You know, some of my Facebook friends are not that bright–and some are goddamn obnoxious. (These two qualities have a tendency to overlap.) But the ones that annoy me, I hide. If they really piss me off, I delete them. You know what I don’t do, though? Swan in on their Facebooks and squawk about they’re wrong about evvvverything and they don’t know stuff about stuff and god, seriously, if they have all these strong strong opinions, why aren’t they better activists?!
You know who does do that, though? My Facebook friends.
One of them did it here; he was publicly flamed and blocked me in a fit of entitled white male fury. And a couple days ago, a NEW logic fail was erected–and subsequently toppled–on my page. I’m red; Pepper is yellow; the first contrarian, a dude, is blue; and the second, a lady, is green. (Her picture is obscured because it features one of her children. See?–I’m only a part-time asshole.)
Is it possible for a man to be raped by a woman?! Well, despite the fact that my stepmother is on trial for sodomy down in the southeast (Flannery O’Connor wrote my fucking life, I swear), I say: of course not. Has never happened, nuh-uh. No wai, guiz!!
So, to recap: despite the fact that I never identified myself as a rape survivor (since, you know, I’m not), I’m publicly airing my victim laundry all over Facebook. And so, operating under the assumption that I am a) a victim, and b) using my past experience to make a point about rape, the only logical conclusion to be drawn is that I’m totally privileging my experience over everyone else’s, and using my trauma as an excuse to become a dude-hating 21st century Valerie Solanas.
No, wait…that doesn’t sound right.
And then there’s Contrarian #2, who thinks I just don’t know what I be talking abouts, and also, why don’t I stop bitching and start a revolution? Well, I’ll get to that in a moment. But for the record, um, if you’re going to criticize someone’s level of social activism, you’d better be fucking amazing. You’d better be Gandhi.
And then, silence. Chirping of crickets, chill night air. A metaphorical raven fell to the ground and lay there, gasping–with broken entitlement wings and a logic arrow lodged in his shoulder. Or something.