Thursday, July 31, 2003


All this stuff in the news about Kobe Bryant and the chick he (allegedly) ass fucked against her will got me to thinking about the word “victim”. The story came out and right away people are on the news or in papers either saying she was a whore or a victim and pretty much the same old smack people always talk when they can’t stand to think that someone they admire might just be dwelling in the garbage can of humanity.

I’ll bet that girl isn’t as pissed off at being called a whore as she is at being called a victim. I hate that word. Victim of anything sucks.

When people say “victim” they’re basically putting you in the same place, over and over. Being helpless is a bitch but being reminded of it day after day after day, well that’s just torture. It also tends to make people pity you. Empathy is someone holding your hand. Pity is someone patting you on the head. Very different, I assure you.

I spent many years (and tortured a lot of boyfriends) believing that being raped is being victimized. It’s not. It’s being told to let some other kid borrow your favorite doll and never wanting to play with it again or finding out that someone you trust has betrayed you. No power, no choice, and most of all, no take backs. All you have left is global anger and sometimes fear and everyone in the world telling you to forgive. Fuck that. That pisses me off worse than what happened in the first place. Forgiveness goes only to the people I love and that’s like, two people in the entire world. Forgiving someone is the most sacred thing you can ever do and the hell if I’m wasting it on some pervy fucktard. The only thing I want to waste on that psycho fuck is a syringe full of Liquid Draino.

The book for every male or female who has been tooled like that is called “Lucky: A Memoir” by Alice Sebold. She’s pissed. She’s as pissed off as I am. She wrote a poem called "If They Caught You", which you can find at the bottom of this post. I suggest reading it because that’s how a person feels when it’s all said and done. Also, I love the way it makes me feel. The poem makes me feel spiky and not like a victim at all. It’s a MIRV missile right in the face of everything we are taught to believe women and men should say or do after the fact. I love that it’s not someone suggesting daily affirmations which always made me feel stupid and that someone who doesn’t know me is trying to tell me who I am. It's the voice of an angry woman whose body was invaded and will never be completely her own again.

My hope is that people will begin to understand that victim is a state of mind. As long as they identify with that word, they’re dooming themselves. Being pissed off about it negates the victim within. With the American media focusing on this guy and all the people taking shots at this woman for having the temerity to accuse him of anything, we girls and guys out there who’ve been borrowed for a few minutes of fun can keep in mind that anger is your friend and can be used to your advantage. Never let the bastards grind you down, spake Margaret Atwood and with her I agree. And next time someone tries to give you the victim-must-forgive sermon, I suggest you give them a little gift of your own: a stiff middle finger.

"If They Caught You" by Alice Sebold

If they caught you,
long enough for me
to see that face again,
maybe I would know
your name.
I could stop calling you 'the rapist,'
and start calling you John or Luke or Paul.
I want to make my hatred large and whole.

If they found you, I could take
those solid red balls and slice them
separately off, as everyone watched.
I have already planned what I would do
for a pleasurable kill, a slow, soft, ending.

I would kick hard and straight with a boot,
into you, stare while you shot quick and loose,
contents a bloody pink hue.
I would slice out your tongue,
You couldn't curse, or scream.
Only a face of pain would speak
for you, your thick ignorance through.
Should I hack away those sweet
cow eyes with the glass blades you made
me lie down on? Or should I shoot, with a gun,
close to the knee; where they say the cap shatters immediately?

I picture you now,
your fingers rubbing sleep from
those live blind eyes, while I rise restlessly.
I need the blood of your hide
on my hands. I want to kill you
with boots and guns and glass.
I want to fuck you with knives.

Come to me, Come to me,
Come die and lie, beside me.