To make this week’s Misogynist Soup, you will need the following ingredients.
- A driver’s license, access to a vehicle, and a male guardian. (Check, check, …)
- Dan Rottenberg. (Who might actually get away with saying, “Remember my name because you’ll be screaming it soon,” albeit not for the reasons he might hope.)
They see me rollin’…
Photo via News One.
In Saudi Arabia, women need daddy’s blessing to marry, leave the country, get a job, open a bank account, go to school, or undergo some medical procedures — at least until their husband or brother step in to take the wheel. Literally.
Although not technically illegal, the government “supports” the position of women being unable to drive in urban areas. And by “supports,” they mean that if the women are caught by police, they are detained until a male guardian sets foot on the scene and signs a pledge that they won’t “allow” them to get in the driver’s seat again. You know, kind of like at animal shelters.
For those of us with the privilege, remember when you first got your driver’s license, the previously mythical card of awe and wonder? Gone were the days of sweating in the sun in front of the mall’s parking lot B waiting for mom to finish her extra-hot cappuccino and pick up your platformed-sandaled self. So long to the nights of plans falling through because none of your friends could drive and your parents were too busy coddling their martinis and trying to pretend they still liked each other to be concerned with Brendan H.’s house party. TTYN, bus driver who never learned the virtue of gentle acceleration. Now, you could go anywhere! You were independent. You were free, and that’s really all this is about: That women are apparently undeserving of the autonomy that driving provides.
Last Friday, about 50 women challenged the ban on female drivers by getting behind the wheel and taking to the streets. “The whole idea behind the campaign was that June 17 is the start date. It’s not the only day. It’s the date when women will start to drive,” said Eman Al Nafjan, a Saudi blogger and one of the day’s participants.
I wish these women all the best with overturning the rules, and also with the other kind of road rage that hopefully they’ll be experiencing before too long. No, seriously. It’s called a turn signal for a reason.
Welcome to Basic Human Decency 101! Here’s your first pop quiz.
Photo via Digg.
Journalist Lara Logan, who was horrifically sexually and physically assaulted in February, was also the inspiration of a piece recently penned by Dan Rottenberg.
As a prelude to his words of wisdom, this photograph of Logan is posted along with the following caption: “What message was the TV journalist Lara Logan sending here?” I don’t know what message she was sending — or why it’s assumed that anything other than “I’m wearing a dress” was being said — but I can say with absolute certainty that she was not thinking, “Gee, I hope I get assaulted tonight!” when she put it on as he seems to be insinuating, so I’m glad I could clear that up. Rottenberg then goes on to advise us gals about how we “need to take sensible precautions before [we're] victimized.”
His ideas of sensible precautions include “don’t trust your male friends,” “don’t go to a man’s home at night unless you’re prepared to have sex with him,” “if you want to be taken seriously as a journalist, don’t pose for pictures that emphasize your cleavage,” “don’t disrobe in front of a male masseur,” and “if you take a job as a masseuse, don’t be shocked if your male customers think you’re a prostitute.”
In short? Stick to socializing with other demure and delicate flowers, try to pick out your outfits based on how men will react to them (when in doubt, go with the turtleneck in an unflattering color!), and stay the hell away from massages.
I find it absurd and nauseating that Rottenberg would not only use his voice to make Lara Logan the example of his victim-blaming, but then go on to preach to women about how they should be limiting their social circles, wardrobes, and careers to reduce their risk of assault. This is really simple logic, but let’s walk through it anyway: When a rape takes place, it is not, not, not the fault of the person who trusted her best friend, nor is it the fault of the person who went over to someone’s house. It is not the fault of the person who put on a dress that evening. It is not the fault of the person who disrobes for a massage, and it is not the fault of the person who tries to do her job. Very few times are statistics ever absolute, but every single time someone is raped, it is 100% the fault of the rapist and that is where the blame begins and ends.
Here’s a thought, Dan — by the way, can I call you Dan? I feel like we’re becoming fast friends here (but don’t worry, I wouldn’t even trust you with a grocery list) — why wasn’t your article addressed to men? Why wasn’t your article addressed to rapists? Why wasn’t your article addressed to the mob that assaulted Lara Logan? Why wasn’t your message that the only sensible precaution necessary here is just don’t rape us?
Source: Broad Street Review.
Cool story, bro.
Photo via Home Page Daily.
The Supreme Court ruled in favor of Wal-Mart in a massive class-action sex-discrimination lawsuit on Monday, unanimously deciding that over one million female employees nationwide “could not proceed together in the lawsuit seeking billions of dollars and accusing Wal-Mart of paying women less and giving them fewer promotions.”
The justification for the ruling was that “the female employees in different jobs at 3,400 different stores nationwide and with different supervisors do not have enough in common to be lumped together in a single class-action lawsuit.” Other than the fact that they’re all women, they all work for Wal-Mart, on Wednesdays they wear pink, and they’re all suing for the same thing…
However, this only means that the women will be unable to proceed with the lawsuit as a whole, so Wal-Mart may instead have a million court dates in its future.
Combine all ingredients and bring them to a boil, much like my blood pressure is at the moment. You’ll know it’s done when it tastes like misogyny with a hint of “please tell me this isn’t real life.” Enjoy!