When #MeToo and #Ididit Met Each Other
And a Bit About a Problem with the Term, "Rape Culture."
(If you’re like me and like to multi-task while listening to stories, use the voiceover above the picture. Today’s post is somewhat lengthy.)
(Trigger warning: This article contains discussions of sexual assault which may be distressing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.)
Rape Culture has been a problematic term for me.
It’s not that I don’t believe it exists. I do. It’s not that I think we should discard the term. I do not.
It’s that until I researched the term, I misunderstood it. I’m someone who has studied college sexual assault, so I think it’s likely others who haven’t would misunderstand it as well.
In general, I don’t spend much time researching terms. Like others, I hear a term and piece together an understanding based on how I’ve used similar words before. In this case, I have a particular understanding of what rape is and what culture is. I understand rape to be a violent sexual assault (usually involving penetration of one person by the other)1 on another person. It’s cruel, wicked and evil.
I understand culture to be the accepted or defining norms of a group of people.
But it’s important we understand what rape culture is, so I looked into it a bit more.
Here’s how ChatGPT defines it:
"Rape culture" refers to a societal environment where rape and sexual violence are normalized, trivialized, or excused, often through attitudes, behaviors, and media portrayals that perpetuate harmful stereotypes about gender, sexuality, and power. In a rape culture, actions like victim-blaming, objectifying women, downplaying the severity of sexual assault, and perpetuating myths about rape (e.g., that victims were "asking for it" due to their clothing or behavior) are prevalent.
This definition is different than what I perceived rape culture to mean. For me, the term created somewhat of a visual image due to how I understand the individual words rape and culture. I envision a group of people, primarily men, who prowled the community with intent to rape people. A group of people who are intentional predators, seeking their next victim.
For certain, people and groups like that exist. Probably even more than I’d like to admit. But it couldn’t be further from the truth of the situation for many…dare I say a majority(?) of…situations when it comes to sexual assault and rape. At least not for me and my victim, Joy, and not for most of the people who have shared their stories with me.
I was not on the prowl looking for an unknowing victim. In fact, because of the value system in which I grew up, I was committed to abstaining from sex until I was married. So, rape wasn’t even on my radar.
I just wanted a girlfriend. That’s how and why our relationship started. I was looking for a nice girl to have a relationship with.
In the posts I’ve shared in the past few weeks the narrative has been kind of dark and foreboding. We’re going to dial it back this week. It wasn’t always that way. The story began innocent and sweet.
It’s what I want to share with you today.
In the late summer of 1994, I started college at a small, evangelical-Christian, liberal arts school on Boston’s South Shore. My grandfather and great-grandfather had been presidents of the school, so the place was sort of a family tradition. I was happy to be there and was pretty familiar with the scene including the social expectations for a Christian young man on campus.
Back then there was this joke - a joke I assume is shared by other schools of similar religious affiliation - that women attend college to attain their “MRS” degree. While the attempt at humor fits right into an ancient patriarchal system, there was some truth to it. The females were the butt of the joke, but the punchline was just as true for male students. The day I set foot on campus as a student I knew my top priority next to that of my education was to find a suitable wife. I had a girlfriend back home -- a mere 25 or so miles from campus -- but let’s be honest, that wasn’t going to last very long. It did not, and I was on the prowl, so to speak.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on her. I was walking into the Student Center to check my usually empty mailbox before going up to dinner in the second-floor dining hall. As I entered, I looked over to where the giant Student Government Association calendar hung. Pressed up against the same wall was a folding table and sitting on top of the table were two girls I found attractive- one a brunette, the other a blond. I can’t say why I gravitated to the blond. Perhaps it was because there was something familiar about the brunette and the complete mystery of the blond I’d never seen before piqued my interest. I played it cool (or perhaps didn’t have the nerve yet) and said nothing at the time. But I most certainly noticed her, and I’d do my best to catch a glimpse of her whenever possible. Fortunately, on a campus as small as ours, I had the opportunity on a regular basis.
One of the parental expectations for me was that I’d join the college’s A Capella Choir. At the time it was one of the more popular groups on campus and after a stress-free audition (I could sing on key and my grandfather had hired the director) I made the choir and was happy to participate. Both of the girls I had seen sitting on the table were in the choir too. I would glance at the blond every chance I got, though I still didn’t say anything.
A few weeks into our first semester, the day of our first performance arrived. Wouldn’t you know it, I found myself sitting right next to her in the middle of the street in Cambridge Square where we were singing for some community festival. I can’t remember what I said, or even what she said, but we began to be friendly with each other that day. I learned she was from Maryland, her name was Joy, and the brunette, Erin, was her roommate.
Our relationship never reached a point anyone would call serious during the fall. We were both trying to feel out our college experience and learn more about who we were as individuals away from our families. We went on a few dates which were, for the most part, unremarkable for either of us, save two. The first was to see Forrest Gump. It was my 7th time seeing the movie. The significance of this fact has nothing to do with Joy, rather, I find it significant that I paid to see the same movie 7 times. The second, date was more significant. Which is odd, because I didn’t even know it was a date. I’ll explain…
I didn’t have a car when I began college and if I wanted use of a one it meant I needed to somehow get home and borrow my parents’. My home was about 45 minutes from campus just over the Massachusetts border into New Hampshire. There came an occasion when I needed a car. To get to it, I talked a new college friend of mine into giving me a ride home. The plan was to drive up later in the evening - probably around 10PM or so - and drive back to campus immediately. The bed-time clock seems to work differently for college students and driving to New Hampshire at 10 PM was nothing to be concerned about. Joy, on the other hand, wouldn’t hear anything of it. She said she would worry about me and insisted she go along for the ride. I protested a bit, as I was sure I’d be fine and even though leaving at 10 PM wasn’t anything crazy, I probably wouldn’t return until 12:30 or so and I didn’t want to cut into her evening. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, I agreed.
As was my habit, I spent the three hours or so before I was to meet Joy playing foosball in a student gaming lounge known as the fishbowl, a room named as such due to the two largest walls being almost completely composed of windows through which passers-by could look and see all the activity within. I was in that room a lot. Always playing foosball. I got pretty good at it, and took a bit of pride in my ability level. This skill came at the expense of my grades, but to this day, I carry a bit of confidence on the foosball table.
After wasting the evening away, the time came for me to meet Joy, my friend with the truck, his girlfriend who would ride along too, and head north to my parents’ house. I left the fishbowl and headed to my dormitory to throw on some jeans. I’d been wearing shorts but the cool of the evening hinted I’d be more comfortable with my legs covered. As I bolted out of the building, I found Joy waiting for me outside my residence hall.
I’d underestimated what she thought this evening was.
I understood it to be a ride to New Hampshire and back. Judging by how fantastic Joy looked, she understood it to be a date.
Her beauty stopped me in my tracks. Joy’s hair was pulled back from her face and held in place by a barrette centered perfectly in her blond hair, which she had curled in an understated way resulting in a delicate yet elegant wave of gold flowing down her back.
Her eyes were the brightest blue. The light of the nearby streetlight bounced off them and hit me in the heart. Her ears were adorned with small, gold, hoop earrings, and her face was wearing just enough makeup to accentuate her eyelashes and pink lips.
She was wearing white, slender-fit jeans and a white turtleneck shirt underneath a blue fishnet crochet sweater which hung halfway down her thighs. On her feet she wore dress sandals. Her perfect toes were showcasing the cutest little gold toe-ring you’ve ever seen. Her hands were clasped together in front of her waist giving her a shy, unassuming look. Everything about the way she was standing there exclaimed to me, “I made myself look my best for you!” Her shy expression betrayed her a bit, refusing to allow her to show the confidence she was hoping to display.
When I collected myself, I told her how great I thought she looked. This made her smile, and as she did the moisture in her mouth caused her cheeks to crackle a bit. Embarrassed, she smiled even bigger, with louder results. I teased her a bit, then tried to ease the embarrassment by pointing out how absolutely horrible I looked. I hadn’t made any effort to impress her, and I was self-conscious about it. I apologized, and ran to my room to freshen up a bit. When I came back, we squeezed into the jump seats in my friend’s pickup truck and left.
Other than the interaction as I’ve described it here, I don’t remember many details from the evening. We arrived at my parents’ house late at night and she briefly met my father. Now driving my parents’ car with Joy in the passenger seat, I remember small talk about how I should use my turn signal more. For the most part, it was a nondescript evening with the major exception of how breathtaking I found her to be. That was the first time I remember having butterflies in my stomach over Joy. As I type these words today, I can still recall how she looked and how I felt just being around her. She carried more beauty, class, and dignity than that 18-year-old boy had any right to expect.
Over the next few weeks, we went on a few more dates including the aforementioned viewing of Forrest Gump. Otherwise, I don’t remember much more than her being torn between dating me and someone else. I suppose exclusivity must have been important or something. At any rate, in October she stopped dating me for this other guy who I have to admit seemed to be a good dude. I hadn’t even kissed her at that point. She told me she needed to explore her feelings for the competition a bit more and I was out. We went our separate ways- at least for the time being. As the semester progressed, I dated around a little. I didn’t get serious with anyone but did make some nice friendships. I remained single and later in the fall semester found myself on another date with Joy.
The college we attended was nestled in a neighborhood known as Wollaston or, Wolly, and within walking distance over on Beale Street was the old Wolly Theater. Wolly Theater had a classic old-time theater look. There was a triangular marquis out front and a small ticket booth just inside the front door. Inside would sit a diminutive and ancient woman with a sweet disposition. She owned the place with her husband. The days of any musical or dramatic production taking place in the venue had long since passed and on Monday nights the establishment showed 2nd-run movies for one dollar.
Upon buying a ticket patrons entered the dilapidated building to find the concessions stand on the right being manned by the tall, skinny, wrinkly husband. He wore his bifocal glasses in such a way that you were never really sure if he was looking at you or the person near you. He was as cantankerous as his wife was sweet and was always dressed in brown slacks with a sharp pleat and a short sleeve, button-up shirt you might have considered his uniform if you didn’t also see him walking around town in the getup.
In his back pocket was a red plastic flashlight. It was the kind my parents bought for me to take to church camp in the 80’s. The kind that took two size D batteries and never had a beam of light quite strong enough to light the way. Somehow the man with the brown pants managed to keep the light even dimmer than normal. Before the movie began he’d man the concessions stand. After the patrons had all purchased their snacks, he’d head upstairs to start the movie. At this point he became the usher. You got the sense this guy didn’t believe in spending much money and didn’t expect anyone else to either. At .50 cents each, the candy, soda, and popcorn prices matched the value of the ticket prices.
Decades of candy and soda spills had created a permanent sticky film across the entire floor from the concession stand to the theater, down the aisles, and into the seating areas. Upon looking towards the ceiling at the chandelier you could see hints of past glory days. The intricate, architectural artwork was at one time white, but had been stained tan and brown from years of water leaks from the roof above. The chipped and peeling artisanship flowed up the walls and columns spilling onto the edge of the ceiling where the water damage progressed to the point of pieces of the ceiling falling onto the seats below. The sections of seating where patrons were most likely to be maimed or killed by falling plaster were sectioned off and closed. Ownership had given up on making the chandelier appear in any way fancy, and the bulbs appeared to be your general 60-watt bulbs dimmed to prevent the guest from being able to see the full extent of the run-down theater. When the movie lit up the screen, viewers could see the remnants of what appeared to be a soda thrown at the screen sometime during the previous decades. The elegance of Wolly Theater was long gone. And at the low price of $1 per ticket, you got what you paid for.
If college students were lucky enough to have a couple more dollars, they’d cross Beale Street and go to Newcomb Farms for a $1, late-night breakfast. If you did it right, a person could take their date out for a movie and “dinner” for about $5 after tip.
That’s exactly what Joy and I did one December night just before Christmas break. The movie was Stargate starring Kurt Russell and James Spader. I’d seen it before, liked it, and it was a dollar, so I thought it might be an opportunity for another date with Joy before the end of the semester. As we walked home from our movie and late-night breakfast, my heart was struck by the feeling that I was beginning to really like this girl. She was smart, thoughtful, classy, beautiful, and I enjoyed being with her.
But as we walked along, she told me she’d had a falling out with her roommate, had moved out, and would probably not be returning after the winter break.
Sometimes rooming with your best friend isn’t the best idea. Erin and Joy were pretty much inseparable during the beginning part of the fall semester. Erin got a boyfriend quickly and the guy Joy started dating instead of me was his close friend. All these years later the details are fuzzy, but suffice to say the two of them refer to their falling out as “the divorce.” They had planned for college together, purchased living necessities together, purchased movies together, found boyfriends together, but after things went south, they couldn’t even live together. So, they split everything up evenly and changed roommates. Joy stopped dating the other guy. I thought perhaps there might be an opportunity to rekindle my efforts with her.
But then, she told me she was pretty sure she was going to transfer to The University of South Carolina where she had been offered a full scholarship. My heart sank, which surprised me. While we had fun while dating and I thought she was gorgeous, I had not yet developed strong feelings of attachment for her. At least not until Stargate and our dollar breakfasts. I don’t know what it was, but something clicked in me and I was smitten. Even so, I didn’t say anything. She was leaving, and that was that.
I spent Christmas break in 1994 at my grandparents’ house in Mount Vernon, Ohio. I don’t remember much about the trip other than it was long and I couldn’t get Joy out of my mind. I was sad she was leaving and wondered if I’d squandered an opportunity. I just couldn’t shake the thought of her. She was the last thought I had before I fell asleep at night, and her blue eyes were on my mind when I woke up in the morning.
My head was full of questions, and my heart, a new kind of longing.
Next week, I’ll get to the question you’re probably asking. What actually happened?
Here it is:
Make sure you’re subscribed so you can hear more about what happened when I confessed.
If this is the first time you’ve come upon this story and you’re interested in hearing more, here’s what I’ve posted in the past;
I’ve learned people define rape differently. These personal understandings may or may not agree with the legal definition of rape. And the legal definition of rape may not be the same from state to state in the US. This is a topic which demands discussion. I will. But not in this post.
Hi Jeff,
Thanks for sharing part of your story. I appreciate your vulnerability.
There’s so much here I’d like to say about rape culture…
the ChatGPT definition is in my view a more accurate and thorough definition. In my understanding, rape culture is nuanced and layered. It begins with the ancient concept of women as property. There’s a more violent understanding as you spoke about but also subtle unconscious elements as well. Then there’s the whole concept of consent, which my adult children have more of an understanding than I ever did.
As a woman, there’s this sense of just giving in to what he (the man) wants. Especially when there’s a lot of pressure. Consent training for both individuals helps in this area. Women in religious circles and even secular are socialized to not even acknowledge much less connect to their own sexual drive. This is changing. We’ve been told men are visual and can’t help themselves. Heck, it was only in the 90s that the clitoris was even examined and studied! This organ’s only function is pleasure.
When looking at my parent’s story- my father shouted out loud, upon seeing my mother for the first time, that she belonged to him. This was in a social setting of young men and women hanging out for a weekend. I don’t know what happened in between that moment and when they went on their first date. But he was making it clear to the other males what was his.
When my mother told me that I was conceived by rape, I was 22-23 years old and married. She shared the full story that I’ve written about.
Later I went to lunch with my father and asked him if it was true. He actually laughed and confirmed by naming it date rape then went on to justify it by saying: “you have to understand, I had a strong sex drive.” This in his mind was justification. I let him know my husband also had a strong sex drive but had never raped me.
So to me rape culture isn’t just a specific definition as it’s full of nuance and layers of societal norms. It’s full of ancient understandings and teachings about women. As you said it needs to be discussed as does consent.
I look forward to more of your story.
PS my father does not, for whatever reason have the capacity to reflect on himself or his actions. Sad. Reflection, contemplation, working with our shadows is a much needed way of being for every human.