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~ The opposite of a regret, is a story.

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Tag Archives: Shielding C

Help Me Talk About Rape

11 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by shieldingc in Biography, Confessions of a Buried Survivor, Opinion, Stories Women Never Tell

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

advocate, Buried Survivor, culture, false accusation, false rape allegation, game, guilt, liar, opinion, Rape, rape culture, satire, Sexual assault, shame, Shielding, Shielding C, Shielding Cournoyer, Silence, stigma, Survivor, Survivors

Awhile ago, I invented a really fun game.  This is how you play: Within thirty minutes of reading these words, you have to walk up to a total stranger, and tell them, “I was raped.”

You get 50 points if you can do it, and it doesn’t count if you say afterward that you were joking or this was all a test.  25 points if you can only do it using an intermediary device like a letter or the internet.  100 points if you say it directly to a loved one.  Points accumulate every time you play.  Tell 10 loved ones, you get a thousand points.  If you can’t do it at all at all not even once and anonymously and over the internet, you get to shut the hell up forever about girls who cry rape for attention.

I’ve played every day for decades.  Most of the time, I lose.

I know what you’re thinking, normie.  You’re thinking, “But Shielding.  You really WERE raped.  This gives you a natural advantage.”

I know that’s what you were thinking.  Don’t even try to lie.

It’s fine.  I get it.  Because you’ve never had to play this game before, you think of shame as something accidental.  You’ve heard that people who were raped feel great disgrace, and you figure it’s some glitch in our thinking – that once we’re informed that it wasn’t our fault and that there’s no reason to blame ourselves, the logical spigot from whence the shame descends will dutifully turn itself off.

You think that if you were to lie about rape, it would be just your own good conscience making you feel terrible.  You haven’t admitted to yourself that the prospect of playing my game scares you for other reasons.

Do me a solid.  Focus on what’s happening in your mind when you picture yourself saying those words to someone who really loves you.  What images make you afraid?  Are they all just you, sitting there judging yourself in private?  No, they’re not.  Don’t lie.  You’re imagining how people would stare at you.  You’re imagining seeing in their faces all their concern for you, their pain for you, their love for you.  You’re imagining feeling embarrassed at that concern, guilty for that pain, undeserving of that love.  Aren’t you?

There’s more, though.  Isn’t there.  There are the people who don’t love you, and there are people you love who you still don’t entirely trust.  Imagine telling one of them, and in their concern, you’ll see judgment – their gears shifting, reassessing before your eyes what kind of person you are.  Over their pain, you’ll see disgust.  They really didn’t want to think about that kind of thing today.  In their love, you’ll see pity.  They’ll never forget you are weaker, messier, lesser than you were.

And there’s the knowledge that you carried with you into this experiment, that it’s impossible to back your story up.  You’re stuck on the images of that one day when those loved ones are going to look at you, while you stand there stuttering and trying to explain, and their faces will lose their love and their concern.  You will be seeing shock, betrayal, outrage.  You will lose your people.

This, too, is shame.  Sit with that feeling awhile for me.  Make yourself familiar.  I want you to recognize it when it comes to you again.  I’ve seen it touch you before, when you didn’t know what it was.  When no one asked you to think about it.  I’ve seen you at the table, when I’m telling my story, clam up and look away.  You thought you were making yourself invisible.  You thought it would be bad if the eyes of anyone else in that room, full as they were of concern, and pain, and love, and judgment, and disgust, and pity, and shock, and outrage, and betrayal were to land on you by accident.  You didn’t realize that you weren’t the only one looking away.

I’ve seen you feel ashamed across the internet.  I put my story there:

https://amodestbloggist.com/2017/09/08/confessions-of-a-buried-survivor/

My blog recorded a thousand hits for that piece after it went live.  On Facebook, where I shared the link in feminist groups and on my own page, there were loves, and likes, and shares.  There were comments.  Almost all of them had one big thing in common, though: they came from other survivors.  I know this because they told me so, putting their names right there next to mine.

They are all people who already play my game.

The people like you, who never had to, clammed up and looked away.  You were afraid that a like, let alone a share or a love, would make people look at you funny.  You didn’t understand that the people like me who shared, who loved, who commented, were every bit as scared.  You didn’t see me squeezing my head with both arms on the couch the second after I published.  You can’t see me now, as I write these words, hunched over my kitchen table with my hands going up again and again to press against my mouth.

It took me thirty years to work up to my confession.

I once pitched an article on rape culture to Cracked.com.  Not a great topic match, you might think, for a site that’s known for comedy.  But neither is “5 things I learned as a sex slave in modern America” –  and here’s that article, existing:

http://www.cracked.com/personal-experiences-1440-5-things-i-learned-as-sex-slave-in-modern-america.html

I kept my pitch impersonal, and focused on six pieces of important, little-known information – such as the fact that pedophiles can be treated with sex-specific therapy:

https://www.childmolestationprevention.org/pages/prevention_plan.html

I edited and edited again in response to feedback I received by Cracked writers but was ultimately told that Cracked would not publish a piece about rape culture.  I pointed out that they’d recently published a piece about sex slavery.  It was then explained to me that this piece was different because it was actually written by a staff member.  That’s why it didn’t matter that the woman he interviewed remained anonymous.

Cracked knew who the source was, then.  Cracked did not know anything about me or my ability to write well about rape culture.  I wrote about me, ultimately, because I believed people would listen to my important messages if they knew who I was.  Messages like, “Pedophilia can be treated before children are molested.”

When I discovered the Institute for the Prevention of Child Molestation and its Action Plan based on a solid study of 16,000 people, you have to understand, I did what the plan prescribed.  I told people about it.  I used my social media, linking the study in my status.  I held my breath, and posted.  There was no response, so a few days later, I posted it again, and again after that.  I finally made a status yelling at the internet for ignoring me.  That time I had some bites – two or three friends reposted.

A fellow survivor messaged me privately to explain why he wasn’t able to share it.  He didn’t want people looking at him like they were starting to look at me.

It’s harder for male survivors.  I don’t deny it.  People always associate male survivors with child abusers, so they have to worry about people looking at them like that.  But the stigma is also worse, because rape is something that’s only supposed to happen to women – so coming out as a survivor means a reduction in male privilege.  I guess it’s the same for male normies.

But seriously.  Children can be saved by you swallowing your fears and reposting.

What I have witnessed again and again is that normies and closeted survivors are weighing the lives and souls of others against your fears of being weird.  You have decided reliably that having people look at you the way they look at me is way too great a sacrifice.

You don’t know that I wrote my story long before I published it yesterday.  That I pitched it first to magazines like XO Jane, where I read a piece (http://www.xojane.com/issues/why-i-talk-about-rape) by Emily entitled “Why I Talk About Rape.”  You don’t know that I wrote a dozen versions of different lengths and that I sent my pitch a few times to a several different publications when I received no response.  That I knew I could write it well, that I knew it was a story worth telling, but maybe I was crazy and after all my message wasn’t that important.

But when I went ahead and published on my blog, the comments that I did receive were not just subtle praise.

“Make this post public,” I was told.  “More people need to see it.”

I did it.  Swallowing hard, I removed the people from my restricted lists who might just judge and pity and be disgusted.  There was no disgust or pity expressed by those people, of course.  Just silence.  My article didn’t catch and spread like I and others wanted.  I couldn’t pretend it was because of bad writing this time.

I remembered, today, that Emily’s piece had been preceded by an article that was a transcript of an hour-long conversation she had with one of her rapists.  She’d taped it and everything.  That made her story different.

I thought, when Cracked writers told me they didn’t know who I was and couldn’t trust me to write an article about rape culture, they meant that they weren’t familiar with my writing style.  I know better now.

My telling the world who I am will never be  enough to make you know me.  A taped confession with my rapists might do the job, but not me, on my own, talking.  You don’t dare risk believing in me.  What if I’m lying?  What if I’m wrong?  What if it’s not just me, all alone, but you and your beautiful magazines that help other people looking crazy and stupid and weird?

Doubt is our burden, like nobody else’s.  I said this once before.  Survivors are all alone.  When you normies try to make yourselves invisible while my people look to you for help, you have to realize we’re the ones who disappear.   You have no idea at all that in my desperation to be heard I stayed up all night a couple of times in a row tweeting my story at Twitter handles devoted to survivors, and feminism, and any celebrity I could find, big or small, who speaks on social issues.  No retweets, of course. At least one person blocked me.  I don’t know if maybe I was breaking some kind of Twitter etiquette.  When you’re buried you can’t tell if anyone can hear you.  You run out of options and start shouting in peoples’ faces.  Then at least you know who’s blocking who.

I’m asking you, normie, for some help.  Nobody’s going to believe in me unless somebody people might believe is willing to put his name right there next to mine. My name is Shielding Cournoyer, and I am a survivor.  Dig me up.

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Friends Do Make Secrets

03 Tuesday Mar 2015

Posted by shieldingc in Other Outrageous Fiction

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Art, Dwight Eisenhower, Dystopia, Eutopia, Facebook, Fantasy, Fiction, Follow, Followers, Friends, Friends Make Secrets, Future economy, Horror, Literature, lolcats, Monopoly of Secrets, Mystery, No secrets, President Eisenhower, Science Fiction, Secret, Secrets, Secrets Don't Make Friends, Share, Sharing, Shielding C, Short Story, Social Media, story, Surprise Party, Twitter

Jordan tugged on the ends of her scarf, regretting her decision not to wear the hat. The wind hadn’t been this bad when she’d left. She ignored the vibrations of one more waiting message. At the corner that one screen door was flapping open, showing off the alcove with the door she wanted. Nothing shone or spoke to her – just the ordinary black of the address number. 27.

Past the flapping screen, the door was green. Jordan felt sorry again when she touched her naked hand to the frigid handle, but still she paused. There was nothing special about this moment; it wasn’t any different than the one before that, when she’d stepped off her bus, or the one yesterday when she’d resolved to come. It felt different, in a heavy, nauseous way, but that was in her mind. There was buzzing again – more messages. She silenced it, swallowed, and went in.

The door didn’t jangle or anything. It was a quiet shop, filled with rows of shelves of quiet boxes and the perfumy-candle smell of somebody’s terrible attempt at homey-ness. It wasn’t notably warm, but it wasn’t cold like outside. The air had a shiftless quality that seemed to seal the candle-smell against her skin.

“Can I help you?”

Behind the counter, there was a tall, stiff woman with her hair in a bun. She waited a second and when Jordan didn’t move she came around the counter herself, a plaster smile forcing salutation. “What is it you’re looking for, my dear?”

Jordan cleared her throat. It hadn’t occurred to her to want anything in particular.

“I’m sorry,” she blushed. “I don’t think…”

“You’re here for the first time, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must have something very special in mind. Something worth the trouble.”

“I…maybe.”

“Is it a man?”

“What?”

“I say, are you looking to impress a man? Hoping to forge a deeper connection with someone you adore? Or, are you expecting to win the trust of a business associate, perhaps, up the ante, bring more skin into your game? Or is this a matter of personal intrigue – do you wish to leave here today feeling wiser, more mature? Have you decided it’s time to put aside childish things and forge a story all your own among the world of true adults?”

“I…don’t know,” Jordan said, laughing abruptly. It was a real laugh, though, and not a bad feeling. “All of the above, I guess.”

The woman with the bun nodded once, then turned with an inviting motion of her arm. “If you’ll follow me this way, into our Juniors’ section…one of our startup kits here may be just the ticket.   All of them are intensity-controlled and set to expire after thirty days. The good thing about the startups is, you can upgrade if you like after 36 hours.”

The boxes that they passed were plain cardboard, with little tickets full of numbers. The saleswoman turned to Jordan in the middle of an aisle with a brief, scrutinizing air. “Of course, surprise parties are a perennial favorite first package – always thrilling, long-remembered, and as we’ve just unloaded this season’s themes you’ll have more bang-for-your-buck today than you would for the next four months.”

Jordan shook her head slightly.

“No,” said the saleswoman to herself, and smiled again. “Perhaps,” she said, moving toward the end of the aisle, “a more interactive package would better suit your tastes. Have you any interest in crafting a unique piece of artwork – an independent story, or picture, perhaps?”

“No,” said Jordan. “I mean, I don’t see how I could, on my own.”

“Well, no one does, at first. But isn’t that the point – to try something new?”

Jordan shook her head quickly. “No. I don’t want something ordinary. I want something to show for myself – something, big.”

The saleswoman tilted her head to the side and started to lean toward the middle of the aisle again, and the surprise-party packages.

“What’s up there?” Jordan asked, pointing to the other end of the store where the highest shelves were set in the wall behind a rolling ladder. She started toward it without waiting for the saleswoman to explain.

“Those packages are intended for experienced users, only,” said the woman, becoming curt as she followed with long strides. The woman passed Jordan before she’d reached the shelves and turned around with her back to the ladder. “We cannot be liable for the sale of advance packages to beginners. We’re extremely sorry for any inconvenience.”

“These are real secrets,” said Jordan, rising onto her tiptoes when she couldn’t inch forward any further.

“We only sell real secrets!” The saleswoman snapped, arms folded. She breathed, remembering to smile. “It would be my pleasure to assist you with a selection more in line with your skill-level. You may have seen the surprise-party handled by others, but I think you’ll find the firsthand experience both a satisfying challenge and an exhilarating introduction. We have over thirty brand-new themes from which to choose, including everything from the romantic to the comical, from birthdays to holidays and everything in-between. There are themes for horse-lovers and skiers, dancers and pranksters. You can’t go wrong with a surprise-party package!”

Jordan looked at the saleswoman’s smile. “No,” said Jordan. “No party. Give me the artistic thing. I’ll draw a story.”

“Ok, then.” The saleswoman almost sounded relieved. “Follow me this way…”

*             *             *

A short time later, Jordan sat behind the purple fitting-room’s curtain and peeled off the seal on a cardboard box. Inside, the plastic film emblazoned with a thick, dark bar code sat waiting for her to feed through the machine in the wall. On the other side of the curtain, the saleswoman’s fingers could be heard squeaking faintly against a glass screen.

“So this is a real secret, then?” Jordan asked.

“As real as real can be, my dear!” The saleswoman chirped. “Your file will begin uploading shortly. Do you have any further questions in the meantime?”

“Yeah…How does this work, exactly?” Jordan queried, nervous again. There were lights in her mind, informing her the upload had begun. “I mean, obviously everyone who follows me knows I’m here. How do I keep from sharing what I’m working on?”

“Your secret will remain at the highest privacy setting until it expires at the end of the month. The file uses a unique algorithm that tags recurrent imagery, syntax, and word clusters while the program is in use. These go into a cache for your review before transfer to the intersystem. You can keep your entire cache off-feed if you so choose.”

“So, no sharing.”

“Not if you don’t wish it, no. Even if you share a cached item with a follower, the item remains tagged secret and within the power of your follower to upload to the feed or remain a shared secret between the two of you. At any point in the life of your secret, of course, you may choose to permanently delete any cached items you wish.”

“Wow,” said Jordan.

“You see?” The saleswoman laughed. “You’re exhilarated already!”

“I am,” said Jordan. “But also…I mean, if no one can follow my secret…well, what will happen if things get out of hand?” She felt silly saying the words out loud, but she had to ask. It’d be stupid not to.

The saleswoman gave a satisfied chuckle. “This is why we only offer programs with intensity-control to first-timers. Should you experience intense negative emotion at any point – intense being considered decibel 4 or higher – your secret automatically expires.”

“What happens when it expires?”

“Simply that everything in your secret cache will automatically upload itself to feed. You can purchase an upgrade 36 hours from now, if you wish, and extend your package up to seven months.”

A ringing in her mind informed her the upload was complete. Ignoring the sixty other messages she’d received over the past day-and-a-half, she took a breath, and opened her secret. A brilliant blank wall loomed up in her imagination, ready and waiting to hold her lone ideas.

“Are you having trouble opening your file?”

“No,” Jordan breathed, then didn’t say any more. There were pictures shooting onto her blank canvas – things she’d seen on the street on the way here, things her friends had seen in skyscraper buildings and leafy yards. She kept scrolling to a clean white space, trying to remember words she hadn’t heard her friends say lately. 30 days to try and make something no one had ever seen before. Elephant, she thought. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard about elephants. Toilet paper. President Dwight D. Eisenhower.

“You are set and ready to go, my dear, whenever you’re ready.”

“Give me a second,” said Jordan. She was excited, and maybe too excited at that. If her face stuck in the saleswoman’s mind her friends would get even more curious than they already were.

“Oh, I know,” said the woman. “That’s what the curtain’s for. You’re not the first to buy a secret, and you won’t be the last.”

Jordan opened the curtain, slowly, and smiled.

“Well, look at you,” said the saleswoman, meeting her smile on a different level than before. “All grown up, with your very own secret. You won’t look the same to anyone, now.”

“That’s what I was hoping,” said Jordan.

She unsilenced her feed as she stepped through the door, and a few hundred pokes went through her head. She was almost as excited as cold, and she saw through her followers’ eyes that the bus was four minutes and thirteen seconds away and that the only place with hats and mittens was two minutes down the street. She stuck her hands in her pockets anyway, listening to the burble of her friends’ complaints and congratulations. A sidebar in her mind popped up suddenly – the secret cache she’d learned about, showing phrases and pictures kept off-feed. “I have a secret” sat right at the top, with a repeat count of 23.  It was working. By the time the bus was there, her followers had all stopped talking about secrets and started screaming at the driver to crank the dang heat up, with the usual number of inarticulate kitten pictures thrown in.

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