Monday, 28 October 2013

Fly #8: Dear Victorian Government, it's not sexual violation, it's rape, and italways will be.

With the Victorian Government’s overhaul of rape laws reopens the always fresh wound of rape and consent opinion within the public. Discussion of rape and consent whittles down all the way to everyday interactions as we doggedly try to work out who wants to have sex with who.

From unwanted texting to rape, every action without consent is always the entire fault of the offender. I am sick of hearing from my friends that they don’t want to directly confront unwanted attention, because it would embarrass the guy. Sorry girls, but that is part of the whole game. The guy is putting himself out there, because you have every right to politely decline his interest. If he is playing, “I’m just being friendly”, it doesn’t matter, his idea of platonic friendship is weird for you, and you aren’t interested so you should probably let him know. If he is offended, that’s his fault for assuming that he could have you, he should give up and use his time elsewhere. It’s your sex, and as an adult you have complete power for the rest of your life to say yes and no to whatever you want. If you joyously participated in a bukkake one day, then the next wasn’t too keen on a guy calling you “sweetheart” at work, that is your right and completely justified. Take some power back and enjoy having ownership over your actions.

This concept of knowing and celebrating your power to say yes and no extends all the way to rape, whereby as soon as the line of consent is crossed, it’s rape and you are traumatised, no matter what situation you had put yourself in. The offender must be blamed and charged with rape, not sexual violation as what has been suggested by the rape and consent law overhaul this week. While it seems that adding the charge, “sexual violation” is a fallback and provides some solace to victims when rape cannot be charged, this confirms the fear we have of charging someone with rape. As far as I’m concerned, if any sex has occurred without consent, or where the offender has the advantage due to lack of consent, it’s rape, rape, rape, and the offender should be charged with rape. Just because the victim was drunk, or has had plenty of consensual sex drunk in the past does not make it any less of a rape case. Adults have every right to get smashed, and it does not undermine their right to speak up if something happened while drunk.

I have been in countless situations, drunk and sober, where I would have been “at risk” of being raped. But I never have. When I was 19 at Falls Festival, I celebrated New Year’s Eve with vodka-filled water bottles, and woke up alone on a mattress of a stranger’s car, fully clothed, bag with phone and money intact. When I was 20, I travelled Europe largely alone for a month, and enjoyed wandering small towns and big cities alone, day and night. On one particular night after a pub crawl with male hostel friends met that night, I woke up on the floor of a random hotel room with a group of British tourists. No rape, nothing. I will, at least once a week, walk home in the city in the dark alone, and one of those times was once in the small hours wearing an Australian flag and bikini as appropriate attire for an Anything But Clothes party on Exhibition St. I hardly got a weird look, let alone unwanted sexual attention. I am entitled to walk wherever I like, wearing whatever I like, in whatever state I like. It is shameful, that we have accepted that the streets at night are unsafe. It is shameful, that some are too afraid to be alone at night in the city, and choose to go out of their way to avoid that situation. Why should we negotiate with terrorists? What’s more, why should we pin rape to the male psyche, and assume all men are capable, when it has nothing to do with “boys being boys” and everything to do with choice? Men are not by nature vicious ruthless sexual psychos, and the few that are have nothing to do with other men. And don’t even think the word, “testosterone”, people aren’t slaves to their hormones to the point that they rape someone - if they break this rule, they need to be locked up forever.

I am not lucky for avoiding rape in any of the above situations, plus quite a few more that I have been in. I did not expect anything to happen, because I don’t expect men to rape me, just like I don’t expect the girl on the tram to open fire. When these things do happen, it isn’t inevitable, it is horrific and is a bloodstain on a species that can and always will have the ability to choose. Not only is it a horrible insult to all men, to assume that they can’t control themselves, it also excuses such bad behaviour under that revolting archaic, boys will be boys slogan, traditionally attributed to schoolboys playing in the mud, also seemingly applicable to a college gang rape. There is no such thing as sexual violation, the victim will not be half-traumatised from a "half-rape”. It’s all the same thing, and once you cross the barrier of foregoing consent every single action is rape and you should be charged with doing so. Even if she was a prostitute. Even if she was wearing a bikini and Australian flag at 4am alone in the middle of the city.


If you rape someone, it is not because you are a man. It is because you are a rapist. You made the greatest error of judgment possible, short of actually murdering someone. Some, in fact, would prefer to die than be raped. Leave sexual violation and men out of it.

Tuesday, 1 October 2013

Fly #7: I take thee Google to be my lawful wedded Husband...for better forworse, to love, cherish and to obey till death do us part


I get a little bit excited when I have been talking on the phone about a fantasy holiday to Nepal, and an STA “fly to Nepal!” ad pops up on any page open on Google chrome. I am yet to decide whether such fervent attention on my every action is terrifying or incredibly flattering. I tend to side with the latter and conclude that Google, Facebook and YouTube all have a HUGE crush on me, as everything I say they seem to eagerly match. What else are you meant to think, when you gingerly open some Spanish study, and Facebook hurriedly invites you to apply for a LOTE teacher scholarship? Then, when on my royal office chair I deem one of their ads insufficient for my perusal, it is crushed, “why did you hide it? Uninteresting? Misleading? “Sexually explicit? WHY WHY WHY? LOVE ME! LOVE ME!”

This is what One Direction must feel like around their fans. Eat your heart out Harry Styles, I have Mark Zuckerburg at my feet, whose yearning for my approval grows upon every like button I hit, for every ad that I destroy via the evil “x” button. The Internet is obsessed with me, and any potential breach of privacy yadda yadda floats away when it seems that my interests in “25 words or less” competitions, ASOS sales and novelty exercise (aerial yoga anyone?) are the most fantastic in the universe.

Unfortunately this wave came to a crashing close when I realised that Facebook and Google seem to have a crush on every single person on the planet, with all of my friends having completely different ads, and their “liked” pages providing them with a totally different internet experience. So ads for Cleo subscriptions don’t show up on dude’s screen next to me at the library wearing a cape and deeply entrenched in a GTA game? It was all a lie. I thought you cared about me Facebook and Google. I thought my YouTube searches of beluga whales spurring an onslaught of Cruise and Aquarium ads were a sure thing that you were on my hook and you thought of nothing else but me.

Anyone with a computer and a profile on any website, who has ever “liked” any page or merely thought about something they liked while on said website will now be exposed almost exclusively these interests and nothing else. In the short term, this makes your time on the Internet much more personal and fulfilling. Facebook seems to suit me a lot more ever since ads and videos about Rugby League floated away. The newsfeed is integral to this phenomenon, as your preferences for what pages you like, and who you want to hear from the most can make your Facebook experience a repetition of the exact same thing every day. This is meant to be boring, but I still check my newsfeed quite often, even though I know it will just be a jumble of pejorative political cartoons, food porn and statuses from mates who I see every day anyway. Nothing has changed, and according to the Internet the only thing about me that will change in 20 years is my health insurance provider.

While I hear a lot about the death of privacy, how it should be alarming that giant corporations are spying on their consumers, I personally don’t care much that said giant corporation knows that I don’t like Rugby League. Good on them. I am a whimsical 21-year-old whose greatest use to them would be splashing out on a $500 coat thanks to my post-adolescent underdeveloped frontal cortex and Gen Y-esque penchant for Internet shopping while drunk. For me what is a concern, is the fact that I am no longer forced to think about the world outside my own, the one that has been mimicked for me in front of a screen via an algorithm. It goes even further than ads and liked pages on the internet – personalised technology means I can quickly skip past the business day section in the iPad version of the paper, instead of having to turn the pages and incidentally read a word or two about the apparently irrelevant economy. Foxtel IQ only records the TV shows I like, so I don’t have to watch the end of the Arabian News to see Here Comes Honey Boo Boo (guilty!). Without realising it, my list of interests has gotten smaller and smaller as I become less exposed to other realms.

Should I reverse this effect and force myself to read Business Day? Maybe I should have loud conversations about AFL and carpentry, facing the screen so my scum arsehole cheating Facebook and YouTube boyfriends can get the hint and teach me something new. Or I could just look away from the screen and strike up a conversation with the man in the cape next to me. Or not. Maybe I will just hit that Cleo subscription, and pretend to feel enlightened and educated when I have read an article about endangered tigers. Then after hitting up Instagram, I will feel drained from such repetitive drivel and be compelled to delete the whole bloody thing, put my foot through the screen and read a book outside. But I don’t. And neither will you.