Glancing over this semester’s collective Collegian front pages, it feels like Manhattan is going through a crime wave. Stabbing rape rape stabbing rape rape rape. "If it bleeds it leads, if it’s sex it’s next" was at first annoying, then just unsettling, then, once it set in that this is not a temporary spike and that Manhattan-Kansas is in fact the rapingest town I’ve ever lived in, a special type of long-iced-over indignation rolls in. "I don’t understand why more women here aren’t up in arms," Madeline said to me the other day.
Perhaps because locally, the most prominent discussion of this issue takes place on the level of a gaggle of hippies huddling together in the rain. The point of consistently reporting the ugly stuff of this town is to raise total social awareness. The other day, Whitney Hodgin penned a pair of pieces, in which two K-Staters told deeply personal stories of rape and its aftermath (in both cases, the legal system turned against the women.
Whitney is a thoughtful reporter, and always manages to get her subjects to say things that add meat and depth to the topic. The articles came out excellent. The Collegian put them on page five, right across from Tim Hadachek’s weekly rant against the government. What urgent topic of great social and political import ran on page 1? "Many students unable to make decisions without help from ‘helicopter’ parents." Of course they can’t.
Among men — men who describe themselves as chivalrous, good guys, men who are oblivious to chivalry’s inherent rapeyness — the conversation begins and ends at "If I found a rapist I would Kick His Ass," with everyone else sitting nearby nodding their assent and scarfing down their cheeseburgers or whatever. If these good guys were listening closely, they’d notice something off about a lot of the dudes at that same table. It’s in their persistent braggadoucherie, and it’s in way they talk about the female teachers they don’t like. You will not see these good guys cheering at Take Back the Night.
Last year, my buddy Eric would party every weekend, telling me about it Sunday mornings over bummed Parliaments. "Some girl got raped at the party I was at last night," he’d tell me. Every weekend. "Were you at TKE again?" was my usual response. Then what? I don’t know. What do you say after that, not really knowing anyone involved?
Then there’s this friend I have. Her rapist still haunts her, in every sense of the word. She’ll be out at Mae’s, or at Finn’s, or at some old place, and OMG look who shows up! This happened about five times in the space of two weeks. She always notices before anyone else, being especially attuned to the particular tones of his voice, and he’s talking especially loud just to get her attention (he usually tries to occupy the booth behind her or the barstool next to her while she steels herself to ignore him). What’s my role here? I consider introducing myself ("Hi, how’s it going? Raped anyone lately?") but she signals "no" with her eyes. An uncomfortable silence ensues. FOR TWO HOURS. She spends the rest of the evening in a quiet trance, staring long-faced at a dark corner of the room. Hours later, nursing a cigarette on her balcony, when she’s ready to speak, I’m still not sure I’m ready to hear it, even though it turns out to be only two words.
"I’m sorry," she mouths.
Of all the things to say, why that? I’m sure I’ll never understand. So am I, I say back.
