Talking to my friend Catherine the other day, I somehow got on the topic of work. Service. Values. The paths that lead us through all three. Catherine asked me a great question, which got me thinking about my current place in the world, and the direction in which I’m moving: “if you could be a part of any movement, knowing it would succeed, what would that movement be and what would your role in it be?” I knew the first part of my answer immediately, and the second one is still forming.

I belong in the movement to end sexual violence against women. I believe, truly, deeply, almost maniacally, that the root of every bad thing that is happening in the world, now and across history, is a result of sexual violence. I recognize that my perspective on the state of things and my (sometimes obnoxious) outspoken attitude towards rape and sexual assault have pigeon holed me. Perhaps I am a cliché.

But I feel like my eyes have been opened, or a veil has dropped, or a light turned on, and only a few others in my life have experienced something similar when it comes to this kind of violence. Even the most sympathetic, open-minded, and even feminist people in my life have a difficult time accepting the truth about sexual assault and letting go of the myths (“women should be held accountable for what they let happen to themselves,” “half of all reported rapes are false,” “intoxication = consent,” et cetera). I find myself choked up, apoplectic when talking about rape because to me, it’s all so obvious. To me, it’s a no brainer that only 6-8% of rapes are falsely reported. To me, it’s no surprise that only 2% of perpetrators are ever convicted, incarcerated, or even arrested. To me, the fact that only about 25% of all rapes are ever reported is very discouraging; to others, 25% is plenty. Really?

Seeing what survivors experience in the aftermath, sometimes forever, means becoming simultaneously desensitized to rape and repeatedly horrified, disgusted, and determined. A victim’s body/soul connection is never the same following an assault, let alone what happens to her interpersonal relationships. Or her professional relationships. Or the way she sees her education. Or the way she feels safe. Or the way she trusts herself. Even if her perpetrator is sentenced to 15 years (HA!), that’s criminal justice. That’s not justice for the victim. Which, of course, leads to more questions. What IS justice for the victim?

At this point, many turn to other violent crimes like murder, assault, et cetera to point out that there are few resources for such victims once perpetrators are convicted, sentenced, and serving their time. However, many argue also that the laws, cultural attitudes, and even global perspectives on something like murder provide some relief, and perhaps prevention. That is not to say that “murder isn’t a problem,” in the world, but I believe (no, I KNOW) that sexual violence as a weapon, a tool of war, a vehicle for domestic violence, an oppression model, et cetera, is wildly underestimated. Rape is at once the most heinous and most accepted crime among cultures that do not anticipate it or punish it harshly enough. And so it continues.

I could go on and on. And will. I don’t know what my role, ultimately, will be. I’ve dabbled with the idea of law school, thought about a sociological route in academia, thought about media relations, and am pursuing women’s health. Ideally, I’d like to help steer the cultural perception of sexual violence against women towards something more... accurate. Do not mistake this for censorship, to which I am adamantly opposed. But our societal expectations and attitudes towards rape were all shaped somehow, and the education and laws surrounding SA will never change until the culture does. They feed one another.

I feel it so strongly in my gut that I belong in this field. My feminist philosophy, which stems from my childhood, my interests in women and values surrounding gender, my passion for this work, and my deep curiosity in how a life in this field could take shape excite and frighten me. Because it’s a constant struggle. Worth every moment.

More later.

Hmm, Really?

If Glenn Beck truly believes that Obama's "call to service and volunteerism" is really just a brain-washing tool by a ruthless pack of fascists, I'd like to be the first volunteer to tell Glenn Beck to suck it.

I'm glad that I have finally realized who the new most dangerous man in America is. Too bad that he, too, is a fucking moron. Why couldn't it be someone badass like... Walter Sobchack? Or Kahn? Sigh.

All this indignation gets stuck in my throat. Must improve upon that.

Was there ever a fall that looked so much like winter, but felt so much like spring?

Because I'm so cold, my heart hurts.

Big hearts. i can feel them, smell their blood

Filling, swelling, bursting over the Spring.

Rosary bees weave the new air around me-

A braid for me to pray on...

Please, bees, I promise you that I am

not a flower, But I am not afraid of you.

To the left, an ant is trying to wear my

Forgotten shoe, but let him-

An eye distracted is watching

My hand pluck chinks of buried light

out of the earth.

And right, there is music!

Oh, big heart, swell and share yourself-

I will leave my shoes in the tangle of this shade

And we shall be unafraid

And we shall be, unafraid.

If I can just hear your pretty voice, I don't think I need to see at all.

Soft hair and a velvet tongue
I want to give you what you give to me.
Because every breath that is in your lungs
Is a tiny little gift to me.

Regina

Don’t sing your next song.
Or sigh, or sound. Our affair has been
so divine so far and so good,
and I would rather remain suspended
knowing only that the unknown will stay so.

Suspended with great expectations. Willfully
bound to await the expiration of this fleeting gasp
with your mouth always at my ear.
Could my love grow? The borders I cross
To stay in tow already leave me writhing
and crazed, but if mystical things harvest resilience,
you feed me.

I hear your song and I hear you sing about how
it works, and as you sing it, you make it so.
Lay me down among the words and inscribe truth
with every roll of your tongue.

Brick and Ivy

When was spring so heavy?

I saw you carrying your love

Behind you, plodding through

The mossy weight of new ground

And the whining gates

That follow Winter. and I saw you

Scampering under the great pregnant

Belly in the sky-

Let her cry.