Spaceships, Pinups, and Feminist Rants

This was supposed to be a happy post. A post filled with "Heck yeah, I'm starting a week of unusual pinup-influenced outfits!" and "YOU LOVE MY WACKY PRINTS. ADMIT IT. YOU KNOW YOU DO!"s. But thanks to a comment I got today...it won't be. This will be a pretty text-heavy post. But I think it'll be a pretty important post, too. So bear with me.

First a bit of backstory: On Saturday, I went out thrifting. Got a lot of really cool stuff, and was sitting on the bus with two bags, listening to the Good Omens audiobook on my Zune and generally enjoying life. The bus stopped, and an older man in his late 60s/early 70s got on. I didn't pay much attention, until he walked by me and I felt something brush my shoulder-and then my breast. This man apparently thought it was just fine and dandy for him to randomly grab my breast. Shocked, I loudly said "EXCUSE ME!" and he let go and continued down the aisle as if nothing happened. Heart racing, completely surprised, I announced to the bus at large, "That man just grabbed my breast!" The bus driver heard, two other passengers had seen, and to make a long story short the police were called, the man was arrested, and I left a statement with the police. I was not so much traumatized as angry-angry that that man thought he could touch me and get away with it, angry that he thought my body was his to do with as he liked, angry that he was surprised when I called him out and the police came for him, because he thought because he was old I would let him molest me.

Fast forward to today, and I was telling a friend about what happened during a break in my class. A male classmate overheard, and I explained the whole story to him. As we were walking back to class, he said "Maybe he saw the way you dress (pointing to my dress) and thought it was ok." Shocked and aghast, I glared at him. He hastily added "It was just a joke" but I told him "Not funny, dude" and walked away. I was hurt, and felt like I had been victimized all over again by his "joke" and attitude. I don't mention it much on this blog, because this is a fashion blog, not a political one, but...I am very, very fiercely feminist. And part of being a modern feminist is believing (as everyone should) that rape, assault, and similar crimes are all laid entirely at the feet of the person who commits them. That the victim is never responsible, because they are not. That "she was asking for it" is one of the most false and utterly repugnant phrases in the English language. To say that I take that view seriously would be a massive understatement. There are few things in this world that make me angrier when someone tries to argue that a rape is not a rape because a girl was drinking. Because she wore a short skirt. Because she walked alone at night. Because she trusted the wrong person. Because SHE did something-not because her attacker did something. Any excusal of rape or assault for any reason is utterly abhorrent to me. And yet here was a classmate, claiming I had invited assault by virtue of the way I dress.

For the record, I was wearing an ankle-length skirt and a high-necked t-shirt when this man decided that he wanted to cop a feel. But it shouldn't matter. I could have been wearing a burqa. I could have been wearing pasties and a thong. I could have been as naked as the day I was born. AND THAT MAN STILL SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN ALLOWED TO TOUCH ME IN THAT MANNER. The idea that women who wear "scanty" clothing "force" men to grope, assault, catcall, or otherwise harass them is not just insulting to women but to men. It implies that men are nothing more than their penises, that they are incapable of exercising even basic human courtesy and self-control in the face of a visible thigh or a cleavage-bearing shirt. That is simply untrue, and it's deeply offensive to all the good, fine, and upright men in the world that some assholes act like to be male is to lack impulse control. A woman's body is her own, and unless SHE, WITH HER WORDS, asks a man to touch it, to comment on it, to share pleasure with her in it, he has no right to it. It doesn't matter if she drinks, it doesn't matter what she is wearing. My clothing does not speak for me; my mouth does. If I want to wear a bellydance outfit out in public, or a miniskirt, I should be able to do so without fear of being assaulted. The fact that I (and millions of other women) feel like we can't is a pretty disgusting statement on our society. These kinds of attitudes are the reason SlutWalk and Take Back The Night were created. This bears repeating: The onus is not on sexual assault victims to avoid being assaulted. It is on the perpetrators not to commit assault.

To buy into the mentality that women who are raped or assaulted are somehow "asking for it" is not just unkind and cruel, it is idiotic. I did everything "right" in this case. I did my shopping in daylight. I was riding a relatively crowded public bus. I was not wearing revealing clothing. And I was still assaulted, because some man thought that the mere fact that I was being female in public gave him the right to touch me how he pleased. HE made the choice to touch me inappropriately. And now, God and the justice system willing, HE will pay the price for it. I spoke up, and the perpetrator was caught (and because he was caught on tape, will most likely be convicted); but the attitudes of people like my classmate, who think it is appropriate to joke that dressing a certain way means a woman invites assault, pervade our society to such a degree that many women in similar situations have not spoken up, for fear of just that kind of blame. If we want to stop these kinds of attitudes, we need to speak out against them-full stop. As members of a subculture, we are already frequently judged for what we wear and how we present ourselves in public, and being a woman makes it just that much harder. However, I refuse to let attitudes like my classmate's shape how I think, act, or dress. I wear my clothing to make ME happy, not to please him or anyone else. For the record, this was the outfit I had on today, that made him think it was ok to "joke" that I'd invited my assault by my manner of dress:

Alien Dress-made by me

Fishnets-Wal-Mart

Heels-Rabbit

I guess maybe it was the provocative alien print? The sexy elbow-length sleeves? Either way, his comment was not appropriate, and neither is the culture that created it. And in defiance of that culture, I will continue to wear what I like, and anyone who doesn't like it or thinks I'm not sufficiently modest or that I'm "asking for it" can take a long leap off a short pier. I will fight for every woman's right to feel safe no matter how she is dressed as long as there is breath in my body, and I will not let misogynistic, antiquated thinking stop me from doing it. More pin-up goodness tomorrow-and if this classmate says anything more, he can kiss my wiggle-skirt-clad ass! 

Monthly Homework Assignment: Naked Faces

To be honest, Professor, I wasn't too enthused about this homework assignment-but I decided to do it anyway, because I'm a good student like that! Here's the thing-you will almost NEVER see me in real life without makeup. Now, the casual viewer might find this puzzling, as I don lipstick perhaps two or three times a month (if I remember), am a disaster with eyeshadow, and I can't even really do eyeliner. However, I am an A-1 level expert in foundation and powder. I do concealer and coverup like nobody's business. And I still feel like people are secretly grossed out by me. Why? Well, here's my naked face:

This is me, right out of the shower. The picture doesn't show it near as much as it does in real life, but I have pretty awful skin. Just my luck-the one time I want to actually show what my skin looks like, and the light/camera Photoshops me without my consent. My pores are huge, I constantly have zits, and even on the very rare occasions when I don't have two or more actively growing pimples, it's guaranteed that I will have scabs healing over from the last ones. I have moderate scarring one my cheeks and chin, and just generally feel awful about how my skin looks when I don't have the friendly help of NYC and Neutrogena. I've had acne literally for as long as I can remember-my mom says I first started getting pimples when I was five or six, and I've never stopped.

I've had many wars with myself over my skin, especially as I've gotten older. As I have become more fervently feminist, I've tried to talk myself out of wearing makeup all the time; after all, very few women actually have perfect skin, and it's just another in a vast, overwhelming set of  impossible patriarchal beauty standards. I've told friends who also have acne that they are beautiful, and meant it entirely. After all, why should a measly thing like a couple of zits stop someone from being pretty? But saying it to others and believing it about myself are two entirely different things.

It's kind of sad, actually how much my skin dominates my thoughts and my life. I know that I feel truly comfortable with someone when I can be around them not wearing makeup and not feel self-conscious. When I'm all dressed up in a pretty dress and corset, with my hair done nice and full-blown lipstick and eyeshadow (with the eye makeup preferably done by someone else!), I will look in the mirror and think: Wow, I could almost look pretty-if it wasn't for my skin. I kinda want to punch commercials that say things like "Love the skin you're in" and then use models with flawless (or flawlessly airbrushed) skin-of COURSE it's easy to love your skin when it's perfect! I carry a powder compact with me everywhere and ruthlessly blot at any sign of shininess or oiliness-in addition to my acne, I of course have a daily oil production that rivals the output of the entire Middle East.

Sometimes it seems as though I've always been at war with my own skin-a neverending battle in which it trounces my self-esteem, my confidence, and my faith in myself. There's a little, niggling voice in the back of my head that always whispers at me because of my skin-it says things like "See that guy over there? He might talk to you, if you weren't covered in zits." Or "Are you just wearing those outrageous outfits so no one notices the person underneath the clothes?" I know this voice is silly, that it's stupid and wrong and that no one else actually thinks that way; that doesn't make it affect me any less. However, every exercise like this; every time I see other beautiful, brilliant bloggers who aren't Photoshop perfect but are nonetheless lovely; every time I go out in public without makeup, as I did today, and no one screams or snickers or flees in terror, I feel like I gain a little bit of ground. And maybe those little bits will add up into a lot, and I will feel comfortable in my own skin. Until then, I'll keep trying; I'll put on my primer, my foundation, and my powder, and I'll pretend that makes me feel pretty and perfectly confident. Maybe, if I keep pretending hard enough, someday it'll stop being pretending and start being real.

In Memoriam

I'm sure that every Goth has, at some point in their life, gotten the requisite snide comment from a random jerky stranger: "What's with all the black? You going to a funeral or something?" Normally, when confronted with such silliness, I have a pat reply of "Nah, I'm just in mourning for your sense of style." But, sometimes...you actually do have to go to a funeral. And all the pat replies in the world fly right out of your head, and you're left staring blankly into a closet full of black clothes, wondering if you have anything you actually can wear to a funeral.

I've never been averse to funerals. Growing up in a church and a community which both have a lot of elderly people in them, death has always been a part of my life, and my parents never believed in "protecting" my brother and I from the concept of dying. I've gone to funerals for a lot of people I love over the years, but, with one exception, they've all been older people-some in their 60s, some in their 90s. There was, of course, always sadness that someone was gone-but there was acknowledgement of a life fully lived, an end to suffering and pain, of going to be with God and a beloved but long-deceased spouse. I always found the funerals comforting. Not today. Today, none of the things we tell ourselves to make it feel better when someone older dies of natural causes could be said, because it was an 18-year-old boy who was killed accidentally and abruptly, and nothing can make that feel better.

Goths, as a subculture, tend to embrace death. We adorn ourselves with memento mori, laugh at silly little skulls with hairbows, and have tea in graveyards. But that doesn't make it any easier to deal with the cold, hard reality of having someone good and kind abruptly taken from us; of having to see their family so lost and hurt, and not being able to do anything to make it better. When people ask me why I'm dressed up to the nines, what I'm celebrating, I usually tell them "Life! Every day is precious and an occasion!" I just don't often pause to think that it's really true. I say things like "Life is too short to wear boring socks", but I don't like being reminded that sometimes, life really is too short. I know that there will come other funerals, and I will have to pick out other clothes; but I pray that I will never have to go to one for someone so young again. And maybe next time I go to the graveyard to have tea, I'll stop for a moment and say a prayer for all those who ended up there before they ever have a chance to really live, and give my thanks to God for the simple blessing of being alive.

R.I. P. Stetson Lockhart, December 17 1992-June 17 2011.