The Hunting Ground

As with most things, it might not be 100% accurate, but you get the gist.

I was not assaulted in college. Boys have gotten too close to me in bars and called out to me at bus stops and yelled at me from windows. But I have never been invaded. Am I lucky that the worst that’s ever happened to me is an ass grope? A side boob swipe? A too tight squeeze on my hip? Am I lucky that I grew up with boys who didn’t know rape was a thing? Who respected the physical spaces of women’s bodies, conscious or not? Am I lucky that I walked quickly and carried pepper spray and monitored my alcoholic consumption to the best of my inebriated ability? That I never left my drink unattended? Am I lucky that I’ve never had to pull a stranger’s sweatshirt on over my head after being examined in a hospital room? Am I lucky that the stories I hear from others are far enough removed from my own that while I can sympathize, I can’t empathize? Because the stories I hear…

What is luck?

Why do we continue to support systems that hate women? Why can’t we admit that we hate women? That women’s livelihood and life and worth are unanimously, blatantly devalued? “Misogyny is the water we swim in.” Why do we continue to send our children places where what we think is happening isn’t really happening? Why do we expect the world to be a fair and just place when the world is not a fair and just place? Why don’t we teach our boys and girls to respect the female body–to respect the bodies of others–to honor the nature and the world and the spaces we cannot control? Why don’t we believe that we let the terrible things happen? That our silence or our trivialization or our misinterpretation are just one more crumbling stone in the foundation of what could be…


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