#RollingStone, Rape & #UVA: Failing to deal with facts

The Rolling Stone essay published last month, titled “A Rape on Campus,” described in gritty detail the events of an alleged fraternity gang rape on the campus of University of Virginia.  Over the course of a few weeks it has stirred fierce he-said-she-said-RollingStone-said dialogue all over social media and in the press, especially now that RS decided to thoroughly investigate the story AFTER they published it, and promptly wrote a retraction.

Unfortunately, the piece disintegrated quickly when the fleet of CSI trained internet denizens meticulously tore through the story to find error, and the accused fraternity promptly disputed the murky “facts.”  Since then, the alleged rape story has redirected its blame to a different fraternity, into different accounts of the events by friends, and has dwindled from gang rape to only one possible suspect, who claims he doesn’t know the alleged victim named Jackie.

But the real problem is not the fraternity, or Jackie, or even Rolling Stone.  It is the lack of rational adults stepping up to the plate to apply logic to an uncomfortable ugly beast.

Taking a step back for a moment, rational humans know rape is not exclusive to America.  And its not exclusive to young white women in college who participate in feminist groups.  Just a few short months after the alleged UVA rape in September 2012, a young medical student in New Delhi, India, was brutally gang raped and thrown from a bus.  She died 2 weeks later.  Her name was Jyoti Singh.  The doctors had to remove her intestines in an attempt to save her life.

Jyoti Singh

Jyoti Singh in the hospital after being gang raped

However, back in America, gang rapes are no joke, and convicted cases do not necessarily end the shame.  Just a few years before the Rolling Stone story allegedly occurred, an 11 year old girl was repeatedly raped by 20 different men in Cleveland, Texas.  No thanks to Maria, her mother, too incompetent to take care of her daughter, the young girl was placed in foster care and then became homeless for a period of time, making her incredibly vulnerable to predators and thus continuously raped over a few years. The girl went on to bravely face the outrageously misogynist Texas defense team, and successfully achieved justice when the men were sentenced to prison.  She wasn’t a privileged white college girl at an elite southern university with campus groups to “support” her, she was a tween, incredibly neglected, and routinely raped.

Three years later, attention whore and Mom-of-the-Year Maria, upon finding out her then 14 year old daughter was pregnant with her boyfriend, decided to contact the press and shame her even more:

“Well, when she came with the pregnancy test, I was like, go away, get away from me, I was upset, she said.  I think it’s pretty common that sometimes girls, when that happens to them, they try to find the comfort in someone else, like they want to feel loved.” Because MARIA, you were too incompetent to love your daughter and offer compassion from an early age, and obviously didn’t care where your 11 year old child was (hint: She was getting anally raped.)

Maria stated CPS removed her daughter from the home, and required her to go through counseling to be a better mother, but she said she felt she didn't need it.

Maria stated CPS removed her daughter from the home and required her to go through counseling to be a better mother, but she said she felt she didn’t need it.

Maria is a good example of all of us.  Maria couldn’t provide a safe, fun and loving environment for her children, so her daughter ventured out into a rape den – the convicted rapists called it the “boom-boom room.”  She felt her parenting skills should not be called into question despite the fact CPS removed her daughter from the home, and she had no problem leveraging her access to the media to show disdain for her daughter after she became pregnant.

Maria failed to deal with the facts.

Today, “rape culture” has grown many legs.  The concept of “consent” has curiously evolved into the number of drinks a young woman has had vs. her ability to be sober enough to take care of herself.  The “support groups” for alleged rape victims are convinced, like domestic violence groups, that going forward with reporting the crime is up to the feelings of the alleged victim, who is most likely dealing with PTSD, shock and trauma and needs a rational voice in their life.  And yet, drinking culture on campus is still glorified, young women still flock to fraternity houses, and sex abuse advocates claim 60% of sexual assaults go unreported.

Whatever the message is to young women and men about rape, its failing miserably.

Adults (anyone over college age) have fell incredibly short of properly mitigating the complex issues of rape – such as educating the public on reporting sexual assault to police and the importance of a medical exam; confronting the young American male obsession with heavy drinking and porn culture; questioning why support groups have not evolved into legal protective task forces for women, instead of ineffective group therapy (while helpful, its not a court of law, and so, nothing will truly get resolved, sorry); questioning why fraternities, who have been caricatured into the major villains on campus, haven’t developed sex assault awareness activities in their chapter; and questioning WHY we don’t have tougher laws on cyber and physical threats to victims, who fearlessly use their American born right to report crime and seek justice.

Instead, we just go to the media for attention.  Like Maria, we’re not dealing with the facts.

8 ugly observations about conference on men’s rights in metro Detroit

Pressed from Motor City Muckraker:

Conference speakers: The “vast majority” of college women lie about being raped. Men are violent because of their mothers. Feminists are plotting to dominate men.

…Paul Elam, who organized the event and is the founder of A Voice for Men, regularly calls women “cunts,” “whores” and “rotten crotches.”

“But he’s gone further than name-calling.

On his blog in October 2010, Elam encouraged men “to beat the living shit” out of abusive women.

“I don’t mean subdue them, or deliver an open handed pop on the face to get them to settle down. i mean literally to grab them by the hair and smack their face against the wall till the smugness of beating on someone because you know they won’t fight back drains from their nose in a few million red corpuscles. And then make them clean up the mess.”

via 8 ugly observations about conference on men’s rights in metro Detroit.

Humans at Detroit’s Movement 2012 ^ Detroit Techno Week

Its Detroit Techno Week, and that means Detroit is gearing up for MOVEMENT 2014. Here’s a lookback at MOVEMENT 2012

HUMAN Detroit

Detroit recently celebrated the first official ‘Detroit Techno Week’, a week long celebration leading up to the Movement Electronic Music Festival, also known as DEMF.  Just to stand in the middle of the city at any random time, and hear the echos of heart pounding sound systems ripping out the best Electronic Dance Music your ears are blessed with, is truly a sight and sound to experience.  Hundreds of DJs filled the city, hundreds of parties, 100,000 people loving Movement in the D.  Here are a few of my snaps from various events during Movement.

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Human In Detroit: Another perspective from a small biz owner

After recent discussions on entrepreneurs in Detroit, I felt compelled to write my own story about who I am, and where I come from.  I typically like to talk about ideas and concepts, so talking about myself directly can be a bit odd unless I’m chatting with good friends.  I’m kind of getting used to this self promotion thing – my generation was taught to produce first, talk about yourself later, so bear with me.  I am a small business owner preparing to open my shop in Detroit.  I know there is a great deal of attention, almost overwhelming to a point, on the growing small business culture and artists creating lively hoods in the Detroit and Metro Detroit area.  I think its important to tell the story from different perspectives, so I’m adding this perspective in the ticker stream of Detroit lore.

Let me start with telling you first: I was born here.  This is my home.

My grandfather was a gambler/bootlegger on the Detroit River during Prohibition era, he later straightened up a bit and opened a somewhat unsuccessful diner in Detroit he could not maintain thanks to his gambeling and drinking habit.  My Grandmother was an immigrant from Crete, a statuesque goddess among the influx of Greek immigrants to Detroit, who ran with the speakeasy drinking crowd like my grandfather, and while I never met her, my best memory is a picture of her smiling elegantly in her fashionable hat standing a few inches taller next to some gangster looking guy with a gangster looking hat.  She was so beautiful.

My other beloved grandmother was a saint of a woman, still missed by everyone, and she was also a daughter of immigrants from Eastern Europe, her father was a political defect from Prague before the Nazis took over, he moved to Detroit to start a new life in America.  My grandfather’s family came from Quebec, a hearty line of French Catholics farmers, he eventually picked up new skills as a carpenter in Detroit and became a home inspector for Farmington.  These two met in the now totally-gone-from-history-except-for-pictures Hudsons Building.  My grandma worked there, and grandpa would stop by while they were dating.  So, thanks to Hudsons, I exist.  Sadly, the building does not.

I did not live with my father growing up, however he lived and worked in Detroit most of his life.  While the last remaining decades of his existence was spent being a barfly in Mexicantown, I think he would be surprised today at how much it has changed.

See, I’m at a unique age.  I’m at the pinnacle age of Detroit history, I can still remember what Detroit used to be, I have family memories of the early Detroit, along with my own memories of the Detroit before it became fashionable.  You have to understand that we have a long complicated history, and its not always easy to tell.

I can remember when my mother was working downtown, and as single mothers do, took me along to work with her on a Saturday when she worked overtime.  I was 5 years old, and we were seated at a diner downtown during lunch.  At the time, we were living in an apartment in Westland, and while I had a few neighbors in the complex who were black, I was confused why the two cities looked so different.  So I asked my Mom, in 1980, in Downtown Detroit: “Mom, why does Detroit have so many black people?”  My Mother was horrified, embarrassed, shushing me while slowly trying to disappear into the booth.  I even tried to explain my question, but was instantly silenced with the look of death.  She still remembers how embarrassed she was to this day.  My poor mother.

I can remember when Woodward practically had tumbleweeds rolling down the street.  When Cass Corridor was a place to be avoided.  When the Fillmore was the State Theatre, and when we used to have a stadium named after our baseball team and not a corporation.

I can remember when Detroit started to receive a large flux of immigrants from the Middle East, many bringing their culture and traditions with them. When you could only buy hummus at a small deli in Dearborn and falafel was an exotic word.  When an already racially divided Detroit had to learn to co-exist with a new set of people who looked and acted pretty different, with different customs and a starkly different religion.

I can remember the frustration I had with Mayor Coleman Young.  How I wished he wasn’t so stubborn, and well, kind of racist.  But I can look back at Mayor Young’s legacy now, and love or hate him, he kept Detroit from turning into a corporate big box suburbia.  Now, Detroit is a “hotbed” for entrepreneurs, some claim they’re going to “save” Detroit.  Ironic.

I can remember the excitement I had when Kwame Kilpatrick became mayor.  He’s around the same age as I am, and I thought, “finally, my generation gets to move forward, past the divisions of the previous generation.”

And I also remember the slow release tablet of disappointment as Kwame’s empire started to fall.

You have to understand, Detroit has a history that only Detroiters can tell.  While some may believe they can tell it for us, I can only tell my story of Detroit that makes sense to me.  Because I’m from here, and my family is from here.

I’m a graduate of the CAPA program of Livonia Public Schools, a graduate of University of Detroit Mercy, I took clarinet lessons with Ted Oien of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, I worked at the Majestic Café in Midtown, I worked for University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, I helped design the business plan for the Motor City Lyric Opera, had a chance to meet and work alongside Martha Reeves, one of the founding board members.  I’ve marched down Woodward Avenue for marching band several years in the Thanksgiving Day Parade, and now take my kids to that parade, happy to pass at a least one thing from my youth to them.

I’ve been to raves in random abandoned warehouses, when raves served gin and juice out of large McDonalds dispensers.  I remember when crackheads were paid $5/hour because that’s how much a rock cost.  I remember I had to carry a shovel in my car so I was always prepared to dig myself out, back when we used to get a lot of snow and the Detroit streets were never plowed.

I remember when the Detroit Tigers won the World Series in 84, followed by the Championship back to back Pistons, followed by the Stanley Cup Red Wings.  Followed by the, ok forget it.  I really miss Ernie Harwell, and along with no Hudson’s building, no Tiger’s Stadium.  Goodbye childhood.

Not very sexy hipster chic, I know.  But its MY story of Detroit.  Its the Detroit I love and know, it’s the Detroit I drained my life savings to start a business in.  It’s the Detroit my family helped to create, and now my responsibility to carry on.  That’s it.  Some may say it needs to be “saved,” I simply believe we need to continuing working.  Like my family before me.

And I’m honored to finally open a business in Midtown, Detroit.  I think my grandparents would be proud.  More on that later.  But for now, let me leave you with this:

  • “When we force a single story upon a place — Detroit, or, say, Africa — when we ascribe it a single narrative, a simple summation about who lives there and what they’re like, we come up with a dishonest view of that place.” – Anna Clark, Fulbright Fellow to Kenya in 2010, in the Detroit Free Press.