Jan. 21, Women across the world gathered in solidarity to support the Women’s March in Washington, D.C. to support women’s rights. Pensacola, FL hosted its own “sister” march downtown near Plaza de Luna. While people were participating in the march, a masked man protested against the women’s march by holding a sign that reads, “You Deserve Rape.”
This letter is one of the hardest things I have ever written in my life. Despite this, I felt the need to write this letter in my bones, and I couldn’t ignore that. I wanted to start this letter out by saying “Dear Pathetic Animated Flesh Bag,” because, to me, you don’t deserve a name, a prefix, or my respect. I wanted to state that you were cowardly for hiding your face, and I wanted to ask if anyone you know would be proud of what you did.
Protesting is a patriotic display of your First Amendment rights as long as it isn’t full of violence or hate, like the sign you held proudly above your head. I wanted to demand answers from you, like how you could someday look at your daughter’s face and tell her that you held a sign like that. Considering the fact that every 98 seconds someone is sexual assaulted according to RAINN, you most likely know someone that has been raped.
In this letter I wanted to ridicule and interrogate you. Maybe get through your ski-mask-clad skull and make you doubt what you did that day. I was angry for all of the rape survivors that would see your sign and who wouldn’t wish it on their worst enemies. Nobody deserves that. Rape shouldn’t exist in society, and especially not as a valid punishment option for those who disagree with you.
I rewrote this letter many times, and I still don’t know how I feel about it. I don’t know what words I can say that describe my horror as not only a woman, but a fellow human being.
I’ve come to realize somewhere that this argument isn’t directed towards you. You’re one man, and you aren’t alone with your views.
What can this letter do to a man who will probably never see it, or even care?
I need to address the silent shadow of likeminded individuals behind the protester that day. I’ve figured out that this is a twisted, real life example of literary symbolism. You are not just one man, but a frightening portion of society. You believe that I am not allowed to dissent. You believe that I am here to please you.
I am supposed to have a head on my shoulders, but only enough so that I can listen to you and agree. I am supposed to be ambitious, but not too much. I can’t upset the status quo that’s in your head. I am supposed to wear makeup, but only how you want it. I’m supposed to be relatable and real, but alluring and mysterious. And these standards you expect me to live by differ because you all have different standards. I can never please any of you, nor will I make that my goal.
You may have stopped reading because I’m a petulant five-year-old that hides behind the teacher and cries when I don’t get my way, in your opinion.
That’s how deep your privilege runs. It’s shockingly terrifying. More so than a sign could ever be.
I hope you will never understand what I mean by privilege, because to truly understand privilege you must know how it feels to be beaten by a system designed to protect someone else. I am white just like you. That’s the end of the similarities though. I’m an atheist in a world where I am told I am damned and a savage for my beliefs or lack thereof. I’m a member of the LGBT community, or known by some as a perverted abomination. I am also plus-sized, which means to some that I am lazy and disgusting. I have thought about attempting suicide, so to the opinions of some I am weak, ungrateful and selfish. I am also mad.
I am mad that I have to fight for my rights. I am tired of fighting with people simply to be myself. I’m mad that I have to be anonymous because otherwise I will be attacked for this letter. I’m mad that I can’t do more. I want to do the impossible and eradicate hate from the world, but I can’t.
I want to be free in the land of the free. I don’t want to be told to shut up, because I have the right to speak according to the Constitution that men and women died for, and I should be completely satisfied by that. I am mad that I have to live afraid. I’m mad that decisions about issues that affect my gender are made in a room with only eight men in it.
I am a person with certain undeniable and unalienable rights, but more importantly everyone is. I won’t tell you that you can’t have your own opinion, so don’t tell me that I shouldn’t have mine. I accept you. It took me a long time to be able to do that, but I accept you. How can I ask for tolerance and acceptance unless I live it, and make it my purpose to make sure that everyone I meet in the future feels my love and acceptance for them as another human being? I will aim to never make anyone feel like you have made me feel.
I will be my own hope for the future.
Sincerely,
The Pink Argonaut