t matter. We might have “equal rights” but really we will never be considered as valuable as men. He could have been an Olympian, what is she? Just another drunk girl at a party; or so Brock Turner, his father and the judge would have you believe. Just a poor dumb girl, who drank too much and had some drinker’s remorse the next day.

I used to be that girl. No, actually I was what Brock Turner and his attorneys would have you believe his victim was so I was actually much worse. I used to drink a lot in college. I would black out on occasion. I went to frat parties and I loved to flirt. I was the touchy-feely girl who loved attention and liked to have fun but I was a virgin until I was in college. Sure, I had boyfriends and there was dry humping, marathon make-out sessions and all that other shit you do when you just haven’t done the deed yet but I never consented to more. I wouldn’t because I hadn’t and I didn’t want to yet.

But there were times when I was drinking and guys got a little too aggressive in their advances. I remember once I was visiting a friend and I’d met a guy who was visiting her boyfriend, after a night of drinking and hanging out, I woke up to feel him pressed up against me and kissing me. I pushed him off but by the time I had woken up, he’d already been touching my body. I don’t know for how long, I was passed out. But I didn’t do anything about it because I felt partially responsible. Even though there was no consent and no making out before I passed out, I felt responsible for letting myself get into this vulnerable position because that is how this society has conditioned women to believe. If we are assaulted, we must have done something to encourage it.

Then there was the time I was at a frat party and a group of brothers from another university came to the party. I was a little sister at the fraternity, so I was comfortable and even felt safe at the house. A cute walkout started talking to me and one thing led to another, the flirting was in high gear and then in the middle of a room full of people, he pushed my head into his lap. I was drinking but that sobered me up immediately. I felt vulnerable, threatened (in a room full of guys) and angry. Luckily, the president of the frat (a friend of mine) saw the whole thing happen and literally, kicked the guy out of the house. Of course, then he spent the night “comforting” me. I let him because I felt like I owed him. I didn’t want his advances but it felt safer than some stranger shoving my face in his crotch and becoming an unwilling participant in a gang rape.

Then there was the time I was at a college bar with my friends and the star basketball player came up behind me and started grinding on me. I gently moved away. He followed in pursuit. Then he came in front of me, grabbed me by my ass and lifted me up around his waist and started trying to kiss me. No one did anything. I was terrified. I didn’t want his advances. I did not invite him to do any of this. I was minding my own business. No one helped me. I wiggled myself out of his grip and ran out of the bar. When a friend found me outside, she did not care if I was alright or if I was shaken. Her question was, “Don’t you know who that was?”

Or the time I was working at a retail chain as a teenager and the security guys called me back into the security room. I thought they needed a female employee as a witness as they questioned a suspected female shoplifter because that was protocol. Instead, when I got back there at 9 at night, when we were working on a skeleton crew, the two grown men, locked the door and started making comments on how I looked in my uniform. They told me that they liked watching me on the cameras and told me to my face, as they laughed, “You know we could do anything we wanted to you in here and no one would even hear us.” I was trembling I was so terrified.

How about the time I was at a cop party with my friend and a married cop tried to make advances towards me and when I said no because he was married (plus I wasn’t interested) he told me that I should think twice before driving alone in his city ever again because he could pull me over late at night on a dark road and it wouldn’t matter if I was interested or not.

The thing is as I read the victim’s account of what had happened to her, I was saddened and more than anything I was fuming mad. I’m trying to use my words but the problem is that I’m angry and I’m sick of the world giving men a hall pass for rape and attempted rape and acting like it’s a victimless crime. I could go on for pages listing all the different times I’ve been accosted to one degree or another.

Sometimes were worse than others. Sometimes things went further than I wanted them to go but I never felt like I could do anything about it because the truth is that no matter how good, bad, drunk, sober, promiscuous or frigid you are, if you are a woman, you have been made to feel vulnerable and unsafe in your lifetime; it is the curse of being born with a vagina.

We don’t have to do anything to precipitate an attack, they just happen and we just have to learn to live with it, apparently even in 2016. But this is bullshit. I don’t want my girls to ever feel this kind of vulnerability or fear of living. Why do we have to be cautious and careful before doing everything? Even a girl in a beige cardigan who did nothing to encourage her attacker’s advances still got raped, left like garbage on the side of a dumpster and her attacker only received six months jail time.

Even a girl in a beige cardigan who did nothing to encourage her attacker’s advances still got raped, left like garbage on the side of a dumpster and her attacker only received six months jail time. Apparently, that is all a woman’s life is worth. Her life is ruined; she will never be the same but it doesn’t really matter because a penis holds more value in this world than a vagina ever could. After all, we only propagate the species. He could have been an Olympian; she was always just a woman.

Emily Doe, Victim statement, swimmer,Brock Turner, Stanford University, rape culture, misogyny, campus rape

The scary thing is Brock Turner is not an anomaly. And it doesn’t matter what we do, how we dress, how much we do or don’t drink, we can all be the victim and this is what scares me the most. When are we going to teach our sons that it’s not okay to put their hands, fingers, mouths and dicks on women’s bodies without permission? When will our girls ever be able to feel safe to walk alone at night or have a vagina?

In case you don’t think rape is a serious crime that warrants more than a six-month inconvenience for the attacker, read the statement below from Brock Turner’s victim.

Your Honor, if it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.

You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.

On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while she went to a party with her friends. Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself “big mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.

The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party. When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my vagina and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.

“You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.”

Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.

I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said “Rape Victim” and I thought something has really happened. My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my vagina and anus, needles for shots, pills, had a Nikon pointed right into my spread legs. I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my vagina smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.

After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn’t know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.

On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for HIV because results don’t always show up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs and I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.

My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat something. She did not know that beneath my sweatsuit, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my vagina was sore and had become a strange, dark color from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove home and for hours in silence my younger sister held me.

My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, “I was really worried about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me to go find [fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”][my sister]. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night? Did you make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.

I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been raped behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real.

I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone. After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I loved most. For over a week after the incident, I didn’t get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn’t just been a bad dream, was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.

One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair disheveled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was butt naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognize. This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn’t fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don’t even know this person. I still don’t know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me, this can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.

“And then, at the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times.”

It’s like if you were to read an article where a car was hit, and found dented, in a ditch. But maybe the car enjoyed being hit. Maybe the other car didn’t mean to hit it, just bump it up a little bit. Cars get in accidents all the time, people aren’t always paying attention, can we really say who’s at fault.

And then, at the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extracurriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve happened.

The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up.

The night after it happened, he said he didn’t know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a lineup, didn’t mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn’t know. He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and he chose me. Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t gone, then this never would’ve happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did not continue. The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub.

Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us even speaking, a back rub. One more time, in public news, I learned that my ass and vagina were completely exposed outside, my breasts had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster, while an erect freshman was humping my half naked, unconscious body. But I don’t remember, so how do I prove I didn’t like it.

I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told he hired a powerful attorney, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this sexual assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.

I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly raped, blatantly out in the open, but we don’t know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.

“I was pummeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering to ask for my name. “

When I was told to be prepared in case we didn’t win, I said, I can’t prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script. He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. His attorney constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she doesn’t remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.

Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney’s questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers. Instead of his attorney saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn’t notice any abrasions, right? This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The sexual assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering questions like:

How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’ d you do when you got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside? Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What color was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, well, we’ll let Brock fill it in.

I was pummeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering to ask for my name. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up, she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he’s having a really hard time right now.

And then it came time for him to testify and I learned what it meant to be revictimized. I want to remind you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn’t feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.

So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.

He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask, can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He’s in the clear. Even in his story, I only said a total of three words, yes yes yes, before he had me half naked on the ground. Future reference, if you are confused about whether a girl can consent, see if she can speak an entire sentence. You couldn’t even do that. Just one coherent string of words. Where was the confusion? This is common sense, human decency.

According to him, the only reason we were on the ground was because I fell down. Note; if a girl falls down help her get back up. If she is too drunk to even walk and falls down, do not mount her, hump her, take off her underwear, and insert your hand inside her vagina. If a girl falls down help her up. If she is wearing a cardigan over her dress don’t take it off so that you can touch her breasts. Maybe she is cold, maybe that’s why she wore the cardigan.

Next in the story, two Swedes on bicycles approached you and you ran. When they tackled you why didn’t say, “Stop! Everything’s okay, go ask her, she’s right over there, she’ll tell you.” I mean you had just asked for my consent, right? I was awake, right? When the policeman arrived and interviewed the evil Swede who tackled you, he was crying so hard he couldn’t speak because of what he’d seen.

Your attorney has repeatedly pointed out, well we don’t know exactly when she became unconscious. And you’re right, maybe I was still fluttering my eyes and wasn’t completely limp yet. That was never the point. I was too drunk to speak English, too drunk to consent way before I was on the ground. I should have never been touched in the first place. Brock stated, “At no time did I see that she was not responding. If at any time I thought she was not responding, I would have stopped immediately.” Here’s the thing; if your plan was to stop only when I became unresponsive, then you still do not understand. You didn’t even stop when I was unconscious anyway! Someone else stopped you. Two guys on bikes noticed I wasn’t moving in the dark and had to tackle you. How did you not notice while on top of me?

You said, you would have stopped and gotten help. You say that, but I want you to explain how you would’ve helped me, step by step, walk me through this. I want to know, if those evil Swedes had not found me, how the night would have played out. I am asking you; Would you have pulled my underwear back on over my boots? Untangled the necklace wrapped around my neck? Closed my legs, covered me? Pick the pine needles from my hair? Asked if the abrasions on my neck and bottom hurt? Would you then go find a friend and say, Will you help me get her somewhere warm and soft? I don’t sleep when I think about the way it could have gone if the two guys had never come. What would have happened to me? That’s what you’ll never have a good answer for, that’s what you can’t explain even after a year.

On top of all this, he claimed that I orgasmed after one minute of digital penetration. The nurse said there had been abrasions, lacerations, and dirt in my genitalia. Was that before or after I came?

To sit under oath and inform all of us, that yes I wanted it, yes I permitted it, and that you are the true victim attacked by Swedes for reasons unknown to you is appalling, is demented, is selfish, is damaging. It is enough to be suffering. It is another thing to have someone ruthlessly working to diminish the gravity of validity of this suffering.

My family had to see pictures of my head strapped to a gurney full of pine needles, of my body in the dirt with my eyes closed, hair messed up, limbs bent, and dress hiked up. And even after that, my family had to listen to your attorney say the pictures were after the fact, we can dismiss them. To say, yes her nurse confirmed there was redness and abrasions inside her, significant trauma to her genitalia, but that’s what happens when you finger someone, and he’s already admitted to that. To listen to your attorney attempt to paint a picture of me, the face of girls gone wild, as if somehow that would make it so that I had this coming for me. To listen to him say I sounded drunk on the phone because I’m silly and that’s my goofy way of speaking. To point out that in the voicemail, I said I would reward my boyfriend and we all know what I was thinking. I assure you my rewards program is non transferable, especially to any nameless man that approaches me.

“This is not a story of another drunk college hook­up with poor decision making. Assault is not an accident.”

He has done irreversible damage to me and my family during the trial and we have sat silently, listening to him shape the evening. But in the end, his unsupported statements and his attorney’s twisted logic fooled no one. The truth won, the truth spoke for itself.

You are guilty. Twelve jurors convicted you guilty of three felony counts beyond reasonable doubt, that’s twelve votes per count, thirty ­six yeses confirming guilt, that’s one hundred percent, unanimous guilt. And I thought finally it is over, finally he will own up to what he did, truly apologize, we will both move on and get better. ​Then I read your statement.

If you are hoping that one of my organs will implode from anger and I will die, I’m almost there. You are very close. This is not a story of another drunk college hook­up with poor decision making. Assault is not an accident. Somehow, you still don’t get it. Somehow, you still sound confused. I will now read portions of the defendant’s statement and respond to them.

You said, Being drunk I just couldn’t make the best decisions and neither could she.

Alcohol is not an excuse. Is it a factor? Yes. But alcohol was not the one who stripped me, fingered me, had my head dragging against the ground, with me almost fully naked. Having too much to drink was an amateur mistake that I admit to, but it is not criminal. Everyone in this room has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much, or knows someone close to them who has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much. Regretting drinking is not the same as regretting sexual assault. We were both drunk, the difference is I did not take off your pants and underwear, touch you inappropriately, and run away. That’s the difference.

You said, If I wanted to get to know her, I should have asked for her number, rather than asking her to go back to my room.

I’m not mad because you didn’t ask for my number. Even if you did know me, I would not want to be in this situation. My own boyfriend knows me, but if he asked to finger me behind a dumpster, I would slap him. No girl wants to be in this situation. Nobody. I don’t care if you know their phone number or not.

You said, I stupidly thought it was okay for me to do what everyone around me was doing, which was drinking. I was wrong.

Again, you were not wrong for drinking. Everyone around you was not sexually assaulting me. You were wrong for doing what nobody else was doing, which was pushing your erect dick in your pants against my naked, defenseless body concealed in a dark area, where partygoers could no longer see or protect me, and my own sister could not find me. Sipping fireball is not your crime. Peeling off and discarding my underwear like a candy wrapper to insert your finger into my body, is where you went wrong. Why am I still explaining this.

You said, During the trial I didn’t want to victimize her at all. That was just my attorney and his way of approaching the case.

Your attorney is not your scapegoat, he represents you. Did your attorney say some incredulously infuriating, degrading things? Absolutely. He said you had an erection, because it was cold.

You said, you are in the process of establishing a program for high school and college students in which you speak about your experience to “speak out against the college campus drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that.”

Campus drinking culture. That’s what we’re speaking out against? You think that’s what I’ve spent the past year fighting for? Not awareness about campus sexual assault, or rape, or learning to recognize consent. Campus drinking culture. Down with Jack Daniels. Down with Skyy Vodka. If you want talk to people about drinking go to an AA meeting. You realize, having a drinking problem is different than drinking and then forcefully trying to have sex with someone? Show men how to respect women, not how to drink less.

Drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Goes along with that, like a side effect, like fries on the side of your order. Where does promiscuity even come into play? I don’t see headlines that read, Brock Turner, Guilty of drinking too much and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Campus Sexual Assault. There’s your first powerpoint slide. Rest assured, if you fail to fix the topic of your talk, I will follow you to every school you go to and give a follow up presentation.

Lastly you said, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin a life.

A life, one life, yours, you forgot about mine. Let me rephrase for you, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin two lives. You and me. You are the cause, I am the effect. You have dragged me through this hell with you, dipped me back into that night again and again. You knocked down both our towers, I collapsed at the same time you did. If you think I was spared, came out unscathed, that today I ride off into sunset, while you suffer the greatest blow, you are mistaken. Nobody wins. We have all been devastated, we have all been trying to find some meaning in all of this suffering. Your damage was concrete; stripped of titles, degrees, enrollment. My damage was internal, unseen, I carry it with me. You took away my worth, my privacy, my energy, my time, my safety, my intimacy, my confidence, my own voice, until today.

See one thing we have in common is that we were both unable to get up in the morning. I am no stranger to suffering. You made me a victim. In newspapers my name was “unconscious intoxicated woman”, ten syllables, and nothing more than that. For a while, I believed that that was all I was. I had to force myself to relearn my real name, my identity. To relearn that this is not all that I am. That I am not just a drunk victim at a frat party found behind a dumpster, while you are the All­ American swimmer at a top university, innocent until proven guilty, with so much at stake. I am a human being who has been irreversibly hurt, my life was put on hold for over a year, waiting to figure out if I was worth something.

My independence, natural joy, gentleness, and steady lifestyle I had been enjoying became distorted beyond recognition. I became closed off, angry, self deprecating, tired, irritable, empty. The isolation at times was unbearable. You cannot give me back the life I had before that night either. While you worry about your shattered reputation, I refrigerated spoons every night so when I woke up, and my eyes were puffy from crying, I would hold the spoons to my eyes to lessen the swelling so that I could see. I showed up an hour late to work every morning, excused myself to cry in the stairwells, I can tell you all the best places in that building to cry where no one can hear you. The pain became so bad that I had to explain the private details to my boss to let her know why I was leaving. I needed time because continuing day to day was not possible. I used my savings to go as far away as I could possibly be. I did not return to work full time as I knew I’d have to take weeks off in the future for the hearing and trial, that were constantly being rescheduled. My life was put on hold for over a year, my structure had collapsed.

I can’t sleep alone at night without having a light on, like a five year old, because I have nightmares of being touched where I cannot wake up, I did this thing where I waited until the sun came up and I felt safe enough to sleep. For three months, I went to bed at six o’clock in the morning.

I used to pride myself on my independence, now I am afraid to go on walks in the evening, to attend social events with drinking among friends where I should be comfortable being. I have become a little barnacle always needing to be at someone’s side, to have my boyfriend standing next to me, sleeping beside me, protecting me. It is embarrassing how feeble I feel, how timidly I move through life, always guarded, ready to defend myself, ready to be angry.

You have no idea how hard I have worked to rebuild parts of me that are still weak. It took me eight months to even talk about what happened. I could no longer connect with friends, with everyone around me. I would scream at my boyfriend, my own family whenever they brought this up. You never let me forget what happened to me. At the of end of the hearing, the trial, I was too tired to speak. I would leave drained, silent. I would go home turn off my phone and for days I would not speak. You bought me a ticket to a planet where I lived by myself. Every time a new article come out, I lived with the paranoia that my entire hometown would find out and know me as the girl who got assaulted. I didn’t want anyone’s pity and am still learning to accept victim as part of my identity. You made my own hometown an uncomfortable place to be.

You cannot give me back my sleepless nights. The way I have broken down sobbing uncontrollably if I’m watching a movie and a woman is harmed, to say it lightly, this experience has expanded my empathy for other victims. I have lost weight from stress, when people would comment I told them I’ve been running a lot lately. There are times I did not want to be touched. I have to relearn that I am not fragile, I am capable, I am wholesome, not just livid and weak.

When I see my younger sister hurting, when she is unable to keep up in school, when she is deprived of joy, when she is not sleeping, when she is crying so hard on the phone she is barely breathing, telling me over and over again she is sorry for leaving me alone that night, sorry sorry sorry, when she feels more guilt than you, then I do not forgive you. That night I had called her to try and find her, but you found me first. Your attorney’s closing statement began, “[Her sister] said she was fine and who knows her better than her sister.” You tried to use my own sister against me? Your points of attack were so weak, so low, it was almost embarrassing. You do not touch her.

You should have never done this to me. Secondly, you should have never made me fight so long to tell you, you should have never done this to me. But here we are. The damage is done, no one can undo it. And now we both have a choice. We can let this destroy us, I can remain angry and hurt and you can be in denial, or we can face it head on, I accept the pain, you accept the punishment, and we move on.

Your life is not over, you have decades of years ahead to rewrite your story. The world is huge, it is so much bigger than Palo Alto and Stanford, and you will make a space for yourself in it where you can be useful and happy. But right now, you do not get to shrug your shoulders and be confused anymore. You do not get to pretend that there were no red flags. You have been convicted of violating me, intentionally, forcibly, sexually, with malicious intent, and all you can admit to is consuming alcohol. Do not talk about the sad way your life was upturned because alcohol made you do bad things. Figure out how to take responsibility for your own conduct.

Now to address the sentencing. When I read the probation officer’s report, I was in disbelief, consumed by anger which eventually quieted down to profound sadness. My statements have been slimmed down to distortion and taken out of context. I fought hard during this trial and will not have the outcome minimized by a probation officer who attempted to evaluate my current state and my wishes in a fifteen minute conversation, the majority of which was spent answering questions I had about the legal system. The context is also important. Brock had yet to issue a statement, and I had not read his remarks.

My life has been on hold for over a year, a year of anger, anguish and uncertainty, until a jury of my peers rendered a judgment that validated the injustices I had endured. Had Brock admitted guilt and remorse and offered to settle early on, I would have considered a lighter sentence, respecting his honesty, grateful to be able to move our lives forward. Instead he took the risk of going to trial, added insult to injury and forced me to relive the hurt as details about my personal life and sexual assault were brutally dissected before the public. He pushed me and my family through a year of inexplicable, unnecessary suffering, and should face the consequences of challenging his crime, of putting my pain into question, of making us wait so long for justice.

I told the probation officer I do not want Brock to rot away in prison. I did not say he does not deserve to be behind bars. The probation officer’s recommendation of a year or less in county jail is a soft time­out, a mockery of the seriousness of his assaults, an insult to me and all women. It gives the message that a stranger can be inside you without proper consent and he will receive less than what has been defined as the minimum sentence. Probation should be denied. I also told the probation officer that what I truly wanted was for Brock to get it, to understand and admit to his wrongdoing.

Unfortunately, after reading the defendant’s report, I am severely disappointed and feel that he has failed to exhibit sincere remorse or responsibility for his conduct. I fully respected his right to a trial, but even after twelve jurors unanimously convicted him guilty of three felonies, all he has admitted to doing is ingesting alcohol. Someone who cannot take full accountability for his actions does not deserve a mitigating sentence. It is deeply offensive that he would try and dilute rape with a suggestion of “promiscuity”. By definition rape is not the absence of promiscuity, rape is the absence of consent, and it perturbs me deeply that he can’t even see that distinction.

The probation officer factored in that the defendant is youthful and has no prior convictions. In my opinion, he is old enough to know what he did was wrong. When you are eighteen in this country you can go to war. When you are nineteen, you are old enough to pay the consequences for attempting to rape someone. He is young, but he is old enough to know better.

As this is a first offence I can see where leniency would beckon. On the other hand, as a society, we cannot forgive everyone’s first sexual assault or digital rape. It doesn’t make sense. The seriousness of rape has to be communicated clearly, we should not create a culture that suggests we learn that rape is wrong through trial and error. The consequences of sexual assault needs to be severe enough that people feel enough fear to exercise good judgment even if they are drunk, severe enough to be preventative.

The probation officer weighed the fact that he has surrendered a hard earned swimming scholarship. How fast Brock swims does not lessen the severity of what happened to me, and should not lessen the severity of his punishment. If a first time offender from an underprivileged background was accused of three felonies and displayed no accountability for his actions other than drinking, what would his sentence be? The fact that Brock was an athlete at a private university should not be seen as an entitlement to leniency, but as an opportunity to send a message that sexual assault is against the law regardless of social class.

The Probation Officer has stated that this case, when compared to other crimes of similar nature, may be considered less serious due to the defendant’s level of intoxication. It felt serious. That’s all I’m going to say.

What has he done to demonstrate that he deserves a break? He has only apologized for drinking and has yet to define what he did to me as sexual assault, he has revictimized me continually, relentlessly. He has been found guilty of three serious felonies and it is time for him to accept the consequences of his actions. He will not be quietly excused.

He is a lifetime sex registrant. That doesn’t expire. Just like what he did to me doesn’t expire, doesn’t just go away after a set number of years. It stays with me, it’s part of my identity, it has forever changed the way I carry myself, the way I live the rest of my life.

To conclude, I want to say thank you. To everyone from the intern who made me oatmeal when I woke up at the hospital that morning, to the deputy who waited beside me, to the nurses who calmed me, to the detective who listened to me and never judged me, to my advocates who stood unwaveringly beside me, to my therapist who taught me to find courage in vulnerability, to my boss for being kind and understanding, to my incredible parents who teach me how to turn pain into strength, to my grandma who snuck chocolate into the courtroom throughout this to give to me, my friends who remind me how to be happy, to my boyfriend who is patient and loving, to my unconquerable sister who is the other half of my heart, to Alaleh, my idol, who fought tirelessly and never doubted me. Thank you to everyone involved in the trial for their time and attention. Thank you to girls across the nation that wrote cards to my DA to give to me, so many strangers who cared for me.

Most importantly, thank you to the two men who saved me, who I have yet to meet. I sleep with two bicycles that I drew taped above my bed to remind myself there are heroes in this story. That we are looking out for one another. To have known all of these people, to have felt their protection and love, is something I will never forget.

And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought everyday for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you. As the author Anne Lamott once wrote, “Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.” Although I can’t save every boat, I hope that by speaking today, you absorbed a small amount of light, a small knowing that you can’t be silenced, a small satisfaction that justice was served, a small assurance that we are getting somewhere, and a big, big knowing that you are important, unquestionably, you are untouchable, you are beautiful, you are to be valued, respected, undeniably, every minute of every day, you are powerful and nobody can take that away from you. To girls everywhere, I am with you. Thank you.

After the victim’s statement went viral, Turner’s dad, Dan Turner, issued a statement defending his son, arguing his life will be “deeply altered” by the court’s verdict. I know this man is speaking out as a father but really, the callousness with which he disregards the consequences his son’s actions have had on his victim sickens me. He pretends that his son has done nothing wrong worth jail time and has no regard whatsoever for how his child has ruined this woman’s life.

“He will never be his happy go lucky self with that easy going personality and welcoming smile,” he wrote.

“His every waking minute is consumed with worry, anxiety, fear and depression. Now he barely consumes any food and eats only to exist. These verdicts have broken and shattered him and our family in so many ways. His life will never be the one that he dreamt about and worked so hard to achieve. That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life.”

Mr. Turner says his son, Brock Turner, should not be sent to jail.

“The fact that he now has to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life forever alters where he can live, visit, work, and how he will be able to interact people and organizations,” he wrote.

“What I know as his father is that incarceration is not the appropriate punishment for Brock. He has no prior criminal history and has never been violence to anyone, including his actions on the night of January 17, 2015.”

Mr. Turner then suggested his son could become a role model for young people. I get that he is the kid’s dad but there comes a time when you need to support your child by loving them while at the same time making them understand that there are consequences to bad behavior and raping a woman is bad behavior. It is unforgivable behavior.

“Brock can do so many positive things as a contributor to society and is totally committed to educating other college age students about the dangers of alcohol consumption and sexual promiscuity.”

“By having people like Brock educate others on college campuses is how society can begin to break the cycle of binge drinking and its unfortunate results. Probation is the best answer for Brock in this situation and allows him to give back to society in a net positive way.”

It’s like this man doesn’t think his son has done anything really wrong. I know he’s a father who loves his son and love is blind, especially where our children are concerned but this man is in absolute denial.

What do you think is a fitting punishment for Brock Turner’s choice to rape a woman?

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Christine Blasey Ford, Brett Kavanaugh, Anita Hill, Supreme Court Justice, rape culture, Hero for girls

I’ve been quiet about the Brett Kavanaugh and Dr.Christine Blasey Ford situation, not because I don’t believe it’s true but because it probably is. Kavanaugh aside, this story is not a new one or even an unusual one to any woman.

My girls are 11 and 13-years-old and I’ve already told them to never leave a drink alone with a guy or to take a beverage that’s already open. I’ve taught them not to walk with headphones on and to always be aware of their surroundings, especially at night. I’ve taught them how to fight back. I’ve taught them that no always means no and if someone ignores their no, fight, run and report. It sucks that we live in a world where I have to teach my girls to be on the defensive so that they can try to stay safe but it’s even sadder that we live in a world where victims are shamed, blamed and not believed.

Christine Blasey Ford is my hero and a champion for all of our little girls. A true hero is one who stands up in the face of conflict and puts it all on the line for the greater good. She came forward because she felt it was her civic duty and the price she has had to pay is nothing short of everything.

“You’ve never been afraid to walk outside alone at night?” This is the question that I asked my husband.

“No.” He looked baffled at the idea of a grown person afraid to walk outside in the dark alone. He was completely unable to relate.

My husband is a 6’5”, college-educated, Caucasian man who weighs about 250 pounds. There’s not much that scares him and certainly, walking after dark alone, even in foreign countries, does not cause him any hesitation. I, on the other hand, have never felt comfortable walking alone at night. Even when I’ve had to do it. It’s done very quickly, hyper-aware of my surroundings and terrified of what could happen.

Yet, every young girl and woman that I’ve ever known is trepidatious at the least and more so terrified. There is an entire market based solely on this premise; pepper spray, female defense classes, Tasers and little pink guns. We are born into a world with a vagina and a knowing that this very fact makes us vulnerable.

We live on the defensive. We are taught from a very young age to protect ourselves, from the clothes we wear to where we go, what we do and how we behave. It is inferred that sexual assault is preventable if only we do all the right things but the moment we step out of those lines, we have put ourselves in harm’s way and we are, in some way, to blame. We knew better. We knew we weren’t supposed to walk alone at night. We feel shared guilt and shame as if we willingly participated in our own attack by simply being born a woman.

READ ALSO: My MeToo Story

If you were to talk to a million women, privately with promised anonymity, every single one could recount at least one time (but I’m betting from my own experiences, many more) that she was sexually harassed, assaulted or raped. I don’t know a single woman who has not been, at some point or another, pushed into a corner and been made to feel threatened and unsafe by a man. Not one woman who isn’t afraid to walk alone at night.

The saddest part is that we live in a world where powerful men, which are all men by the way, are given a pass. Somehow the world roots for the rapist like he’s the wronged. He is the underdog. We are ruining his life. Yet, women are cast as the villains who are destroying their attacker’s life by bravely recounting their truth in detail.

We are less than. We don’t matter. This is the message that we are perpetuating to our little girls and women. So we stay silent out of shame and knowing that we will be humiliated more than our abusers.

Do you know how many rapes go unreported in the United States alone each year? It is estimated that only 310 out of every 1000 rapes will get reported. That’s 2 out of 3 rapes that don’t get reported. Of those 310 reported, only about 6 rapists will be incarcerated.

READ ALSO: We Are All Emily Doe

Christine Blasey Ford has risked everything to warn the world of the moral fiber of a man who is in contention to hold the highest moral position in the country. She has not only painfully recounted her story of an attempted rape which, in case you’re not aware, is just as scary as the real thing because the intention was the same. The feeling of being overpowered is the same. The feeling of helplessness and your own sexuality being used against you is the same. You are changed forever. The only thing that stood between Ford and a drunk Kavanaugh raping her was a one-piece bathing suit and a fluke interruption.

Christine Blasey Ford, Brett Kavanaugh, Anita Hill, Supreme Court Justice, rape culture

Ford walked away from that night, at just 15-years-old ( almost a child), feeling afraid, terrorized and never feeling safe again. She walked away grateful that he could not complete. She walked away feeling shame and guilt. She told no one because she felt like she bore some responsibility for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She chose to be there, therefore she feels like she contributed. Which is insane.

The thing is Kavanaugh walked away laughing. Stumbled away drunk with his buddy. No remorse. HE felt entitled. He felt like he didn’t do anything wrong. He might not even remember it because it was so insignificant to him. He continued on with his life, kept walking around alone at night unphased or changed by the experience because he wasn’t the victim. He wasn’t then and he isn’t now. He is a criminal who wasn’t reported; nonetheless a criminal. How can he be considered to uphold the law when he himself breaks it? How can he pass judgment when he can’t even recognize that he committed a crime?

You see, sadly, the Kavanaugh’s of the world are not few and far between and rape is not just between strangers, behind dumpsters and in alleyways. Just because we know our abusers doesn’t make it less abusive and doesn’t imply consent. Men are not entitled to women’s bodies. Little boys are not just being little boys. No means no and rape is rape.

The sad thing is that we put the onus on girls, from a very young age. We teach them to cover themselves; to hide their bodies.  We teach them to feel shame when they are the slightest bit sexual. We teach them that good girls don’t get raped. We teach them not to fight because no one will believe them. We teach them to judge and be judged by other girls.

I have a young teenager and in the past few months, I have heard several stories that have made me cringe because even in 7th grade, they were being groomed to be victims. The schools are telling our girls explicitly to hide their bodies because they are distractions to boys. A little girl was run out of our school because the bullying became so bad when she refused her attention to a boy. She was relentlessly called a slut and whore (at a Catholic school) and eventually she changed schools and her family moved away. Nothing happened to the boy.

Another girl was texting a boy all summer, when he tried to take it further and she refused, he told the whole school it was a joke. She was a joke. She thought he liked her. It was implied to her that if she did what he wanted, he would recant and she could be his “girlfriend.” Another girl, kissed a boy back this summer who was “dating” another girl, he told everyone. She became known to everyone as “the side piece” even to the girls.

Another 13-year-old girl, spent the entire summer fighting off the aggressive advances of her “boyfriend”. He spent the summer being the model citizen in front of her parents all the while trying to force himself inside their daughter. She was afraid they wouldn’t believe her. She eventually broke up with him but she no longer trusts boys.

These girls tell no one but one another; the keepers of their secrets. In some cases, they tell no one. I was harassed and assaulted on various levels throughout my life and I never filed a single report because maybe I was at a party? Maybe my dress was revealing? Maybe I had something to drink? Maybe I agreed to the date? Maybe I knew the guy? Maybe we were friends? Maybe we grew up together? Maybe I misunderstood? Maybe I was a prude? Maybe no one will believe me because he’s the star football player? Maybe he was cute and I flirted with him? Maybe I let him buy me a drink? Maybe I went into the room alone with him? Maybe I was walking alone in the dark at night? Maybe it was my fault? These are some of the things that go through our heads when we’re assaulted.

 

Or maybe he raped me? Violated me? Assaulted me? Pushed up against me? Tried to push inside of me? Maybe he grabbed and groped me? Maybe I was frozen in fear? Maybe I was sleeping and woke to him on top of me? Maybe I was just at work minding my own business? Maybe I trusted him and he locked the door and overpowered me? Maybe the only thing that saved me was a one-piece bathing suit or a knock at the door? A stranger walking by? Maybe I should have reported it because he’s probably doing the same thing to someone else’s daughter? Maybe I should have been brave for my someday daughters? These are the things that go through our mind when we are older and removed from the situation and find our voice and move past the fear of what people will think about us and move toward trying to stop it from happening again. There is power in numbers and sometimes we just need to know that we are not alone to know that we are not less than.

Christine Blasey Ford, Brett Kavanaugh, Anita Hill, Supreme Court Justice, rape culture, Hero for girlsI have shared my Me Too stories, there are more. More than I can count. Starting at a very young age. I believe Christine Blasey Ford because I know it happens. Her story sounds like a thousand other stories. That’s the true crime; it’s a recurring scenario that happens probably daily to women and girls around the world. We stop it by telling our stories. There is no shame or guilt that any victim should ever bear. Her life should not be destroyed for telling the truth while our President makes excuses and supports a rapist who he calls a victim; who he calls a good man. Good men don’t lock young girls in a room and grind into them while their friend cheers them on and watches. I don’t care if he was a teenager, he has no remorse and there’s no reason he would ever stop because he can get away with it. Appointing him to the Supreme court is sending the message to women everywhere that we, as a nation, don’t care about you. As if that’s not glaringly clear from the government always trying to have one hand in our uterus, now they will have a judge holding us down by the throat while they shove their hand into our uterus.

Walking alone at night in the dark without fear may be a dream never realized by myself but I will fight for it to be a right my daughters can have. We need to teach little boys to respect little girls and to know what consent is. They need to know that little girls have human value and intelligence and needs. We need to teach our little boys that little girls are equal to them and it’s not okay to just take what you want.  We need to teach them that there are not two sets of rules, there is only one and that is to respect one another.

My question is why do we live in a world where a victim is put on trial to prove her allegations and the world wants to give her assailant the benefit of the doubt? Why does it take a sacrificial lamb like Christine Blasey Ford to risk everything to inspire a nation to give women human decency and respect? I hope she inspires them to stop a monster.

What are your thoughts on Brett Kavanaugh being considered for Supreme Court justice? Do you believe Christine Blasey Ford’s allegations? If so, what do you think should happen?

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rape, women's reproductive rights, abortion, women's rights, Todd Akin, Mitt Romney, Paul Ryan

Throat Punch Thursday~ rape, todd akin, abortion, women's rights, reproductive rights, paul ryan

What constitutes a rape? Apparently, some politicians are confused about this term.

During an interview the congressman and U.S. Senate candidate, Todd Akin, was asked whether abortion should be allowed in the case of rape.

Akin’s response was that it was his understanding from doctors that it’s rare for someone to become pregnant from rape.  He said, “The female body has ways to try and shut that whole thing down.”

He went on to say that punishment should be on the rapist and not the child.

How about the punishment be on the rapist and NOT on the victim of his rape? How about that Mr. Akin?

‘But I believe deeply in the protection of all life and I do not believe that harming another innocent victim is the right course of action.’

“Governor Romney and Congressman Ryan disagree with Mr. Akin’s statement,” the campaign said. “A Romney-Ryan administration would not oppose abortion in instances of rape.”

You know what I hear? Blah, blah, blah let’s backpedal ourselves away from this one as fast as we can. Are we changing our way of thinking? Hell no! Are we stupid enough to say we support this now? Hell no! We’ll put those bitches in their place after we are elected.

rape, women's reproductive rights, abortion, women's rights, Todd Akin, Mitt Romney, Paul Ryan

What gives a politician the right to pass judgment and decide when a woman can or cannot get an abortion? It’s legal. We don’t need your fucking permission. Good for you that you don’t openly oppose it but it’s not your business to oppose. I think it’s ridiculous that a bunch of old, fat, white men get the power to determine what all the women of the country get to do with their bodies.

When did it become government’s business to differentiate whether or not a rape is “legitimate” or not? “Forcible” or not? What the fuck does that even mean? Rape is rape, you asshole.

The definition of rape:

A criminal offense defined in most states as forcible sexual relations with a person against that person’s will.

That means someone had sex with a woman (I know it happens to men too but for the sake of this argument, I am going to refer to the victim as a woman) and she didn’t consent. She could have screamed bloody murder and yelled no as loud as her voice would allow. She could have fought and scratched and gouged his eyes out. Or she could have been on a date with a cute boy that she liked and said no but her date decided to go on any ways. She could be married and told her drunk husband no and he forcibly had sex with her. She could have been at a frat party for the first time, drank too much and been left behind by her friends, passed out and been taken advantage of. Or she could have been with her boyfriend of 5 years and said she didn’t want to have sex and he tied her up and did it anyways. She could have been in her home, minding her own business when an intruder broke in, grabbed her walking up the stairs, walking to the university library or on her way to class and forcibly had sexual relations with her. She could be a little girl who has a perverted uncle. If a man forces a woman to have sex against her will…that is rape.

Rape is not love. Rape is not sex. Rape is not something that she asked for. Rape is not something that she deserves. Rape is a weak person doing an angry thing to hurt an innocent person. I don’t give a shit if she was dancing on tables, walking around with her vagina hanging out of the bottom of her skirt, her breasts exposed and she was flirting with you. If we say no, it means no and if you have sex with us anyways, you have just committed rape.

Apparently, the male politicians in this country have taken it upon themselves to declare war on women’s reproductive rights.

Do they really believe that women can will their bodies to not be pregnant or be pregnant? What are we sorcerers? This isn’t a movie. Take a damn biology class boys. If that were a true statement, then we would not have so many women who desperately want children but can’t have them and we certainly wouldn’t have the multitudes of women who are destroyed by the loss of their babies. But apparently if it’s a “Legitimate” rape our body knows to shut it down. Fuck you Mr. Akin!

I know Romney and Ryan are distancing themselves from Akin but the problem is that his opinion is not the minority in the Republican house. He just happens to be the moron who said it out loud in an interview.  The government, democrat and republicans alike, have made it their mission to tell us women what we can and cannot do with our bodies.

Now, they are going so far to try to tell women whether or not the rape they survived was actually rape at all.

Need I remind you of  the trans-vaginal ultrasounds in the case of all abortions, Georgia State Representative Terry England comparing women to farm animals and trying to pass legislation that is a baby dies in utero women should have to carry it to term or let it pass on its own, NYC’s Mayor Bloomberg mandating that women  get a “talking to” before they can choose formula over breastfeeding because obviously we need the guidance of a man to teach us what  is best for us.

Let me tell you what, I don’t even go to a male gynecologist because I believe that unless your legs have been in those cold stirrups and you’ve had the experience of a speculum being shoved uncomfortably into your cervix then you have no idea what that feels like. I don’t care how many damn books you’ve read about giving birth or how many babies you’ve delivered, if you have not pushed a 15-inch head from your uterus through the birth canal and out of your vagina then you don’t know what it feels like. Stop pretending you do. I don’t know what it feels like to be kicked in the balls and I don’t pretend to. I would never pass legislation that required men to suck it up, rub some dirt on it and carry on. Why? Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about because I don’t have a penis and balls.

It seems the United States government is making it’s disdain for abortions and those women who get them, for whatever reason, very clear. I am in no way pro-abortion. I could never get one myself, especially since having children but I am pro-choice. Every woman has the right to choose what is best for her and her body. We are not animals. We are not children. We don’t need your advice. We don’t need your punishment and we certainly do not need your permission.

Where does this stop? Today it’s abortions in the case of rape, next they will take D & C’s and D & E’s off the table. These are medically necessary extractions of fetal tissue from women who have lost their pregnancies but what’s to stop some random male politician who isn’t a doctor from deeming it unethical or immoral? Then what happens? Then women start dying in droves because contrary to Akin we can not dictate what our uterus will do with a pregnancy.

Women, this is your call to action. We have to vote to preserve our rights over our own bodies. We deserve the right to choose what happens with our own reproduction. Stand up and vote in November. Get up early before you take the kids to school. Do it while they are there. Do it on your lunch hour. Hire a babysitter. Do whatever you need to but vote because the alternative is to give your reproductive rights over to the Akin’s of the world. To not vote is to allow rape to be quantified.

 

rape, todd akin, paul ryan, abortion, women's rights

 

Rape is Rape



Also, I am guest posting at Scary Mommy today and would love if you would go check out Some Things Change Your Forever. You will understand why women’s reproductive rights are so very close to my heart.
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Super Bowl, immigrant, immigration, Mexico, border, the wall, Desierto

Ever wonder why an immigrant, illegal or otherwise, really comes to the United States willing to risk his life? Maybe that question is too big, maybe we narrow it down, ever wonder why my dad came to the United States? Contrary to popular belief, it’s not to take anything from you.It’s more about admiration of the freedoms we have and the will to succeed; to achieve the American dream. The freedom to work hard and get ahead in life.

Then ask yourself, if you were desperate, and your child’s life depended on you doing something dangerous, would you do it? What if it were illegal? What if you needed to fast track things in order to save a life? Would you do it? I think we all know the answer is yes. we’d do anything for our children.

I’ve heard a lot of discussions online about immigrants and why many Americans don’t want immigrants here in the United States. People are talking about immigrants like they are not humans but has anyone ever just asked a real, live immigrant,

Super Bowl, immigrant, immigration, Mexico, border, the wall, Desierto

Hey, immigrant why are you here?

If you are not an immigrant, or the son or daughter of an immigrant, or the friend or loved one of an immigrant, maybe you just don’t know and I’m sure it is different for every single person. But I’m happy to share with you my immigrant story. How this freckled Mexican was born on the right side of the wall.

I’ve been quick to judge all of you. I was only seeing things from my perspective, the daughter of an immigrant; a first generation Mexican-American. I never even considered that there are actually people who don’t even personally know any Mexicans. They know of us, apparently our reputation precedes us, but they don’t “know us”; know us.

Super Bowl, immigrant, immigration, Mexico, border, the wall, Desierto

They’ve not grown up with us; eaten dinner at our home, been welcomed by my interracial couple parents and been kissed on the cheek and treated like family. They’ve not had the pleasure of hearing my dad, in his thick Spanish accent, look them in the eye, give them a firm hand shake ( even the most down trodden of our neighbors) and say, “Good to see you, buddy!” Never seen the way family is more than the people you share a last name with; never been willing to risk everything for those people.

They’ve never heard my dad sing Happy Birthday, Las Mananitas and You are my sunshine to my daughters every birthday or seen him grab them and start dancing with them whenever he hears music. They’ve never seen his giant smile and the way he says, “Sonofagun” any time his grandchildren do almost anything because he is so in awe of them.

They don’t know that my dad used to bring homeless people home for dinner that he’d see on his walk home from mass. My mom wasn’t too keen on this practice but that’s the type of guy he is. When he wants to, he’ll give you the jacket off his back if you need it more than he does. He’s the man who wore sunglasses when he walked me down the aisle so no one would see him cry, when he gave me away.

Don’t get me wrong, if you’re a long time reader of this blog you know that my dad is not perfect. He’s made mistakes but he’s also never been a drug dealer, a rapist or a murderer.

He simply falls into the immigrant category because he was born someplace else.

immigrant, hero

He’s the kind of man who has played the guitar in the church choir since I was a kid. He’s the guy who stopped drinking and now, devotes most of his retirement to not only staying sober but keeping others sober. But he is Mexican. He’s lived in the United States longer than he ever lived there. This is his home but Mexico is where he was born. Mexico is where part of my roots begin.

When all of the political mudslinging started during the campaign, I felt personally attacked because my dad is an immigrant and even though he is not perfect, he has always been a contributing member of society and he raised us to work hard, trust in God and respect our government.

Just because someone is an immigrant, doesn’t mean they are a bad person.

It just means they weren’t born here. They chose to come here. They choose America.

He’s a good man; a good Christian man who reads the bible daily, who has been married to the same woman for 44 years, who has raised 6 children and paid taxes to a country that he loves. The kind of man who plays in the sprinkler with his grandchildren. The kind of man who doesn’t want fame and fortune, he only wanted to be able to give his unborn children a better life than he had; maybe a house without dirt floors, maybe a life where the struggle wasn’t so real.

When people bad mouth immigrants, I take it personally. I feel like the country and the government that my dad loves so much, that we’ve been raised to believe is the best in the world, hated him simply for the color of his skin and by association me, my brothers and sisters and our children; the most precious thing in our lives; family.

The will to succeed is always welcome here.

Those were the words at the end of the Lumber 84, full 6-minute commercial, the one thought to be too controversial for a commercial during the Super Bowl. Those words spoke to me because I was raised by an immigrant who taught me to believe in myself and to know that where there is a will, there is always a way. My father is legal, but is that really relevant to the man he is?

That is all that my immigrant father wanted. The chance to be a member of our society; a chance to give his children a better life. He doesn’t hate Americans. He loves everything about this country. So what are we all so afraid of?

There’s been some confusion about the true meaning behind this commercial. I saw it as a beautiful thing but it seems I didn’t realize that a mother and daughter making their way to a better life is only beautiful if you come through the door. If you can’t find the door, I guess you’re just supposed to give up and live the life you’re doomed to live and I guess, according to Lumber 84, we’re all supposed to be okay with that.

Tomorrow, Desierto is released on DVD, I highly recommend that you watch it then maybe you’ll see why immigrants are more afraid of you than you should be afraid of them.

What’s the difference between the European immigrants that founded this country hundreds of years ago and the Mexican and Muslim immigrants who are trying to make a better life for their children now, besides the color of their skin? Then again, I guess it’s always been hard for immigrants.

What is the difference between an immigrant and you or I, besides a piece of paper?

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#PrayforParis, Paris, ISIS.Humanity, terrorism, Beirut, Syrian Refugees, Human Rights, Trump, borders, Peace

If you are the praying sort, please pray for humanity. I’ve not written about the situation in Paris until tonight because mostly, I was just trying to sit with it and digest it. I am having ripples of those same vulnerable feelings that overcame so many of us on 9/11. I am not an expert on what has happened, or what is going on in Syria, Beirut or any other place in the world where terrorists are wreaking havoc on our combined societal psyche but I am a citizen of the world.

Here is what I do know. I have seen what ISIS has done. I have witnessed the videos of random beheadings. I know that a terrorist and a Muslim are not the same thing. A Muslim is a member of a faith and a terrorist is someone who strikes fear into the hearts of others with no remorse. A terrorist sneaks in like a lamb and then attacks without provocation. Above all else, I know that we are all humans.

I know that terrorism is an act of cowardice and no matter who is in the line of fire, it is always a loss and we are all victims of the tyranny. The only way to overcome the brutality of terrorism is for those of us who have felt it’s wrath to rise up, band together and fight back. We have to be willing to make the sacrifice to stand up for what we believe in and be brave in the face of our greatest fears. We must believe in our purpose as much as they believe in their hatred.

People all over the world are splitting hairs in the wake of this tragedy. Trying to make sense of such a senseless act leaves heavy hearts making rash decisions and placing unwarranted blame on innocent victims. This is what is happening. Fear mongering is creeping in, perpetuated by politicians and those who already had hearts full of hatred. Bigots are using this as an excuse to proclaim themselves righteous.

The thing is this, we are losing sight of what is really happening. We are being manipulated. The terrorists are winning. If we live in fear and ban refugees from seeking shelter in our country, the terrorists win.

Trump and other members of the GOP are taking this opportunity to push their agenda. Even with fear and sorrow in my heart, in light of the recent terrorists attacks, I refuse to believe that we must shut people out to keep ourselves safe. More stringent vetting before we allow anyone to cross borders anywhere, I get but shutting entire populations out because of where they come from is insane.

Maybe my perspective is a little different because being a Latina I’ve already been on the politicians’ list of people who should be kept out. If we believe the politicians, all Latinos are rapist and drug dealers, all Syrians are members of ISIS and all Muslims are terrorists. The problem with absolute statements is that there are no absolutes in life. People are not an all or nothing sort of situation.

I get it, we’re scared. We are all scared of ISIS and terrorism in general and we should be. They are dangerous, they kill without discrimination and they hate us but I think it is appalling that politicians like Trump would use this terrible tragedy to push a political agenda.

How can we turn our backs on the people who need our help the most? How can we turn refugees seeking political asylum, which could mean the difference between their life or death, away and send them back to imminent death?

I’ve written before about the Latinos coming to the United States to escape persecution in their own country; to give their children a better life. They risk everything to come to the United States to keep their children safe and give them a chance in life, leaving behind everything and everyone they’ve ever known or loved. The Syrians who are seeking refuge are doing the same. They want to live. They have warrior hearts and they need shelter from the terrorism in their own country.

You know, not every Mexican is in the cartel and not every Syrian is a part of ISIS most of these people who are so desperate to cross our borders into the United States just want the chance to survive. How can we deny them that?

Hearts are broken, faith shaken and fear has taken hold of us all but we cannot let that happen because if we do, we condemn those who need us most and we let the terrorist win. We cannot live our lives hiding from the what ifs because in the end, danger can always find a way. We win by retaining our humanity in the face of this crisis. We win by reaching out to those who need us the most and giving them a helping hand, not kicking them in the teeth and sending them home. Remember, over half of these refugees are children.

Pray for Paris. Pray for Beirut. Pray for the Syrians. Pray for humanity. Pray for the whole world. Be safe. Do whatever you need to do to gain your bearings and then open your heart and remember who the true enemy is…ISIS not the Muslim people in general.

I know you’re afraid. We are all afraid but please don’t let this change your humanity.

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Throat Punch Thursday,Korda Bailey This week, I was torn as to who to give the most deserved Throat Punch but it came down to one thing…I can’t stand a racist or a homophobe. I think you know where I am going with this. This weeks Throat Punch must be bestowed upon Kobe Bryant.It’s apparently not enough that he is an adulterer and alleged rapist, now he wants to be a homophobe. I know people say things in the heat of the moment that they don’t mean or that are taken out of context. But when you are in the public eye, you have to be more vigilant about not letting these things happen. It’s bad enough that you are a big enough asshole to think them, but let’s be a human and keep the mouth shut. I am pretty sure that there is a special place in hell where some day, Kobe Bryant, Mel Gibson and Hitler will be standing around a ring of fire while spouting slurs against mankind.

I’m sure this will be swept under the rug, with the small slap on the wrist of the $100,000 fine. Soon, no one will remember. I mean hell, they’ve already forgiven him of all his other transgressions. I wonder if God has a special absolution rate for professional athletes too? How can people just look the other way? I don’t know. But I do know that I am giving this douche bag a Chuck Norris round house kick to the head with a very strong  junk punch ( since his junk apparently likes to wander and get him into trouble anyways). Maybe after he gets his kick , he can learn to keep his hateful asshole thoughts in his own head. Talk about poor sportsmanship!

Throat Punch, Chuck Norris, Thursday, little boy shot in road rage incident,Korda Bailey, GeorgiaIf you want to join in the fun and Throat Punch someone, please link up your Throat Punch Thursday post here. Grab the button  ( under the “Buttons”tab at the top of the page) and place it in your post and leave a comment . This way I can come check out your post!

THROAT PUNCH THURSDAY

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James Taranto, Whoopi Goldberg, date rape, rape, shitfaced

Did you know that date rape is just a figment of womens’ imaginations? Apparently, the Wall Street Journal’s, James Taranto, is still fighting the good fight in the “war on men”. Taranto feels that the world is on a rampage to criminalize male sexuality. And it seems that Mr. Taranto has found an unlikely ally in Whoopi Goldberg.

James Taranto wrote an article earlier this week titled Drunkenness and Doublestandards in which he compared rape to a drunk driving collision.

What is called the problem of “sexual assault” on campus is in large part a problem of reckless alcohol consumption, by men and women alike. (Based on our reporting, the same is true in the military, at least in the enlisted and company-grade officer ranks.)

 

Which points to a limitation of the drunk-driving analogy. If two drunk drivers are in a collision, one doesn’t determine fault on the basis of demographic details such as each driver’s sex. But when two drunken college students “collide,” the male one is almost always presumed to be at fault. His diminished capacity owing to alcohol is not a mitigating factor, but her diminished capacity is an aggravating factor for him.

Whoopi Goldberg apparently agrees because her response to the article was,

“if you don’t want this kind of attention, don’t get poop-faced. Do not get poop-faced. Do not become so drunk you don’t know what is happening.”

Way to go Whoopi! Nothing like placing the blame on the victims of date rape on national television. That’s a classy move. What’s next? Will she be standing shoulder to shoulder with Woody Allen as they cast disparaging remarks and throw stones at Dylan Farrow for being too damn milk drunk at age 7?

Look, I’ve read Mr. Taranto’s articles and this man is ridiculous to think that the men of the world need protection from the women. It’s a man’s world. It always has been. The vaginas are just living it. We have to fight tooth and nail just to be considered equal and we are still fighting to keep politicians out of our reproductive business. He quotes state troopers to support his theory,

“For the most part, they’re boys who had too much to drink and have done something stupid. When we show up to question them, you can see the terror in their eyes.”

As if that’s an excuse. They are filled with terror because they have been caught, not because they are sorry that they forced themselves on a woman in an act of rape. I wonder if the terror in their eyes looks anything like the terror in their victim’s eyes that were too drunk to fight off their rapist’s advances. Because, hey Whoopi, even when men and women are stone cold sober, pushing a man off you is a difficult task. Most men are stronger than most women, that is a fucking fact.

Taranto even goes so far to support a theory that suggests that bystanders should take culpability and intervene in all potential rape situations by “spilling a drink on the guy, turning on a light turning off the music or grabbing the perpetrator in a conga line to divert his attention.” Of course, if anyone sees a rape in process they should try to stop it but he makes it seem like college men are toddlers who need to be protected from themselves by others. No, I don’t think so. Having a dick doesn’t make you disabled.

What the Fuck? So obviously, according to Taranto, men rape because no one stops them and women drink. According to Whoopi Goldberg, if a woman doesn’t want to get raped she should just not drink so damn much. So, is it only rape if the victim can pass a breathalyzer test? Why not just take a bat to the assholes head if you catch him trying to force himself on a woman, any woman…”shit faced” or not.

Hey, Whoopi, we don’t blame victims for being raped. It doesn’t matter if she was shit faced, she needed a second haircut to wear her skirt, her lips were red and her tits were being served up like Sunday dinner. Will she attract negative attention? Probably. Does she deserve to be raped? NO!

Should women and men control their alcohol consumption? Yes. Reckless alcohol consumption can land you in compromising situations. You might wake up wondering what the hell you did the night before. You might be remorseful. But there is a universal rule that we all know and accept, men need expressed consent to have sexual intercourse with women. If no consent is given, it’s sexual assault. If a woman says, No, I don’t want to, I don’t fell like it, I have a headache, take me home or is not coherent or capable enough to say “yeah baby, let’s do it”, then do not pass go. Get up, go to the bathroom and take care of yourself or go home but do not put your penis in the vagina or you may face rape charges. Men know this. This is not new information.

Whoopi and Mr. Taranto you keep fighting the good fight to stand up against the “war on men”. Me, I’ll be over here standing up for all the shitfaced victims that you don’t think are really victims. I’ll be fighting in the real war, the war on women.

Rape is rape, assholes!

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