Viva Las Vegas

Now that I'm settled and nearly dying from heat stroke in Utah, it's time for a recap. Because last weekend was awesome.

So I set out from Los Angeles last Wednesday in order to meet up with my friends Harley, Chloe and her boyfriend Hank. Harley's friend Etta from Washington also came down for a few days of vacation to hang with us in Coronado. For those of you who have never been to Coronado, it's an amazing little island/cove right off of San Diego that you can get to via bridge. It feels a bit too white upper class planned community, but it's also a really nice place to live. So Hank and Chloe invited us to come and help them pack for moving out/just hang out in SD before heading to Vegas on Friday morning. It was a fun couple of days helping Chloe to finish school assignments, sushi eating, packing, and playing card games--nothing too riveting since we all wanted to be prepared for Vegas.

Friday morning we set out in Chloe's car at around 10am so we could get to Vegas by check in at 3. Chloe's car is super nice, but also completely ridiculous for road trips. A two door sporty little thing, the 5 of us packed in there like sardines with all of our luggage pushed into every possible crevice. I'm pretty sure purgatory could be equated towards the feeling of being in that back seat with one midget (Harley) and one over 6 foot tall albino (Cole). You could feel every breath that the person next to you took with your arms pressed against their ribs, your shoulders hunched inward in a way that promoted scoliosis and cracked collarbones. Combine that with the occasional overheating of the car which required us to turn off the air conditioning while driving through 113 degree weather, and Chloe and Hank's hilarious game of "lets roll down the window and suffocate/burn the prisoners in the back" and you've summed up our journey from SD to Vegas. Thank God it was only 5 hours.

We get to Vegas and check into our hotel room while trying to plateau the level of mounting bitchiness from uncomfortable car rides and hunger. Throwing our stuff down into our very nice hotel room at the MGM Grand (thanks, Hank), we begin wandering around the hotel avoiding going outside on the strip just yet (literal hell). Finally settle on the Rainforest Cafe where I order my first drink, which anti anticlimactically they didn't card me for. Oh well, that's Vegas. The 'Panama Punch' was delicious though, Bacardi, Rum, Peach Schnapps, Banana Liquere, and other various juices. Ate to our heart's content and then us girls went back to the room to get ready while the boys went out and bought the alcohol to pregame with. Hank had been adimant about introducing us to his signature "danger juice" who's potency can be surmised from the name.

Us girls get our sexy on (basically an hour or so of Miley Cyrus's "We Can't Stop" on repeat--guilty pleasure) and the boys return. In natural male standards of dress, they're ready to go so we start drinking. Hank's two friends from Reno come up to party with us so it's a grand old time of getting to know everyone and getting psyched out for Vegas. Danger juice (otherwise known as jungle juice) is flowing freely, with Cole and I trying to match each other drink for drink because we're poor and want to be as ready to go as possible before we leave. It should also be noted that we were consuming said beverage from an old gas container which only solidified its sketchy nature.

After we are thoroughly pre-gamed we venture out onto the casino floor, and straight to Fat Tuesdays for a yard slushie. I'm pretty good at this point, but hey--it's my 21st birthday. Good isn't good enough, apparently that means trashy. So Hank generously buys me my first yard and I couldn't even really tell you what was in it it but it was delicious and it was a lot of alcohol and sugary deliciousness. We didn't really have a game plan for the night, so we just start walking around the maze that is our casino/hotel looking at everyone playing and stopping here and there at the slot machines. Also happen to hook up with some friends from Washington, Reed and Omar who came to get away as well for the weekend. I'd like to say this is the point at where I went to some crazy bar/dance club and started going Coyote Ugly on everyone's ass, but being the old grandma that I am and being a tad worried that my only form of identification was my passport, I wasn't trying to get too too rowdy in unfamiliar/far places. So we walked around...a lot. And with so many people navigating the casino floor, you could basically call it a dance. It was crazy.

Next day we woke up and I had no idea who was in which bed. Luckily we all ended up back at the hotel, including Reed and Omar who had paid for and yet not slept at their room at the Stratosphere way farther down on the strip. Said goodbye to them, freshened up, and went down for the breakfast buffet. Words cannot describe the delicious food that we consumed at that meal--anything you could ever possibly want, there. And we ate it all. Harley and Hank decided mimosas were a better hangover cure than anything else, but I abstained. All I saw was bacon and creamed cheese bagels with smoked salmon. My life was complete.

With still very little energy, we peeled ourselves from our post-breakfast food coma to go lounge by the pool and float in the lazy river. It was the first time I had ventured outside of the MGM grand in almost 24 hours, and it was hot. You come out of the water and within 5 minutes you are burning and completely dried from the sun, so naturally Cole the Albino stayed inside to sleep off his hangover. Sleep off, die. We weren't really sure, but he looked comfortable so we let him lie like a vegetable upstairs while the rest of us admired all the sexy bodies at the pool.

Finally after the pool we actually ventured off of the property and went about exploring the strip--the Luxor, Venetian, Caesars, Paris--the lot. And they were super cool themed, when I was in the Paris one I was legitimately surprised at how authentic it was aesthetic wise. Made me miss it. The only thing that sucked about these hotels was that, although the strip isn't very long, you don't want to be oustide in Vegas ever. It's so unbelievably hot (109, when we were out) and so you say to yourself "that hotel isn't too far--lets just walk there" and you want to kill yourself 20 feet later. For fellow fat girls like me, don't walk the strip without spanks. Chaffing is real, don't do it. And on top of the heat? You'll thank me later.

Finally we make it all the way down to Caesars and fall heavy into a booth at Planet Hollywood. Delicious grub, cool atmosphere, and we move onto the Stratosphere for the ride Hank has been looking forward to all day that I refuse to go on because 1) I'm afraid of heights 2) It's expensive and 3) I don't want to die of a heart attack. Despite my resolved stubborn nature, Hank insists he will make me go. And like a sign from the gods, we get there and it's closed for about an hour. Exhausted, but looking to make the most of the situation we settle on playing a bit of 21 and blackjack which is my favorite. You don't win every time, but you also don't lose every time. I played for about 20 minutes, gaining and losing money before I walked away and we headed back towards the hotel for the night--exhausted from the heat.

Here is where happy Vegas trip ends. The next morning's entire mission I swear was to elevate my blood pressure.

So I'm supposed to take a greyhound bus from Vegas to Salt Lake to meet up with my friend Anson. Get there an hour early from my 7:55am bus and get in line. When there is about 20-30 of us left they close the door and tell us that there are too many people, we will have to wait until the 10pm bus going to Salt Lake City. That's right, they overbooked us by that many people. And didn't apologize, offer alternatives, or even refund our money. They. were. assholes.

So I'm fuming, thinking I'm about to go to jail for arson or murder when I meet two other passengers in my situation and we decide we need some food. The girl is from Argentina, traveling the US for 6 months while the other guy is Tongan from SLC. They're super nice, and we have some great conversation about interculturalism and stereotypes before heading back to the bus station. To wait. For over 12 hours.

3 hours in and I'm looking for sharp objects to "fall" on. The bus station is hot, stinky, and I'm pretty sure filled with sketchy alcoholic homeless people. Since I've made friends, I feel comfortable enough going to the bathroom knowing someone is watching my stuff, but even so. Not where I wanted to be stranded.

About 1 o'clock is when things really start blowing up. So this black girl about my age comes in and starts charging her phone, no big thing. No one notices anything crazy about the girl. A half hour later two white male cops come in and start talking to the girl. I'm in my usual computer addicted state and not paying enough attention, though when I start hearing her yell "I didn't do anything violent!" and I look up to see the cop twisting her arm at an ungodly angle, I perk up. Next thing I know, they push her down into the floor face down and one is straddling her while the other keeps her arm twisted and she's not letting them pry her other hand from her armpit. She keeps screaming "I didn't do anything violent!" and they keep yelling at her to remove her hand, part of which is resistance but part of which is also the angle at which they've pinned her down and she can't  move.

A circle of us have now formed watching this happening in shock and a few get out their phones to start recording. Next, the police officer not straddling cups the back of her neck and pushes down, popping her head back like a sick pez container. It's getting way out of hand and I start screaming at the police officers to get the fuck off of her and that I'm calling the cops on them, grabbing my phone to make the call. While the girl is still not being violent but wriggling trying to breath from the officer pushing down on her neck, the police officer gets out his mace and shakes it as if he is about to shoot her in the face. This is completely where I lost my shit and start yelling even louder, at which point he looks up and sees the circle of us angrily recording and shouting and puts it aside, barely letting up. They finally pry her hand away with a baton and cuff her, taking her away to the police car.

I'd already called the police to report the unnecessary brutal force with which they treated the girl, and soon the sergeant was on the scene questioning the girl, officers, and the rest of us. It becomes pretty apparent pretty fast whose side they are on with issues of race, gender, and general corruption come into play. She takes my statement and listens to stories and watches video, but still she is wary. Others don't even bother writing down a statement, so disillusioned by past experiences to believe any justice will be served. They say they are releasing the girl, but by the time they left I didn't see her walk free. Meanwhile the police who arrested her however are laughing and looking at shit on their iphones while she sits shaking in the back of the police car hyperventilating. Fucked. up. shit.

I'm going to be honest, it was that moment that race became real to me. Not in a theoretical intellectual way, but as a straight up honest truth. As the sergeant went around taking statements, visibly disregarding statements by the black bystanders I finally internalized their frustration, seeing my own very real privilege as a white woman. Shaking myself, I was very doubtful that anything productive was going to come from these conversations and even more enraged by the lack of awareness of the officer's privilege and the way these issues of gender, race, and class played into this whole scene. Their  mind was made up, she was obviously in the wrong.

As I kept talking with the sergeant, she kept on telling me "If I told you she assaulted a cab driver before coming here, would that change your perception of the events?" to which I was horrified. I wanted to respond with "Would the officers have acted to violently if the woman was white?" but knew from other similar statements made by others in the station that she was not willing to see it as a factor in this arrest and I don't think anyone deserves that kind of retaliatory violence. And that's only going along with the "hypothetical" situation they gave me of her first act of violence. Who even knows if the girl did anything? She looked just as scared as the rest of us by the officers sudden arrival.

Needless to say, after that I knew I had to get the hell out of Vegas. Within 6 hours my friend Anson had driven all the way down from Salt Lake to pick me up, and I said adios to the most bittersweet weekend of my life in Vegas. Once in a lifetime trip--can't see it repeating itself any time soon or wanting to, and I'm ok with that. Pretty sure these stories are enough to last a lifetime.

Feminist Majority Foundation Tribute

So today is my last day as an intern for the Feminist Majority Foundation and woman, what a crazy summer it's been here. Between campus visits, blog writing, speakers, and summits it's been a great journey in understanding my own experience as a woman and how others connect with my story. My fellow interns are some of the most creative and knowledgeable people I've met, and sitting in the intern pit with them dissecting underlying gender politics in different articles and getting rallied around an activist social group has been completely inspiring. Love these connections I've been able to make and the ways in which my mind has been opened up to all of the inter-sectional complexities of the feminist movement. There were ups and downs of couse, but overall it's really been a really rewarding experience.And without getting too mushy, I also just wanted to shout out to all you crazy feminists out there--both in and out of the organization--who help to remind me that I'm not alone. That will probably be the biggest thing I take away from all of this. Love you all <3

So I didn't expect to write a tribute poem, but several weeks back when we were in Santa Barbara and I was trying to fall asleep I just got this weave of inspiration and have been working on it ever since. And though I'm not sure whether or not I'm comfortable with it just yet, I figured I pass it on as kind of a "thank you" to the FMF and my internship this summer.

________________________________

Don't be that girl
by Sydney Odell

They didn't want us to talk about it, the night we rode the midnight blur

of the express train because they thought proximity was dangerous.

if they only knew the deeper cuts they tore into the

parts of our bleeding hearts that were never really yours to begin with because

you couldn't possibly understand as you are a little girl

and everyone knows god only speaks to his little boys

whose orifices are the only ones divinely sanctioned to make policies for ours.

You tell me I’m more than a number, that this

fetus is more than how many weeks you can point to on a calendar

but you continue to degrade my body into a mathematical equation,

So here are some numbers for you

where I come from, one plus one means subtraction

means lost in action

trying to find the enemy lines through the thick fog

of all the post racial political bull shit I see draped as closure

over a 16 year-old black teenage girl still looking for a home

after growing up to find that not all mothers are born into white picket houses.

Covering the mother of three who found that four

could keep the door to safety locked by the same hands that leave her blue at night.

Holding the 1 in 5 whose skirts must have asked for it because

in these instances the body did not find a way and their

wombs are forever forced to be cultural baptisms

for horny men’s "nature."

You tell me you don’t want to hear

but I don’t want to see, don’t want to feel the way 

your noose feels tight around my neck every time he’s taught

he’d rather not, it’s more pleasurable this way.

Tell me the choice in this. As if agency

was something we decided on in theory

but like communism fall apart in practice because

all I know is the day man invented the wheel was the day woman got left behind

and we’ve been running in circles ever since chasing a horizon only meant for a few

but promised to all.

Forgive me if I don’t regurgitate the preferred statistics

the 1 in 4, the 75% though none of it means anything

if you can’t acknowledge that I bleed when you do

that actions mean more than the words you profess to

believe in because our bodies are battlefields being pulled to the right and the left and

don’t you know red is on its way out

it's time to bleed humanity blue

it’s true that I am more than a number and you

are more than the physician you profess to be, but

to see the way out we have to know the way in so

This is for the women, this is for the men,

this is for those who are too busy loving to care

and the ones who don’t project blanket assumptions but instead use their arms

to cover the wounds of strangers,

to pull the stitches out of other people’s mouths

this is for the ones who feel too fat, too tall, too dumb, too black, too white

too loud, too poor,

too tired to keep fighting for a humanity you no longer believe in

but wake up each morning with forced amnesia towards past failures

in order to create a more perfect union

and this is for that girl on the train and the

story she was able to tell when she fell from grace

and finally saw the face of God in her window’s reflection

and saw that it was good.

While Sleeping On Their Chests

I didn't expect to hear a heartbeat, or if I did

Not one that sounded as mortal as mine

A clock ticking away the precious moments in between each far gone breath

Dragging itself reluctantly into the future.

Hands opening wide to allow time for everything in-between

Every if, every why, every sigh letting mother nature know that

She could still take your breath away even as she came rushing towards you with her big

Mouth wide open, blowing sweet kisses of reassurance that you

Would not be forgotten. That you were her chosen son.

I didn't expect you to engulf me so eagerly, your roots

Digging solid foundations into the trenches I spent so much time seeing as a prison

I needed to climb out of. You see, sometimes we get so busy growing up

That we forget to grow in, to grow down—and I think that’s we have so many sad people

Expecting a sunlight that touches skin, but to begin externally is not to learn

That the sun is but a catalyst for our ready-made preparations

And I’m forever grateful for the wars I fought to dig a space you could come and fill

To help me grow.

At night I lay at the bars of your own prison, entrapping the beat up victim

of too many unrequited “I want you’s” 

of too many “I need you’s”

of too many “I love you’s.” And I wait,

Like the limited visitor that I am

for the guards to let me in, to begin the process

of repeating the braille love language I carve deep into your eyelids each night

to guide your way back home.

To remind you of your innocence. Of the non-guilty verdict. Of hope.

Of the heat of my palm against the glass.

To know

It could be so warm. I once heard is said that

women freeze because they were born to be givers, their heat betraying them

to protect the fruit they would one day bear

But you share your heat so willingly, I can’t help but think we’re all just

A bunch of Russian dolls fitting in and taking care of one another 

to cover the parts we can’t do by ourselves. 

The parts we don’t want to do by ourselves.

Which of course makes all the difference.

Goodbye Weekend Plans, Hello Pain

Get some exercise, they said.

It will be fun, they said.

So I’m sitting in Starbucks when I come across an inspirational TED talk that one of my friends from college sent me, feeling the motivation sink in to make the changes to my life that I want and need. After being told that the only thing holding me back from what I want is my own will and discipline to achieve, I left the coffee shop invigorated--going home to make a nice healthy vegetable stir fry with my sights set on taking a leisurely bike ride around the neighborhood later for some exercise. Sydney’s going to get fit y’all.

I’m lucky that the neighborhood I live in in Long Beach is really safe and shady, making for a beautiful late evening ride through the welcoming community. So I’m going up and down streets on my dad’s ritzy fancy bike, butt raised in the air and head down trying to see how fast I can come down into this nicely little newly paved cul-de-sac. But when I go to start peddling around the corner my foot slips and, in combination with the gravelly precarious road, I go flying towards the pavement--arms raised to protect my face. I land hard, skid, as my bike falls over the right side of my body.

Basically fully beaten/bruised right side

Now I don’t really get hurt very often, especially not since I was a kid and could just cry and give up on life, someone whose responsibility it was to take care of me as I wallowed in my pain. So I just kind of sat there in shock, repeatedly feeling my face for any cuts or concussions, paranoid that I’ve knocked some teeth out (if you know me, you know this is high on the list of fears). Luckily for me several people from the cul-de-sac are out and about walking around so they come running to make sure I’m conscious and don’t have any broken bones. One surfer bum looking guy goes into his house and comes back with wet washcloths and Hydrogen Peroxide (something which I couldn’t remember the last time I had used it on a cut). Afraid to move, and still in shock, I start wiping away the blood that’s dripping from right forearm/elbow and gashes running up and down my left leg in various areas in the middle of the street.

When I finally gain a little bit more composure the bystanders who rushed to my aid usher me into a lawn chair in their driveway where they give me fresh towels and help me to pour the HP on my wounds which hurt like a massive bitch burning deep into my skin. Pushing back tears, the shock really began to take hold with a bout of immobilizing nausea. I never really believed shock was a real thing until this accident, but it really is scary how much the emotional affects the physical. They urged me to keep sipping on the cold water bottle they had brought out for me and told me to relax. There was no rush to get up or move faster than I needed to—they would drive me home when I was ready. Over and over again I told them how much I appreciated their help, to which they replied “No problem at all sweetie, you just pay it forward next time.” Really caring people rushing to my aid.

Not bending this baby all weekend.

Loading my bike into their big SUV, I sat back and drunk my water—trying not to look at the first layer of skin around my elbow that seemed to have been shaved off in my fall. After wrapping my elbow up in a loose fitting gauze and helping me to gather my things, I hobbled to the car and they drove me home. Walking the bike up to the condo, I was happy to see the damage to the bike was minimal—cuts can scab and heal, but I cannot afford to replace that bike. When I got back Dawn was already home, so we assessed my wounds further as I heavily self-medicated and she went to Redbox to get some movies and snacks for our pity-party.

Less than 24 hours later and I’m not going anywhere. The pain is even worse than it was yesterday and I hope that by the end of this weekend I’ll have some functioning scabs going so I can actually wear some clothing and it won’t stick to the open wounds. Don’t know if this is a message from the fat Gods to just give into my fate and die alone, but I’m laying low and hoping none of these wounds scar too bad.

Thank God I DVR’d all those House Hunter International episodes so I can pretend I'm leaving the couch this weekend.

Live Rocky Horror Picture...no

Go on with your bad self.

I feel that I need to preface this by saying that I am a big fan of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I've karaoked the time warp, I've dressed up for the drive-ins, I've dreamt about one day growing up to be half as sexy and cool as Frank n furter...I love it. But none of this prepared me for the actual live performance rendition of it.

Yesterday, a few other liberal open-minded feminists and I set out in high hopes, stoked to sing along and be entertained by the 80's cult classic. To an extent we knew what we were getting into--a film about a transsexual transvestite from Transylvania is bound to turn a few heads, no matter how experienced you may be with today's exhibitionist sexual culture. And while I absolutely commend the actors, their dedication to the show, and their enthusiastic vigor with which they support the sexual revolution--I have to be honest and say I was also very disappointed.

At this point I think it's relevant to acknowledge my upbringing in influencing my attitudes towards this kind of fandom. Obviously, the fact that for most of my life I've been confined into a rather faithful obedient conservative Christian-Mormon mindset clearly limits the scope of my understanding about different forms of expression when it comes to sexuality. Nonetheless, I'd like to believe that through the years and experiences I've come out of my vanilla shell a little bit to appreciate different people's desires without necessarily having to adopt them as my own to prove my tolerance.

Which is exactly what I felt I had to do at the live Rocky Horror Picture Show.

I had a long conversation with the girls in the office the other day about "sex positivity" in terms of it's association with the feminist movement, what it's actual definition means, and what it's repercussions are. I won't go into a long review of that discussion, but basically the idea behind sex positivity is that you can let your freak flag fly in whichever way your wind is blowing--and to be given the freedom to talk about those desires and pursue them without being made to feel "dirty" or "wrong" or "unnatural." This is obviously a way watered down explanation, but I think it sums up the point I'm trying to make. A product of the sexual revolution, sex positivity opened up the space whereby movies like the great Rocky Horror Picture Show could be appreciated and immortalized.

LETS DO THE TIME WARP AGAIIIIIIN!!

I love sex-positivity. I think it's given a lot of people the courage to seek out otherwise manipulated information about their bodies, partners, and the sexual experience. Laci Green does a lot of cool youtube videos along these same lines, getting real about the nitty-gritty hard questions that are conveniently left out of sex-ed these days. They are really great for anyone looking to have honest conversations about your preferences and love yourself and your body. I highly recommend you check them out (...now). Most of all though, sex positivity is about being able to acknowledge that: hey, sex exists and lets not waste our lives pretending that one person has the answers and that one way of getting your groove on works for everyone. It's a sexual liberation.


It can also be taken way too far, which brings me back to Rocky Horror. Again, there's nothing wrong with this being a brand of sexuality. With gay/lesbian/bi/trans/queer being celebrated and explored and shown to the world as an honest representation of the human experience. It's not quite as extreme as my preference, but cool. Do you. The problem I do have with extreme forms of sexual positivity is that, in a world trying to be "cool" and "unique"--this can easily be adopted into the mainstream making rather moderate/other liberal people like myself feel...boring. Sooooo last year. So repressed.

 I'm sorry that I don't want to watch a half naked underage looking young boy bend over and be wipped by one of the Village People as another boy bites his ear and scratches on his chest while being welcomed into the theatre. I'm sorry I don't want to come up to the front of the stage, have a V be drawn on my forehead in red lipstick, and be ass fucked into submission by a complete stranger with only a thin covering of nylon between us before the opening credits have even begun. I'm sorry that I don't want to respond with every alternative idea to mine with a vehement "fuck you ass hole" yelled at a screen that can't talk back.

I'm sorry I'm so...frigid.

Sex positivity like anything else has it's fall-backs, something I was having a hard time articulating to my more radical liberal girlfriends in the office. The sexual revolution brought a lot more people interested in the feminist cause, but it also set a precedent for which kink (in my opinion) became kind of standard. The new way of staying sexy and rebellious--of staying powerful. Of staying relevant to the times. It didn't erase systems of conservative domination and pressure, it kind of adopted them to the opposite extreme. This Rocky Horror type of performance/culture is obviously a shock-and-awe extreme version of sex positivity that works for some people, but I would argue that things like this are setting a standard which influences our perceptions of feminists who are liberated, and the ones that are really liberated. And that I don't appreciate.

Walking out of that theater, I was having some pretty deep reservations about the adequacy of my own sex life. I started wondering to myself: does leaving my wips and chains out of the bedroom make me less sexually liberated? Does feeling awkward about being told to touch the genitals of the person standing next to me at the Show make me any less feminist?

I would say no. Sex positivity is about letting your freak flag fly, even when it may not actually be that...freaky, and not being made to feel bad about it. These days it can feel like a free-for-all with everyone trying to shove their shit and brand of sexuality in your face and convince you that the weirder, the better. But again, that's just one style. One way. Totes cool, but also equally fine if you don't want to. Respect the fact that it works for people and let them carry on. That's what's great about sex positivity done right. It lets you be honest with yourself and live outside the lines of convention and historical norms to discover what you like and who you are. It lets you say yes, but it also lets you say no.

So basically, you shouldn't feel like you have to turn in your liberal badge if you feel awkward at a live Rocky Horror Picture performance. It's alright, feminist points restored. Check Rocky Horror Picture show off your experiential check list, and move on. Not everyone can look as good as Tim Curtis in a pair of fish nets anyways.

"Dont Be That Girl"

In order to address issues of alcohol facilitated sexual assault in Edmonton, Canada the “Don’t be that guy” campaign attempts to shift blame and responsibility away from victims by educating men that sex without consent is considered sexual assault. Though the marketing strategy has proven effective in lowering rates of sexual assault (or at least reports of it), a group calling itself the ‘Men’s Rights Group’ of Edmonton has recently come out in a shocking backlash to these messages with their own “Don’t be that girl” messages. 

And we thought Canadians were the nice ones, eh?

Messages like “just because you regret a one night stand doesn't mean it’s not consensual” aim to target potential victims of sexual assault by shaming women into reporting about their experiences. However unlike the poster would have readers believe, sexual assault is the most under-reported crime in Canada, a mere 6% of the total amount of sexual assault cases actually go reported. Furthermore, false accusations of rape happen no more than any other crime at about 2-4%, meaning that 96% of the time the woman is telling the truth.

Aside from the obvious fear of slut shaming victims experience when coming out about assault, the fact that so few reports actually lead to some kind of conviction further dissuades women from seeking justice against their perpetrators. So the question that hast to be asked to these men is: why would women go through a lengthy and many times fruitless court battle, facing accusations of lying and “asking for it” in order to lose on almost all fronts?

Urging men to stop rape by shifting the way they think about women’s bodies, especially in situations of impaired judgment, is one of the biggest aims of the “Don’t be that guy” campaign. According to the “Violence Stops Here” website, studies questioning men ages 18-25 found that “48 per cent of the men did not consider it rape if a woman is too drunk to know what is going on,” which eerily corresponds to a study conducted by the University of Alberta in which over half of sexual assaults took place when the victim was under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

This cultural mindset, a literal “get out of jail free” literally gives men a method by which sexual assault is masked under the banner of “blurred lines” intoxication—exactly the type of message the ‘Men’s Movement’ of Edmonton was trying to perpetuate.  What we need are not more girls owning up about consent, but ones openly coming out about the lack thereof and an honest and clear cut discussion about sexual consent (especially in situations of impaired judgment) and what it means. Only by placing responsibility where it belongs—in  the hands of perpetrators, can be truly begin to take a step forward in combating this staggering epidemic affecting millions of women around the world.

So c’mon, don’t be those guys.

PNW Pride: Education Reform in Oregon

Getting a college degree in the 21^st century has certainly become a catch-22 where, as the old adage goes, you spend money to make money. That is only, of course, if you’re one of the lucky ones to actually land a job that makes the return investment worth it

The average college student graduating in 2011 had an average of $26,600 in debt, a $1 trillion dollar mark far surpassing credit card debt and only to be surpassed by mortgages. Sadly (although a lot of promises have been made) not a lot has been done about the modern twenty-something indentured servitude, fresh out of college with a degree in medieval weaponry or something equally as unemployable outside of intellectual circles. Until now.

Oregon State Legislature last week unanimously passed a proposal entitled the “Pay it Forward” act in order to combat the growing amount of debt (and accompanying stress) students collect in the process of getting a higher education. The bill would effectively set a flat 3% payment plan based on graduates’ gross income over a 25 year period, far less than the currently inflating interest rates the federal government has currently set at 6.8%. These funds would then be used to finance the next generation of students who would then grow up and pay their dues to support the next batch of students, and so on and so forth in a hopefully never ending dream of inception. The “Pay it Forward” act would essentially make those who enter fields with higher returns more responsible for feeding into the system educating the next generation than those who graduate with say, a degree in Philosophy that carry an unequally hard burden when it comes to finding work that can offset the amount of loan money you owe.

This proposal is great for a variety of reasons. Firstly, it relieves a lot of disproportional stress that women receive when entering the workplace and are faced with paying back loans. While it is true that the number of women in college outranks men, the continued gendering of college majors greatly affects the amount of women in the workforce in STEM fields and positions with paychecks that are more easily able to pay back loans still leaves something to be desired, leading to an even wider gendered wage gap that systemically differentiates the means availiable to women to reasonably pay back these loans. Add in the fact that interest on your student loans doesn’t stop recurring while women take off work to have children and raise families (which more and more women are doing without male financial support), and you see why eradicating unnecessary student debt becomes a feminist issue.

This “Pay it Forward” act also goes a long way in not only opening up avenues for those who are graduating with debt, but those are deterred from even entering higher education in the first place due to the high cost. This bill moves to cut across racial and ethnic lines to promote equal participation in the educational process— groups that continue remain grossly behind in the classrooms at a rate nearly a third of the amount of white students attending university. The “Pay it Forward” act also helps to open up the stigma and accompanying drop in pay grade surrounding many “feminine” majors most often pursued by women and minorities, allowing students to more freely choose to follow the major they are passionate about versus being funneled into ones based on their ability to make money to pay back debt. Free from the looming threat of decade long debt, you begin to see actual choice and freedom with regards to gaining a degree. While cost may not be the only factor keeping these marginalized groups back, there’s no doubt that opening up these financial barriers will see a whole new group of students and, hopefully in consequence, a whole new range of professionals with opportunities never before afforded to them with the high cost of higher education.

While the bill is unlikely to take affect for several more years, hopefully Oregon’s “out of the box” approach towards educational reform can help to provide the federal alternative towards modern day student financial slavery.