50 Shades: I should've posted this a long time ago

I found this in the notes on my phone, and I wanted to share it a lot earlier. It's probably far too late now, but better late than never? I have strong feelings against the 50 Shades book/movie, and not because of your typical Christian "sex outside of marriage is bad, stop that right now" rationale. No, I think it's dangerous. This movie has the potential to perpetuate the [any form of sexual abuse] culture we have here in America.

The assumptions it will create/add fuel to:

• Men cannot control their sexual urges

• Even "good girls" want sex; they just might not understand how much they do. (I'm not saying girls don't want sex. I'm stressing the "no means yes" idea it puts into play)

• Being violently obsessive is a totally acceptable behavior in a relationship

• It is permissible to break the rules of BDSM (such as a safe-word), because she's going to enjoy it in the end

Listen, I understand it's exciting. I understand there's been a huge swing towards BDSM recently, but we need to think about what subliminal ideas we're letting sneak into our heads and our society--as a generation, as a nation filled with sexual abuse, as humans.

I think invasive things can be pushed out of our minds in most cases: pictures, violence, poor humor, etc. But friends, the hardest thing to shake is a subliminal idea, because sometimes you're not even sure if it's invasive.

Think twice.

CiCi's Song (and it has absolutely nothing to do with pizza)

This is a spoken word poem I wrote a few months back. It's very broken and inconsistent, but it's raw; I don't even want it to sound smooth. I apologize for the dash of profanity at the end. It needed to be there. Also before you guys get all judgmental on me, this is not a true story. This is not based on a specific true story. This is a compilation of my observations at college.

CiCi's Song

A beautiful girl,
Born to the world, 1994.
Formed by a mother and a careless father,
So adorned with love you'd think nothing could stop her.
Until.
Until the world hit her father.
He picked up the bottle: whiskey. No DD.
Smashed his foot to the throttle, DUI model,
Now there's no milk in the bottle for poor CiCi.
A single mother with a three-year-old child.
I don't know how they constantly do it.
Pushing and fighting through the struggles of this life until they're finally through it.
Food, clothes, roof, school, shoelaces.
Are superheros real? She's showing some pretty strong cases.
Running two races that no one should run,
And as her daughter grows up she can't turn around to see what she's become.
For as much as her mother did, she couldn't be a father.
Early teen years, she was there.
CiCi didn't bother.

Now this piece is not about single mothers.
This piece is not about dead fathers.
This is about the evils of mankind,
The perversion in my own mind,
The sexual sin that only gets stronger with time because we learn new ways to manipulate the female mind.

Because I heard the other day, and I even said in jest.
"Go for the ones with Daddy problems; they're the easiest.
The desperate and depressed, because they'll respect your 'yes'.
The self-conscious and insecure--just tell them they're your best."

So I'm going after CiCi.
She's a freshman this year.
I'll wipe her tears and calm her fears brought on by the years of pain.
Little does she know that I'll re-instill each of these fears again.
Mistreated in high school like some low-class whore.
She comes to a Christian college where she'll feel more secure.
Looking for a man, anything but her dad,
But she runs too fast and trips hard over my Christian facade.

You see, I played her like a fiddle.
Kept my true intentions a riddle,
and when she asked me where I stood, I told her somewhere in the middle.
Not too forward as to scare her away,
But not too boring either, as if I'm about to decay.

Her walls need broken down,
Chronic trust issues.
Holding her hand: my hammer.
My chisel: handing her tissues.
My wrecking ball is the text after a night together that sweetly reads, "I miss you."
Brick by brick I break it down, and build it twice as high.
She can't see her new wall yet, though.
Shhh.
That's her big surprise.

"You're beautiful."
"You're special to me."
"I don't even know--there's something special about you."
"No."
"Yes."
"I promise."
"Don't you?"

I slide my hand under her shirt.
"I'm not like most guys," I say.
Sure.
How is she to know?
If only my nose would grow--if only I was Pinocchio!
Now she can't say no.
I have her too deep.
She believed me when I told her she'd be coming over to sleep.
Thought she'd be counting sheep.
But now she's in Ground Memorial breaking the promises she couldn't keep.

Do you hear that sound?
That's me tearing apart an angel's wings.
Why? Because it gets me high.
Because I like risking the lives of others if it means that I can fly.
Only the strong survive!
...and, well. She just didn't play her cards right.
I guess this just wasn't her night.

The "I miss you" texts stop coming, and her nights wouldn't end.
As she's staring blankly at her phone, I'm recounting to my friends.
Her phone dies.
I get a high-five.
A tear forms.
My cheer scorns.
I threw her to her new wall with nothing but an unwanted notch in her belt and a muffled cry for help.

Heartbreak ensues. I left her with a huge bruise.
Not the physical kind. No, the kind that you can never lose.
I don't turn around and I don't look back.
I don't pick it up where I dropped it.
I told you we were evil, shit.
Mission accomplished.
It's like no one could've stopped it.

This isn't a good post: I'm not asking you to read this.

I've always been one to fight the flow, to resist the growing views and norms of society, and to ask the question "Why?" as opposed to taking an immediate emotional stance on (almost) every issue.

First off, let me say something that you may never hear me say in person: I am a feminist. I believe that women deserve equal treatment as men, and men as women. I am not a female (or male) supremacist. We all coexist and struggle through this confusing world together, so what difference does it make whether I have a penis or a vagina? I'm a human. You're a human.

I'm not jumping into the boring 77 cents per dollar that women get in the workplace as compared to men. I also will not be focusing on the media's constant push for women to have "perfect" bodies. Nor will I be talking about the scattered advantages that come with being male or female.

No, instead, let's discuss rape, where a female is the victim.

More specifically, let's discuss the rapists' argument: "She was asking for it," and the rapee's argument, "My dress isn't a yes."

"Not asking for it. Rape is never the victim's fault."

"My dress is not a 'yes.' "

"Still not asking for it."

Rape is taboo. I've recently become a little less ignorant, and have tried to cut the word out of my vocabulary completely out of respect for those who cringe when they hear it. Someone you know has been raped. More than likely, one of your close friends has been raped; it's rampant in our society. Some blame the girls and women for how they were dressed, but most (rightly) blame the men.

It's always the man's fault. That's not even sarcasm in any way, shape, or form. The girl or woman being raped is never at fault. If she was at fault, logically speaking, it wouldn't be rape (unless of course the man didn't consent).

"Still not asking for it."

Good for you. I'm glad you have more respect for yourself than that. 

So what of how a girl dresses? If she's not asking for it regardless of whether she's in an 18th century dress, a ball gown, a suit, a mini skirt, a bikini, or buck naked, what's the difference? 

I recently saw a presentation on the bikini (http://bit.ly/1kZ4jYZ). The woman speaking presented the results of a study done on male Princeton students' brains while they observed women in various clothing. According to this study (and I'm paraphrasing a bit), when the men were shown women in less clothing, the part of the brain associated with tools became more active. Some of these students showed no activity in the medial pre-frontal cortex. This is the part of the brain that is used when considering someone else's feelings, thoughts, or emotions. The professor conducting the test was shocked, and related the results with the students seeing these women as objects, almost as non-human. There is another Princeton study referenced that echoes the same results: selfish thinking. In addition, "analysts at the National Geographic said that bikinis really do inspire men to view women as objects. As someone to be used, rather than someone to connect with." But oh wait, I forgot that the majority of people will throw out anything even mentioning religion, and this girl did say we are "made in his image." So those scientific findings are clearly no longer valid since they were voiced by someone religious.

I'm not a hermit. I know how people think; I know what people say. Just the other day I heard my friend talking about her clothing. She said, and I quote, "I wear low cut shirts when I have acne breakouts. I just live by the phrase, 'Look at my tits, not my zits!'" Interesting. It's like she knows it's going to draw attention or something. From my understanding, all girls realize this fundamental fact: Wearing high skirts and low shirts will cause 99% of guys to look. I only say 99% because I'm accounting for a rare, possible exception. I like to think I'm pretty respectful of women's bodies, but I look just like anyone else. Granted, if I catch myself I'm ashamed and make a point to not do it again, but it's always going to happen again at some point. Even the great Billy Graham struggled with this.

"Looking is one thing, acting is another. It's still the man's fault. It's not my fault he can't control himself."

Let me exaggerate that logic. You're the owner of a not-so-friendly pitbull. A small dog starts running around your yard or driveway. Your front door is open. What do you do in this situation?

Clearly if anything happens, it's not the little dog's fault; he or she is undoubtedly the victim here. It's the pitbull's fault 10 times out of 10. But hey, if that door gets closed, nothing can possibly happen. You just might get a little warm since you don't have as much of a breeze anymore.

Now I realize this analogy is flawed both ways. First, the little dog obviously didn't wear anything to entice the pitbull. Second, rape can still happen regardless of what women wear (although it is much less likely), so the door would have to be somehow breakable. But the point remains.

Girls, I can say with full confidence that you do not understand what runs through a guy's mind when you wear low shirts, high skirts, yoga pants, bikinis, etc. It's not your fault that we think like we do. And yet, it's not our fault either. If we choose to dwell on the thought, then yes--it's our fault for doing so. But the initial thoughts and mental reactions are literally inescapable.

And I am by no means blaming you girls for the rape culture against women. Hell no. I'm simply saying that some of you put yourself in a more vulnerable position. Yeah, I'm sure the attention is fun, and it's probably "more comfortable" (the reasoning I always hear), but the breeze is always strongest near the edge.

I'm not even going to touch on the arguments for self-respect. That's all up to you. I think I gave you enough to think about.  But I am curious. After seeing that title, why did you read this? Was it tempting? Did you enter without me asking you to? Did your curiosity get the best of you? 

I'm still not asking you to.

The Beauty of Valentine's Day

Being a single guy, with my last relationship ending somewhere around 20 months ago, you'd think I would give Valentine's Day the cold shoulder, right? Well, here's why I appreciate the holiday, and why I disagree with all those who think a day like this shouldn't exist because "we should show love every day." BUT FIRST, a history lesson!

The holiday wasn't always so lovey-dovey. Back in the day, the festival taking place sometime in February was a celebration of the fertility gods. The people would sacrifice animals, peel off strips of the skin, and whack their women with the bloody strips in an attempt to make them more fertile. This is completely logical, after all. Happy Valentine's Day, honey.

We get the modern holiday and name, though, from Father Valentine. Under Emperor Claudius, marriage was banned in order to try to eradicate homesickness from war-weary soldiers. Valentine had an issue with this ban, and would marry couples behind the emperor's back. Eventually he was imprisoned and sentenced to death. Rumor has it that the illegally-wed couples would give Father Valentine gifts of appreciation such as flowers. And, on the day he was to be executed (February 14th), he gave a note to the jailer's daughter that he had fallen in love with, signing it "from your Valentine." What a romantic guy. I imagine he didn't picture his acts leading to an old woman straddling a stick of unsalted butter, but it is what it is.

Do we really need something like this though? We should be showing people love every day of the year--not just on a holiday. The entire point of holidays is to commemorate something in the past. Christmas--Jesus's birth. Independence Day--the day America dumped Britain. Are we only thankful for what Martin Luther King did on the day we named after him? No, but it keeps the idea fresh in our minds; it keeps what he did relevant! In the same way, I feel like if we didn't celebrate Valentine's Day, chivalry would take an even quicker nosedive and romance would be at an all-time low. So guys, don't feel sappy buying your girlfriend that giant teddy bear or breaking your wallet to take her to a five-star restaurant. Show her you care, and keep romance and chivalry relevant in today's society. Just do what you can to not get stuck in the depressing be-romantic-once-a-year rut, because that's not what Father Valentine wants... or your girlfriend for that matter.

Put Down the Camera. Say 1000 Words Yourself.

I know you've been there. Scrolling through your Facebook timeline, when you see that Sally Smith has just added 180 photos to the album "Summer 2013." Beginning to swipe through the pictures, you realize that the pictures are incredibly repetitive and quite possibly all from the same day. It's like she couldn't put her phone/camera down for five minutes.

Similarly, if you were to go to a concert this weekend and pay attention to the audience, hundreds of people will have their phones up in the air recording their favorite song, taking video, Snapchats, pictures, and most importantly--their time.

Have you ever stopped to wonder what life would be like if we went back to the 24-pictures-per-roll mentality? Where we only take a picture when we feel like it's a meaningful memory? Before the word "selfie" was ever added to the English language?

Now, don't get me wrong. I am in full support of photography, and I love seeing the beautiful things people are able to capture. However, I think we've reached a point where it's gotten completely out of hand. Pictures are no longer taken to preserve moments in time. Instead, the idea of capturing memories has been perverted into visual status-updates. Social media has become visual, which isn't intrinsically bad, but it's being abused. "Look at me." "Look what I'm doing right now." "Look at who I'm with." . . .you get the point. I think what was originally meant to be a memory aid has been transformed into an online show-and-tell, but we've completely forgotten about the "tell."

I remember taking vacations with my family many years ago. On the first day of every vacation we went on, each of us four kids would be awarded a Fugifilm disposable camera. We had 24 shots--no more, no less. We cherished those opportunities, and tried to take the best, most memorable pictures we could. Granted, my younger brother didn't quite get the concept. He took a picture, flash on, of a random Mexican man walking out of the gift shop (true story). The rest of us, though, understood and valued the limited chances we had.

To be honest with you, my best memories of those vacations were never caught on camera. And, *surprise*, it wasn't because of the 24-picture rule. Sure, looking back on those pictures we took is fun, and will occasionally remind me of something funny, but the mental memories are what count in the long run. The stories and laughs will be there long after the pictures are buried in some folder on Facebook. So why aren't we focusing more on who or what we are with instead of all of our friends who aren't with us?

Soak up the beauty of the moment, and store it in your brain--the best database of all-time.
I have a challenge for you: next time you venture to any place where you would normally blow up Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat (or all three) with pictures of what you're doing, stop. Take a very limited number of pictures, and tell me what it feels like afterwards. It's very hard for me to describe what it feels like for me personally, but if I had to choose one word, it would be privatized. The memory is mine and mine only. If you want to share the memory, say 1000 words about it instead of showing a picture. Trust me, you won't feel empty just because you don't have 930 pictures to show-off to your friends. You'll even have the liberty to flash a little selfish grin when you say, "Oh man, you had to be there!"

Keep your life an adventure!
-Joel