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Throat Punch Thursday

bigger women, beautiful women, all women, women, happy in your own skin, body acceptance, self-love, dating a bigger woman

Yesterday, I read an article about what men think about dating bigger women. It was called 15 Thoughts Every Guy Has When Dating A Bigger Woman and kept waiting to read that it was a joke; a satirical piece written about society’s treatment of overweight women. Unfortunately, it was not. It was just one douchey guy’s opinion about men who date women who are not “hot” and rocking the unattainable, bullshit body stereotype that media would have you believe is real. It’s not. Even the skitches you see with those bodies in magazine spreads, don’t have those body types. They have photoshop. There may be 1% of 18 –year-olds who are rocking that body without medical assistance.

As a rule, women have been fighting men’s traditional stereotype of “hot” since the dawn of time. In fact, many a woman has developed eating disorders and poor self body-image to adhere to society’s standard of beauty. Let’s face it, in the United States, skinny still is the determining factor of whether or not a woman is considered hot. If you doubt my assessment, just read the article written in The Richest.  This guy is everything that is wrong with the world. He is the oppressor of women and should be called out as such.

Jim Hogue’s bullet points about why dating bigger women is settling for less than:

“Lots of times you see a guy, he could be normal sized or he could be overweight himself, with a woman that is a bit overweight. When that happens a bunch of things go through a guy’s mind. On the one hand you might feel a little bad for the guy, but on the other hand you might think that he was really in love, or at least was with someone he really liked. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder after all.”

Apparently, men who date bigger women are to be pitied.

His List of 15 thoughts every guy has when dating bigger women.

Your Date is Tough

Well, a guy that dates a plus-sized girl is usually not one of those guys. This guy wants a girl to hang out with that is tough, and can take care of herself. This is the kind of woman that mowed the lawn when she was growing up and went fishing with her dad. Maybe that is not the kind of girl that you imagine hanging out with, but hey, to each his own.

 

My Girl Can Cook

So maybe this goes without saying, I don’t know, but I am going to say it anyway. Big girls usually get big for a reason, and usually that reason has something to do with food. While it might be fun to be out clubbing with some hot woman, it is just as fun, and maybe more fun to the right guy, to stay at home and have a woman cook for him and take care of him.

 

Calorie Counting is Out

So we have all been there. You get out of work and have had a long day, and you are totally starving. You want to order a large Pepperoni pizza from the pizza joint, the kind they say feeds 4 people and you want to eat all of it all by yourself. Well, this is no problem at all with the plus-sized girlfriend; just give her a ring and tell her that you are on your way home and are picking up a large pie. The only problem is you are going to have to buy two.

 

It is Good for His Confidence

Some guys just lack confidence. They don’t feel ready to ask out the women that they truly desire. They need to work their way up so to speak. I know that may sound cruel, but this is about what guys think when they date plus-sized women.

 

He Might Like Them Better

While so many people look at a guy with a plus-sized woman and feel kind of bad for him, very few actually seem to understand that a lot of guys actually really like women that look this way. To each his own, people like what they like and there are a lot odder things that people are into than that.

 

They Are Easy to Talk To

One of the main things a guy dating a bigger chick is often thinking is how easy his girl is to talk to. This may seem like something that is not important to many guys, but after hanging out with a lot of uptight women, a girl that can relax and talk is a breath of fresh air. Let’s face it, so many women that look traditionally hot have never really learned the art of conversation, and most of them are not that funny. A plus-sized woman is the exact opposite. They are used to working their personality to make up for what many guys perceive to be flaws.  Most girls that are overweight tend to be really fun, and easy to talk to about pretty much anything. A guy that dates a normal-sized girl is not used to that at all.

 

**Oh look, this asshole managed to completely insult ALL women in one single paragraph! ***

 

Picking a Place to Eat is Easy

You want to go get some wings and some fries and watch the game at a sports bar and she wants to go to that new hip place and get Thai food. Or it could be that you go to order pizza and you want sausage and onion and she wants feta and greek olives?  Sometimes that whole scene can turn into an enormous fight when you are dating a chick that is average-sized. Well, if you are dating someone that is plus-sized, then you don’t have to worry about this a whole lot. She is going to probably be willing to go pretty much anywhere you want her to, at any time.

 

The Cuddling is the Best

There are some things that are simply not as fun when you are hanging out with a skinny woman. Like what you ask?  Cuddling a skinny woman is no fun at all. It feels like you are snuggling with your 12-year-old brother.  Not so if you are dating a plus- sized woman. In fact, once you start to cuddle her, you might not want to stop. It really is that good. Overweight women should hire themselves out as professional cuddlers. Oh, and also they are willing. A plus-sized girl is going to tend to be happy for that sort of attention, no doubt about that at all. All you have to do is lay down on the couch and look at her in a sweet way, and you will get your cuddle going before you know it.

 

She is a Built in Work-Out Buddy

A thin chick probably has a pretty stingy workout set routine; and not only that, she might be in better shape than you are. Not so if you are dating an overweight chick. She is probably going to be up for trying pretty much anything that you are into when it comes to training or working out. Sure, she might lag a little bit at first, but all that does is take a lot of pressure off your shoulders, and that is never a bad thing.

 

There is Less Pressure on How You Look

if you are dating a plus-sized woman. This is a whole new world: all of sudden kicking around the house all Sunday watching football and eating a whole bag of Cheese Doodles is more than fine. The woman you are dating is not going to care even a little bit about how much you weigh or what you eat, and that in itself can be priceless.

 

Jealousy is a Thing of the Past

Being jealous is a way of life for a lot of guys. It is one of the problems of having a super hot girlfriend. It is not like you are the only one that notices; everywhere you go people are going to be checking her out and sometimes, if you are a certain type of guy, that kind of thing can drive you crazy. And truth be told, this is why a lot of guys like dating a woman that they don’t have to worry about unwanted eyes.

 

They Tend to be Funny

Plus-sized girls tend to be funny, or at the very least they often have a really good sense of humor. This goes a bit hand in hand with the fact that they are easy to talk to. So many times girls that grew up being told they were hot all the time tend to stifle their sense of humor- why do they need to be funny?

A big chick is very often a really funny one, it happens all the time. It is no coincidence that so many female comedians tend to be a bit on the big side.

 

They Tend to Be Eager to Please

While so many women want a guy to put her up on a pedestal, when you are dating a plus-sized girl it is often the exact opposite. They are often not used to being with a guy and are insecure about it. They want you to be happy. Whether it is going out or staying in, what movie to see, or what you do in the bedroom, most of these women are eager to please. In their minds you have looked past their physical issues and are into them for who they are. Which in turn often makes them very willing, in all sorts of ways. A guy with a plus-sized girl can soon feel like a king, which can be really appealing to the guy that was getting pushed around in another relationship.

 

You Can Take Her Anywhere

She will go pretty much anywhere you want to go, and do whatever you want to do. Want to spend the day at the beach? She will go and rub lotion on your back in those hard to reach places. Want to spend the day doing yard work? She will probably be up for doing that as well, and may even outwork you while doing it. A typical guy that dates a plus-sized woman really gets used to hanging with someone agreeable for a change, and who quite often is up for anything. This is not to say that most hot women are not agreeable of course. Actually, who am I kidding, that is exactly what I mean.

 

They are Easy to Ask Out

Guys don’t like getting stressed out, so they go with something that they consider more of a sure thing. It is hard to ask out a woman, so sometimes a guy ends up asking someone he is pretty sure that he will not get rejected by, which is why he asks out a plus-sized woman in the first place.

 

Firstly, who is defining what’s considered “bigger”? Is it a size 8, 10, 14, 20, 26? Is it anything above a sample size. That may be “Normal” in places where looks are all that matter and eating disorders and plastic surgery are the norm (I’m looking at you California) but it’s not in the rest of the world. And who defines beauty anyways? The media which is controlled, predominantly, by men.

 

There are plenty of fat, bald and old guys out there with wives, girlfriends and partners and no one flinches. No one feels sorry for their spouses. The assumption is that their partner loves them, not that their partner settled for them so why is it that society assumes that in order for a man to love a woman who is not anorexic, he must be settling and it could not possibly be a physical attraction? Besides, when choosing a partner, initially we are attracted to the way a person looks (that’s human nature) and then we fall in love with who they are and all their qualities that we find endearing and that is different for every single person.

 

The fact that this guy assumes that because a woman is “bigger” she is being settled for and that if is guy is dating a “bigger” girl it is out of desperation or some sort of willful act of giving up makes me sick. I also find it kind of alarming that he manages to insult all women in his piece. He basically calls skinny women unapproachable bitches that he is not up for the challenge of even attempting to date and he infers that bigger women are so needy and willing to please that he’ll settle for less than “perfect” in order to not face rejection.

As a woman who has been the thin hot woman and I know the burden of being a “bigger” woman and everything in between, I can assure you that there are plenty of men out there who want all women. Good, decent respectable men who are attracted to all types and don’t consider it settling or giving up on life to date a woman who crosses the threshold of a size 6. Only men with small minds judge women on the size of their asses.

This article is more telling about Jim Hogue’s, the author, shortcomings than anything else. Let me tell you one last thing Mr. Hogue on behalf of women everywhere of every size, none of us wants you because you are ugly to the core and that is worse than fat any day of the week. You sir deserve this week’s Throat Punch Thursday!

Throat Punch Thursday,dating bigger women

If you’d like to read the article 15 Thoughts Every Guy Has When Dating A Bigger Woman in its entirety it is here.

What are your thoughts on his take on dating bigger women?

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Throat Punch Thursday, breastfeeding, adults breastfeeding, dry breastfeeding, fetishes

Jennifer Mulford hasn’t been pregnant or needed to nurse a baby in 20 years but she’s completely determined to be a woman breastfeeding an adult man. This time it will be her partner who she’s trying to get to latch. You heard me right, this broad wants that “special bond” you can only get from skin-to-skin, breastfeeding an adult man. Look, I don’t care how you get your kinks but nope. Did that sound judegmental? Only because they are making it known to the world. Keep it in the bedroom, I don’t need to know your a woman breastfeeding an adult man. It creeps me out a bit to be honest.

**Excuse me while I vomit in my mouth a little bit.

Hey, people have fetishes. I’m not a prude. People like to have sex outside, in front of people, with multiple people, on their knees, in the trees, in water, in dirt, in jello, wearing latex, wearing ball gags, butt plugs and beads. Some people like to wear diapers when they do it and others like to wear big, furry costumes. Some people like to be beaten and peed on. But of all those things, I think, personally, I find breastfeeding a grown man to be one of the grossest fetishes.

After reading online about adult breastfeeding relationships, Jennifer became intrigued by the idea of nursing an adult. She was so determined to get that “bond” that moms have with their nursing child that the bartender went in search for a man child of her own to breastfeed. No, she didn’t have a partner when she got the idea. That came later.

When she first discovered ABR, the single Atlanta mom, started searching online in hopes of finding a man who would be interested in being her partner in this freaky endeavor. Talk about go big or go home. It’s hard enough to ask your committed partner to do this crazy shit but she went in search of a complete stranger to do this with.

After trying countless dating sites, posting messages on Adult Breastfeeding Relationship forums and even placing an ad on Craigslist, she thought her dream of breastfeeding a man just wasn’t going to happen. But before completely giving up on her dream of bonding with a man while he suckled at her bosom, Jennifer brought the idea up to Brad Leeson, an old boyfriend, and he was immediately excited and curious about the idea. Freaks of a feather and all that, I suppose.

“At that moment I knew that I had a partner for life,” she said. “We both wanted the same thing out of the relationship — a magical bond that only breastfeeding can achieve.”

I’m not sure that she realizes this bond she is referring to is usually between a mom and baby because, you know, the baby is depending on the mom for nourishment and the mom is keeping her child alive. Brad, on the other hand, can just go get a burger.

Once she knew Brad was in, Jennifer took a leave of absence from her job so that she could focus all of her time and attention on breastfeeding her man-child.

Jennifer said, “When I read about the bond breastfeeding could create between two people I was envious.”

“I have always enjoyed my breasts being touched during sex more than anything else so I knew I would enjoy it.”

**Excuse me while I vomit again. She just went there. She just made the most unsexual thing, feeding your baby, sexual.

In order for all of this to happen, since Jennifer is not lactating, the two have consistently been dry feeding and pumping every two hours in an attempt to induce lactation. I remember breastfeeding and it is a round the clock day, especially when you are waiting for your milk to come in. There is no time for anything else.

In addition to their strict feeding schedule, Jennifer is drinking Mother’s Milk tea three times a day; taking an herbal pill, and doing everything possible to increase her milk supply. Brad is hopeful that her milk will help with his workouts at the gym.

Apparently, neither of them must be working if they are dry breastfeeding every two hours? How do they pay their bills? Maybe they are independently wealthy. Maybe this could be a new trend for the rich and famous or trust fund babies; got nothing but time and money, why not spend your days breastfeeding adult men?

What do you think about breastfeeding a grown man to for bonding purposes?

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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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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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Bad parenting, Cincinnati Zoo, cincinnati zoo gorilla, Donald trump, MIchelle Gregg, racism, Racists, Trump Supporters

The crazy people of the internet went from a polarizing hatred toward me over the Cincinnati zoo gorilla and my opinion of Michelle Gregg to straight up racists this week. People were commenting on everything from the fact that Michelle Gregg was African American to tossing around racists stereotypes like it was their job. I was appalled.

The thing is I wrote a knee-jerk post in a moment of anger. I’m an emotional writer who lacks a filter. I got more facts and apologized for being so judgmental. Then something unexpected and crazy happened, all the “Trump people” found their way to my blog and turned a horrible mistake into a venue for racist rants. This shocked me because, I have no idea what the race of a mother, or the criminal history of the child’s father has to do with their ability to parent or whether or not they love their children. What shocked me the most is that suddenly a parenting issue became about race.

Whether you buy your food with cash or on an EBT card, aren’t you still feeding your children? Since when is it a crime to be a little less financially fortunate? And just because a person made some mistakes that landed them in hot water with the penal system, does that mean they are incapable of loving their children? I don’t think so.

I’ve learned this week that the world is full of hateful, narrow-minded people that will use any excuse to spread their hateful agenda. Small people like to hurt people at their lowest moments and kick them hard when they are already feeling down.

I thought the worst had happened when I received close to 400 comments on my post telling me what a sanctimommy I was after I wrote the post about the mom who I held responsible for it all. The internet was not happy with me.

I was being judged presumptuously by the blog title alone (obviously, no one read it or most would have realized that I shared many of their opinions on the situation.) I was called every terrible name imaginable, told to come down off of my high horse, facetiously called “Super Mom”, “perfect Mother” and a proper “C*NT” (not so facetiously but quite literally) more times than I can even count.

Yes, she may have been responsible for not paying enough attention to her little guy for a few moments/minutes but then again maybe the enclosure should have been better child proofed/ less dangerous and maybe, just maybe, it was all just a horrible accident that could have happened to any one of us and has, to some degree. I think that’s where all the anger originated from.

People, parents especially, were identifying with this mom, empathizing and remembering a time when their child slipped away out of their gaze, even for a moment. It terrified them because any one of us could have ended up in this exact situation or something similar. It just so happened that I was the cold-hearted bitch making them all feel like mom failures. Which was never my intention. Then I wrote an apology for being hasty. That’s when the internet lost its f*cking mind for real.

The Racists came Out in Full attack mode.

Look I can take it if you want to attack me for my unpopular opinion. It was judgy and had a very polarizing opinion. What I don’t get was why when I published the second post, the one apologizing, I got just as much hate mail. All the people who apparently supported my original post but dared not voice their support suddenly sounded off and they were outraged. All I could think was, “Where were these people yesterday when I was being crucified by the internet?”

Honestly, I don’t think anyone read either post. I think everyone just read the title and formed their opinions of me. Talk about judging a book by its cover. Hell, it could have been the exact same post, just with a different title. In fact, it may have been. I’m never telling. You’ll just have to read for yourself and find out.

But then, something even more unbelievable happened, what was about a mom and her parenting skills or lack thereof suddenly became about race. I don’t know what one has to do with the other but all of the sudden the comments on the FB share became very dark. People started attacking this woman for her race, which has absolutely nothing to do with her parenting skills.

I won’t repeat what these racists were saying because low”>I’m not a racist  myself but you can go see them for yourself and be disgusted here.

One commenter accused me of having “white guilt”. Firstly, I’m Latina. Secondly, I wrote the post before I ever saw a picture of Michelle Gregg. Thirdly, I grew up in a very urban neighborhood, my entire neighborhood was African American and so are some of my favorite people. Who’s jumping to conclusions now?

Anyways, who knew that a little boy falling into a gorilla enclosure could bring out all of the “Trump supporters” to this mom? Honestly, this is just a symptom of what our country is becoming since Donald Trumpp has been campaigning for president.  People now think it’s okay to be openly racists. It’s bad enough if you have that hatred in your heart but it’s quite something else when you decide you are free to shout it out into the world, not caring how those words affect others. It’s as if they are proud to be racists.

People no longer feel ashamed or fear consequences of this kind of despicable behavior. This simultaneously sickens and terrifies me. Somehow this election season has brought out all the worst in people of our country and made people believe it’s acceptable to wave their racists flags high. Have you seen the Purge? I feel like lynchings could be making a comeback if Donald Trump gets into the oval office.

I don’t usually delete comments on my blog because I am a big girl and when I put my opinions online, I’m open to debate. I don’t expect everyone in the world to agree with me. Hell, we can even be friends if we have opposing views, as long as we respectfully agree to disagree but if you are leaving racists remarks on the blog, they will be deleted because I won’t be used as a venue for you to hurt other readers with your small minds and mean words. Bottom line is that if you are a racist or a bigot, we can’t be friends so just unfollow me now. Stop reading.

And to the “friend” who decided that after 3 days of being hated by the internet, she’d take her turn and kick me while I was already down. Bye Felicia! There’s no place in my world for fake friends. I’m grown. Life’s too short for shitty friends.

If you heard someone being a racist in person ( or online) would you speak up or would you be silent for fear of backlash?

What would you really do if you heard/saw racists spewing hate towards someone else?

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Donald Trump, parenting, politics, racism, misogyny, bigotry, children, America, American values, xenophobia, America is great

I wanted to write a lighthearted Saint Patrick’s Day post today but Donald Trump has me terrified. It has nothing to do with being a Republican or a Democrat; it’s him, as a person. I am a Political Scientist by degree, I’m not sure many of you know that about me. Politics are my jam. I know all the ins and outs and I have my affiliations but I’m not asking you to vote the way I vote, I’m just asking that you consider all the facts.

I absolutely believe in the right to free speech and the right for every single person who is a citizen of this country to be able to vote for who they want to lead us, we are the people of “we the people”. It is our country. The President is an elected official. By staying silent and allowing a monster to be elected, because you don’t want to get called for jury duty, makes you part of the problem, not the solution and your (yes, you!) vote counts!

I’m not here to Trump bash, though if you know anything about me, you know I can’t stand his politics. But this is Throat Punch Thursday and I don’t think anyone deserves a bigger punch to the gullet, with a Chuck Norris round house kick more than Mr. Trump. If you support him, we’re probably not friends and aren’t reading this so I won’t worry about you unfriending me but on the off chance you are a Trump supporter, I would love to hear why you think he is the best candidate for you in the comments.

When I think of Trump the businessman, and I know many people think that the United States needs a business savvy person to run the country to fix the economy, I think of the top 1%. He is without a savvy businessman. He has more money than he knows what to do with and I think with that comes a God like feeling. When you don’t need people, I think you begin to lose touch with reality and that is a slippery slope to losing your humanity. It’s almost as if he can’t help it. He’s lived in this Trump bubble of his for so long that the situation the other 99% lives in (paycheck to paycheck) is not even fathomable anymore.

What scares me the most about the thought of Donald Trump winning the presidential election is that he thinks he is above all reproach. He will not be held accountable. He incites hatred and has made racism, misogyny, bigotry and xenophobia acceptable behavior by American people. In the short amount of time since he has began campaigning, people are crawling out from under their rocks and hurling hatred at one another in the most disgusting ways and it’s trickling down to our children.

 

Children hear and see everything. I discuss politics with my daughters. We have dinner together every night and we discuss our days and the news. I don’t believe in keeping my kids in bubbles. I think that kind of gullibility makes them vulnerable and susceptible to other people’s opinions so we discuss. I allow them to form their own opinions by presenting the facts. They know that they don’t have to agree with me but they do need to make informed choices in life.

I’ve worked really hard parenting my children to become good human beings.  I don’t want Donald Trump to ruin our children’s futures with his agenda of hatred. Personally, I think I’ve been doing a pretty good job of parenting and I want my kids to stay on the trajectory they are on as good, decent human beings who see other human beings.

 

#BellaForPresident, Donald Trump, parenting, politics, racism, misogyny, bigotry, children, America, American values, xenophobia, America is great

 

What do you think of Donald Trump and his campaigning antics?

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Christmas cards, peace on earth, domestic violence, awkward holiday card, hannah hawkes photography

When you think of peace on earth does your mind immediately go to women should be seen and not heard? Do you think the above photo can be construed as funny? I don’t. I find it offensive that a family would request this sort of photo that makes light of such a serious topic as sexism and condones domestic violence. How can a photo of your wife and daughters bound and gagged ( even with Christmas lights) with your toddler son giving a thumbs up be found anything but disgusting? But I’m not mad so much as I am saddened that anyone would think this is okay.

I can take a joke just as much as the next person. Hell, I’ve written some pretty off the cuff pieces, dare I say maybe even bordering on offensive, humor pieces about lady bits and I’m no stranger to controversy but as someone who has experienced abuse and spent my childhood being told that I should be seen and not heard, sometimes even threatened by physical injury and other times being on the receiving end of a good slap for speaking up, I don’t find this funny.at.all. In fact, I find that it makes a mockery of domestic violence and women’s rights in general.

I’m not sure why this picture was taken or whose idea it was. The mom’s? The dad’s? Either way, why did the other one go along with it? What kind of message is it sending to their daughters? What kind of message is it sending to their son? What kind of message is it sending to the people they know that they might send these cards to?

There is nothing funny about this photo. I know people push the envelope to get these awkward, funny to some, creepy to others holiday photos. I get that but this photo offends me on every level. This photo clearly sends the message that women should be forced into submission and seen but never heard. It objectifies women and dehumanizes us.

I’ve spent my life speaking up when I was told to shut up. It wasn’t easy and it was even dangerous. It took bravery to break that cycle. Do you know what it feels like to be afraid of your own voice? Do you know what it feels like to be punished for voicing your thoughts? It is a misogynistic way of breaking one’s spirit by humiliating them at their very core. The message is clear, to be seen and not heard means that you are invisible and your thoughts, your existence, do not matter. You do not matter and your very existence is only allowed by someone else’s permission.

Peace on Earth is not achieved by silencing women.

I can’t even be irate by this photo because I am too busy being so saddened that this is the message these parents want to instill in their children. This one photo, that speaks volumes, is telling their children that women should be silent or suffer the consequences and that men only get peace through violence against women. This photo is telling their children that women don’t matter.

I’m sure these parents thought this would be a funny gag but maybe, as parents, they should consider the ramifications and lasting impressions they are making on their children. This one small moment has ripples and if they took this picture, as anyone who has ever told a joke knows, there is always some truth to the joke so if they thought it was funny, somewhere inside they believe that this is how peace on earth is achieved.

Women bound with Christmas lights with duct tape over their mouths, with a young boy giving a thumbs up and a grown man holding a sign that says “Peace on Earth” is not my idea of funny. It’s sexist and wrong. Simply put this photo condones the subjugation of women, in fact, it celebrates it. I want a better world for my daughters and I hope the family in this photo, want more for theirs.

Dear Peace on Earth Family,

I hope this was a failed attempt at being funny and there is nothing more nefarious or, indeed, true about the logic behind this photo. As a mother, a woman and someone who has been told that she was to be seen and not heard at threat of violence for her entire childhood, I implore you to please consider the message you are sending your children, all of them.

Readers, what do you think of this photo of “peace on earth”?

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cast fetish, broken leg, recovery, updates from the couch, physical therapy

I’ve had an eventful week, I discovered what the term cast fetish means. Ever heard of it? Me neither until now.

Last week I had my 8-week follow up appointment with my orthopedic surgeon for my broken leg and the news was good. I was released to begin weight bearing. This week I’m up to half weight bearing. I’m not fully functional yet but I’m driving and it’s better than being stuck on the couch like I had been for the previous 8 weeks. 8 weeks is a lifetime when you are used to being on the go all the time. I felt like I was doing time or under house arrest.

When the doctor gave me the news that I could start walking with crutches, I was so excited. I nearly danced a happy dance until I realized that my leg might not be quite strong enough yet so instead I opted for a little wheelchair boogie. Oh yes, I did!

The thing is this has been a crazy, long eight weeks and if it weren’t for all the amazing people who have jumped in to support me and pick up the slack and just pray and cheer me up, I don’t know how I would have gotten through it. Granted I’m still going through it but I feel like I’m coming out the other side. I can put some weight on my foot. That means everything. I never knew how much until now.

This experience has forced me to slow down and take inventory of my life and my health. I have reprioritized because the things I was racing around and breaking my neck to get to just aren’t that important anymore.

I’ve also garnered a new respect for toddlers. No wonder it takes them so long to learn to walk. It’s scary, especially with the possibility of falling ever looming. The last time I fell, my entire life changed.

I started physical therapy with elastic resistance bands on my broken foot this week. I was super excited because, in my mind, the more I can do to get back to normal the better life will be. My doctor has warned me that there might be setbacks but, you know me, I always think I’m going to be the exception so I went for it. I was all in at Tuesday’s physical therapy session and by Tuesday night, I was nearly in tears because my leg is so sore. That’s what I get for showing off.

There’s been some swelling and stiffness the last couple of days. I have another therapy session in about 15 minutes. I won’t lie. I’m kind of terrified. I want to keep moving forward. I don’t want to keep getting slowed down by pain but I guess that’s all part of recovery.

Of course, through all of this, I’ve discovered a bizarre, even seedy, side to broken bones. Throughout the entire ordeal, I’ve been posting photos and updates of my broken leg to my Instagram, Facebook and Twitter accounts because as a blogger, this is what I do. It’s been a great source of moral support. However, recently, I have noticed a rash of likes on my Instagram photos of my broken leg. Huh? Then it happened.

My Instagram profile is public because it’s part of my brand but I go through and block anyone who I get the “heebie-jeebies” from because there are photos of my children on there. So imagine my shock when suddenly there were tons of likes on every one of the photos I posted of my broken leg and most of those were from men who I don’t know in real life.

I was curious so I checked out their pages and every single one of them are men with fetishes for women with broken legs and/or casts. It’s a real thing.

Cast fetish is a kind of fetishism with an erotic concentration on orthopedic casts (plaster, polymer, bandage, etc.) It is usually related to the fetishes of feet, stockings, shoes and amputees. The sufferers usually like the opposite gender wearing casts on their limbs, using crutches, or limping around. Sometimes, socks and stockings will increase the attraction of the afflicted. Basically, these fetishists prefer their partners physically broken and for maximum pleasure, missing limbs.

It’s called a cast fetish.

I’ve never felt so dirty in my entire life. I mean, WTF, the thought of some creepy troll wanking himself to my dislocated ankle is disturbing to say the least. Are these men sadist who get their rocks off from seeing a woman in pain?

Then I realized there is an entire subculture of men with this fetish. In fact, there is porn that actually specializes in this sort of injury. What? I guess it takes all kinds. I won’t judge but I also won’t allow you to file my agony in your spank bank for later use. Sorry, I’ll have to block you.

What’s the weirdest thing you ever heard or saw on social media?

Did you know there was such a thing as a broken leg or cast fetish?

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tampons, free bleeding, kiran Gandhi, feminism, periods without tampons, patriarchy

Cause she’s free, free bleeding!

Sorry, I just can’t get that damn Tom Petty song out of my head ever since I read that article about the woman running the London marathon while on her period with absolutely no feminine hygiene help. Tampons…we don’t need no stinking tampons (or maxi pads for that matter). We are woman, watch us bleed.

A few months ago, Kiran Gandhi (a Harvard MBA) chose to run the London marathon, “unencumbered by the ‘absurd’ presence of a chaffing ‘wad of cotton’ wedged between her legs.” And so began the third-wave feminist movement of “free-bleeding.”

First, it was the bush making a comeback, then ladies refusing to shave their legs on principal and now, dying pit hair and free bleeding. Look, I am a woman and I am loud and proud about women’s rights. Hell, I’m even a bit of a fanatic. I like causes and, if we’re being honest, women and minorities are two of my favorites because I am both.

I don’t think women should be banished to red tents and dirty sheds because they are on their periods. But damn, you couldn’t pay me money to run around London bleeding out because that is exactly what I would be doing. It would look like someone tried to kill me by stabbing me to death in my vagina. All of London would look like a traveling crime scene and quite frankly, I don’t want to be known as free bleeding Debi. Plus, it feels a bit unhygienic. I mean, my sheets are white!

I mean, no one’s going to invite me to their house anymore. Party invites and standing up in weddings, all gone forever. No one wants to take the chance I’m going to show up and damage their goods or cause a spectacle. I mean, I’m just finally living down all those sweater ass covered periods of my youth. I wore a sweater one week of every month from the ages of 12-18…just in case of an accident. Then I discovered tampons, left the flying winged diapers behind and moved on with my life.

What’s all this period-shaming shit about? I’m not embarrassed by my period. The patriarchy didn’t curse me with shark week, it’s biology. It’s for the babies! Who doesn’t love babies?

Honestly, tampons are a pain in the vagina. I get it! Have you ever got your lip caught between those two cardboard parts of the applicator? That shit hurts like a mother effer. Or have you ever completely forgotten that you had one in and put another one in and shoved the previous one into your brain? It hurts. Or the worse is when you do it quickly; go on about your business only to realize 15 minutes into a board meeting that you are sitting on the inner cardboard tube of the applicator. It’s like sitting on a broom handle….in your vagina while having a conversation. And please don’t even get me started on the diapers that are an excuse for maxi pads once you give birth. My God, I need a f*cking diaper between the pee and the hemorrhaging. Why didn’t people warn me?

 So, free bleeding?

Look, I get it. It is 2015 and we want all the equal rights and I think women should be able to do everything men do, if they want to go topless, serve in the army on the front lines, open all the goddamn doors they want to…GO.FOR.IT! But me, I can do all that but I like it when my husband opens doors for me and pulls out my chair. I like chivalry and manners. I love respect for women. I don’t want to run around free bleeding and covered in body hair like a savage to prove a point. I’ll burn the shit out of my bras though, I hate those things.

As far as I’m concerned, I’ll share. Boys, you want the free bleeding? The monthly hemorrhage accompanied by tender breasts, cramps and PMS? You can have it. I will buy all of your drinks.

I’m all about live and let live but can I please live with my tampons and without the mortification of the entire world knowing when I’m menstruating. Can we just allow me that one private dignity? As for Kiran Gandhi, I say go girl. If this is how you want to celebrate your womanhood, you do it loud and proud.

How do you feel about the free bleeding phenomenon?

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American, dentist, Walter Palmer, Cecil the Lion, Zimbabwe

Have you seen this photo of Walter Palmer, the dentist from Minnesota who murdered Cecil the Lion,  perched proudly above the remains of a dead lion? It proves that Walter Palmer has no respect for life.

There are bad people in the world that’s not a secret. I’ve always leaned more towards the crunchy, tree-hugging and animal loving side  of life philosophies. On most days, I prefer animals to people because most people suffer from some degree of hubris and I find that to be a most unattractive quality in humans. But on days like today, I’m reminded why maybe being at the top of the food chain doesn’t make you more evolved but more capable of doing wrong; damn walking upright and opposable thumbs. I’m talking specifically about the story of Cecil the Lion and the arrogant dentist from Minnesota.

Have you ever seen the hostel series? This is the vibe I get from this entire situation. Lesson number 1, Americans travel the world and act like assholes. This is our Achilles heel. We travel and think the entire world should bend to our will. We don’t learn the languages, we don’t respect the culture or the people and we basically think we can walk in there and own the place. This arrogance makes us vulnerable to all sorts of wrongdoing.

Walter Palmer is a big game hunter. He says he secured all the appropriate licenses and jumped through all the big game hoops that were dictated by regulations. Yet, the lion in question was lured off of a reserve at night (I don’t know maybe that’s when you hunt Lions?) when he was clearly in the national park and wearing a collar, which means he was not only protected he was being studied. In fact, not only was he being studied, he was the most famous of all the lions in Zimbabwe. But Americans, we can’t be held to the rules of native countries we are above these savages, besides he had money and if there is anything we are taught in the United States it is that everything has it’s price. He’s not the first person to think he’s above the law and he won’t be the last when it comes to murdering helpless animals.

And we wonder why the entire world hates us. It’s because we are a bunch of assholes. I see this all a little differently because while I am American, I have traveled outside the U.S. as a child with a native to another country and I was force learned to respect other countries; their languages, their people and their culture. I was not taught to travel and expect the world to bow to me. I was taught when in Rome (or Mexico in my case) behave as if in Rome, not as if you are in America because you’re not.

This dentist went to Africa, paid some people, greased some palms and had his hunt. He didn’t care how forbidden or illegal it was. He can backtrack all he wants now but why lure the lion off the reserve unless it was to do something illegal. He wanted the full experience of the hunt; the thrill of wounding, tracking and ultimately killing and desecrating the animal. He wanted his photo taken with the slain carcass and the head mounted on the wall. He didn’t give a damn about the law. He wanted to satisfy some desire in him to say he killed the beast.

American, dentist, James Palmer, Cecil the Lion, Zimbabwe

He was trying to get around the law because he has no respect for it and if the truth were truly known, I’d say the only thing he is sorry for is being caught and the financial repercussions he is suffering for this bad behavior.

I don’t know about you but I think Walter Palmer should be extradited to Africa and made to serve jail time, not just issued a fine because he has not only disrespected the animal itself, he has disrespected the law and the country. I feel like he thinks he is above the law. He needs to be shown that he is not.

If this bad behavior is tolerated, what’s next on his list? Hunting humans? The thrill of the hunt will grow and what happens when there are no more animals to be hunted? He will want something bigger, smarter and more of a challenge. Maybe next he will pay the right people to let him murder a homeless man in some obscure country where he thinks no one will notice. Maybe he already has.

What are your thoughts about Walter Palmer murdering Cecil the Lion?

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