Twenty minutes of action
Recently I stumbled upon the news of a rape case happened one year ago in the context of Stanford University, California. After the initial, impotent rage at reading the report, I would probably have moved on.
But then I read the open (to what? to whom?) letter written by the father of the aggressor, and I realised that I could not take the disgust feeling anymore. Judge for yourself:
Just to give you awareness of the minimum context, a guy and a girl met a party, got both drunk, and he abused of her outside. Two passers-by on bike noticed him thrusting [sic] on top of her, and intervened and held him until police showed up.
There is nothing much to add, right? Apparently yes, because of what one parent of the aggressor was able to write. Let's go through it in detail, let your brain be ripped off one sentence after the other.
Dan Turner, I am reading your letter aloud, and I will ask you for some explanation in regard.
As it stands now, Brock’s life has been deeply altered forever by the events of Jan 17th and 18th.
Because perhaps, he fucked it up?
He will never be his happy go lucky self with that easy going personality and welcoming smile. His ever waking minute is consumed with worry, anxiety, fear and depression. You can see this in his face, the way he walks, his weakened voice, his lack of appetite.
Shit happens. By the way, would you mind showing us the prescription where the doctor ordered him to abuse of an unconscious girl?
Brock always enjoyed certain types of food and is a very good cook himself.
Ah I see, liking certain types of food puts your son in a completely different perspective. I think I never met a single person, that did not enjoy certain types of food.
I was always excited to buy him a big ribeye steak to grill or to get his favorite snack for him. I had to make sure to hide some of my favorite pretzels or chips because I knew they wouldn’t be around long after Brock walked in from a long swim practice.
Instead of worrying about what the pig would put in his mouth, you should perhaps have spent some minutes explaining what consense is. Being now clear that your two neurons were never exposed to the concept, I will give you the chance to make its acquaitance for the first time.
- I say yes = THERE IS CONSENSE!
- I say no = THERE IS NO CONSENSE;
- I don't say yes = THERE IS NO CONSENSE;
- I don't say anything = THERE IS NO CONSENSE.
Do you remember when your car got stolen? You filled a theft complaint, yet nobody did argue about you not having put a PLEASE DON'T STEAL ME sign over your vehicle. Well, in human relationships, one night stands included, it works exactly the same: if you do not actively consent, every attempt of contact/intercourse is violence, and violence is wrong.
Being drunk is like leaving the cars on your car's door: not the most intelligent thing to do, but still qualifies the event as theft.
Going back to the written atrocity.
Now he barely consumes any food and eats only to exist.
Poor thing. But hey, look at the upsides! You don't have to hide your fucking snacks around anymore.
These verdicts have broken and shattered him and our family in so many ways.
I see your point. What about thinking that he just fucked it up?
His life will never be the one he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve.
We are all so sorry he won't be able anymore to beat the steak-gobbling record. Perhaps he should think more before fucking it up?
Ok, so far we have witnessed a complete moron, displaying sympathy for his convicted son, albeit in the most obtuse and rude way. We cannot all be geniuses and men of honour, not even in Palo Alto. Not a mention to the victim so far, but I accept the fact that facing others people's sensibility may be extremely complicated when you lack one yourself.
But then, the beast awakes.
That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life.
Andy Warhol said that in the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.
Dan Turner would argue that in the future, everyone will be actioned for 20 minutes.
The mere fact that you put the stress on the time of the act (Were you there? With a stopwatch?), without having the guts not even to call it by its name, qualifies you as a walking pile of rotting junk.
I will put the craving of making a penholder out of your left eyesocket apart for a moment. I will stop time at all, we'll sit together at the End of Space, and you will answer my questions. You are allowed to order a pint of your favourite ale while discussing. I am sure you'll have the cheapest lager.
– Why twenty? Why not one second or five minutes or one hour?
– Well - sips noisily - I don't know...it was just a number come on, who cares in the end?
– We are at The End of Space and Time, and I do care. Before I dig a penholder out of your left eyesocket with the bottle you are holding, I want to know.
– Listen, I do not fucking care how much time my son spent with the fucking bitch, it was just an episode and we all deserve forgiveness if we fuck it up once.
– Besides the fact that there are some, ehm, irreversible and unforgivable fuckups, you are right, humans may commit mistakes, and a certain degree of understanding is due. But bear with me for a minute, and look at this.
I point him to the bottom wall of the bar, where slides are being projected.
– You may recognise someone in those pictures, right?
– Heck but that's me! And there's Brock! Look how tall he wa...
– I GIVE EXACTLY ZERO FUCKS. Shut up and listen.
I take the bottle from him, and smash it against the wall. Slideshow proceeds.
– Those are all the moments you spent with your son. Every single you did not explain him how to behave with other people, you fucked it up. You fucked it up thousands, millions of times. You had countless chances to make it up for your uncompliance, yet you blatantly missed the opportunity each and every single time.
– I don't know who the fuck you are and what are we doing here, but I won't let this drunk slut ruin my family!
I do not care to answer. I pick the broken bottle by the neck, and I proceed to drive it against his left eye. The whole procedure, excuse me action, lasts for about nineteen minutes and a half.
The fact that he now has to register as a sexual offender for the rest of his life forever alters where he can live, visit, work, and how he will be able to interact with people and organizations.
If you are a sexual offender, you get registered as a sexual offender. One time is more than enough. Like if there were other ways to be registered as a sexual offender!
It's not a club, it is a measure that is FUCKING supposed to alter the way you interact with people. Otherwise we would be selling tees with SEXUAL OFFENDER written in white italic Futura Condensed over a red background.
He has no prior criminal history and has never been violent to anyone including his actions on the night of Jan. 17th 2015.
I swear that I have never been violent to anyone before I carved your eye out, and not even during the action: I did it gently for nineteen slow minutes, I am sure that if you would be able to talk now, you would confirm your delightfulness.
Your son has been accused of SEXUAL VIOLENCE, how come can you perpetrate abuse without violence? It is the very definition of it.
Brock can do so many positive things as a contributor to society and is totally committed to educating other college age students about the dangers of alcohol consumption and sexual promiscuity.
Seems like his commitment did not work so well, this far. What about, I don't know, inviting Charles Manson to educate relatives of murdered people about the dangers of killers and weapons.
– Hey guys, it's Charlie here. No no no, I do like music but I am not the rockstar! Ok, see this awfully dangerous switchblade knife? Aaaaah, I remember the Family stabbing pregnant whore Polanski to death. Don't try this at home my friends, please don't: it's a mess to clean it up afterwards.
Probation is the best answer for Brock in this situation and allows him to give back to society in a net positive way.
Sorry, but society abjures the two sacks of compost that you both are, and allows you to give back us in a net positive way by diving into the recycle bin.
Very Respectfully, [sic]
You write half a page of disgusting nonsense, and pretend to wrap it up as respectful. For whom? Your pile of letters is an ode to ignorance. It is like a cease-and-desist order ending in best regards: best regards my ass, you are sueing me, go choke yourself with your zealous formalism.
Let me rephrase the whole thing for you:
my son fucked it up, because I suck at life and I could not teach him how to live. I really hope that opening the sack grants him probation, and that we can soon call this story over. Ah, should we send roses to the girl? Or violets? Cheers.
That would have been the earnest message, without shit about steaks and pretzels and promiscuity and what not else.
Most of us were not there that night. Let's pretend for a brief moment not to have any further knowledge of the facts. Let us close our eyes, and be guided just by the energy exhaled by the words of the contenders.
He wrote twenty lines of insults. She wrote this monument.
It is not a matter of knowing who is right and who is wrong. That should be justice's duty. It is all about knowing that a victim of violence manages to put together such a powerful message, and the offenders perfectly manage to dig a moat around themselves: one by not saying a single word, his male parent by worring about the diet of the former. And his female one keeping the mouth shut, instead of grilling the testicles of both specimens in their garden.
When somebody tries to disguise violence as something else, when he or she tries to put the blame on the offended for any reason, that's doubling the offence. And every time we do not recognise the vile trick, or we do but do not openly point it out, we are partners in crime.
Every time we talk about skirts being too shorts, we are raping again.
Every time we point out that it was too dark or too late for a boy to be around alone, we are beating him again.
Every time we claim that somebody acted careless, you are abusing him or her again.
Being naive does not even remotely imply that one deserves violence.
My most sincere thought, and my warmest and longest hug goes to the girl in question, and to all victims of violence of all age, race, gender, nationality, and whatever else fucking category society is going to come up with in order to let violence pass for something else.
People belong to no category. Unless they put the biggest effort to be labeled as scum, then it is their own choice.