All Hail Gisele, fellow Reservoir Bitch

The final Reservoir Bitch’s newsletter then we can get on with our lives!

I hate being touched.

Little casual touches—especially when I’m not expecting it—make me squirm. Like I’m dying inside. Or have just been contaminated by some oily sludge that’s impossible to clean off.

Hugs, on occasion, I can handle as brief greetings or goodbyes with friends or family. Longer hugs? I’d rather light my toes on fire.

And for the longest time, I told nobody this because they wouldn’t understand. But maybe now, after Gisele Pelicot’s incredible bravery in waiving her right to stay anonymous in the world’s most prolific rape trial, they will.

Maybe.

And yet…too many men I admire watched this case, saw how obscene the messages were, knew of the video evidence, and STILL said, Something seems fishy. How did she not know?

As if Gisele Pelicot was complicit somehow. By being drugged repeatedly and raped repeatedly. By ingesting so many drugs over the years that she was losing huge swaths of memory and believed she was sick, or dying. That something was seriously wrong. Obviously, yes, something was seriously wrong, but it wasn’t her health. It was men.

When I worked at an investment bank and the contentious confirmation hearings for Justice Kavanaugh took place, I remember Christine Blasey Ford coming forward. I remember her testimony. I remember thinking how brave she was for standing up to one of the most powerful men in the country. Yet, men in my office loudly exclaimed, How could anyone remember that long ago? How could she remember in detail? SUSPECT!

I know how.

Because the body remembers. Because even if you don’t remember every little moment, you remember enough. Something is printed in your mind and your body and your cells. Even if every cell in your body regenerates every seven years, that memory is still there. The scars are still there. They don’t go away, no matter how much you want them to.

It happened in college.

For years after, I was full of shame. I gaslighted myself in the most ridiculous of ways. I questioned every little moment, every memory, every feeling. I know for a fact some people thought I was lying. Their disbelief further eroded my confidence in myself and my thoughts.

But, still, I knew.

Part of my shame was that I don't remember everything that happened that night. I remember being very very drunk. I remember being naked but I don’t remember how I got there. I remember pushing against his chest and making excuses to go home.

I remember texting the next day to pretend everything was fine because I NEEDED IT to be fine.

I remember crying myself to sleep for nights on end.

Then I remember coming back to my room after class a few days later to find candy and flowers on my bed. A note of apology. I froze in the doorway.

What I remember most was the utter devastation and fear and terror that nowhere, not even my bedroom, was safe.

Yet, I said nothing. I did nothing. There was nothing to prove. But I carried hurt, and fear, and pain around with me for years.

Gisele Pelicot is my hero. She refused to be shamed. She retold the story, she reclaimed her space so the entire world could hold utter disdain for the men who raped her. Those men deserve the shame.

And yet (yet again) not everyone believes. Some of these men only received three year sentences. Some claimed they didn’t know what they did was wrong. And somehow, too many people in the world still believe these men.

I read Reservoir Bitches (see? It came back!) around the time of Gisele Pelicot’s case, and it made me think of what happened back in 2011. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. But instead of the usual shame and fear and disgust and pain, I felt inspired. Words have power. Taking a stand still has power.

As such, I’d like to share with you the passage of the book that meant the most to me. The one that inspired me to write essays. That just a few words could hold so much power.

A woman is stoned to death in front of a cemetery.
She was killed by her boyfriend.
By her husband.
By her ex.
By her lover.
By a man.
By the man who said he loved her. And then killed her.
Her boyfriend murdered her and burned her body.
Her boyfriend was a murderer.
Her husband was a murderer.
Her lover was a murderer.
Love kills.
…
He killed her because she was pregnant.
He killed her because she didn’t want an abortion.
He killed her because she wanted an abortion.
Disposable motherhood.
Disposable women.
I killed her because I loved her.
I killed her because she was mine.
How can you prove misogyny in court if the murderer says he loved her? Love is misogynist.
A sixteen-year-old minor is raped and strangled. More than a hundred women’s rights activists have been murdered in the last ten years.
The victim was beaten to death in her own home by her husband, after reporting him twenty times. Twenty. Reporting abuse is your best defense.
Killed in your own home.
Women killed for walking the streets at night. Women killed for being whores.
In your own home. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere.
Being a woman means living in a state of emergency.
…
There is no room of one’s own when men think our bodies belong to them.
…
Every two hours and twenty five minutes, a woman in Mexico is strangled, raped, dismembered, burned alive, murdered, mutilated, beaten to a pulp, and left with bruises and broken bones. A woman’s body, another woman. Some woman, a nameless woman. A lifeless body was found. But none of them were yours.
— Reservoir Bitches by Dahlia de la Cerda

That’s just in Mexico. In the United States, on average, a woman is beaten or assaulted every 9 seconds. Every 68 seconds, an American is sexually assaulted. Every day in the US, more than three women are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends.

It’s time to actually believe women.

If it happened to you, I’m sorry. I believe you. I’m here for you.

Book and Beverage Pairing

The Dryad Storm (and the entire Black Witch Chronicles) by Laurie Forest, please meet Long Island Iced Tea.

For the love of libraries, I loved this series. Then it all went wrong.

There are so many beautiful things to love about it—overcoming learned racism and fear of otherness, the power of community and diversity, and finding one's own voice and power. It embodies the stakes and sacrifices of standing up for what one believes in and the dangers of staying quiet. It talks about how easy it is to be blinded by one's upbringing, but given just an inch of space and the right question, learned hate can quickly become unwound.

The first book was review-bombed years ago for being racist. I am convinced those reviewers didn’t actually read the book because if they did, they would know the book is preaching anti-racism, anti-xenophobia, and anti-religion as a means of exclusion. Unfortunately, it meant The Black Witch lost its Kirkus star, which is an absolute shame when these books were so necessary in a time when our country became more and more divided.

But then came the love triangle. I have never before been on the losing side of a love triangle (as a fan, obviously… not a lot of love triangles in real life, amiright?). I was team Edward (for better or for worse), team Peeta, and team Mr. Darcy. I consider myself somewhat of a connoisseur—I know who the heroine ends up with. So… WTF Laurie Forest?!?!?!

Without giving the story away (I truly think it’s a great read, I’m just bitter), the man our heroine, Elloren, should have ended up with is the one that challenged her to be better, to do better, to fight. That’s exactly who we should all want to be with: a partner that makes us better. Ugh.

The introduction of more POVs makes it fun and holistic and much more of a fantasy epic. But by the end, the story became less about our heroine (I swear, the last book was like… 45% Elloren?) and more Game of Thrones in its approach—a thousand chapters and a thousand POVs. Some of them I loved, some of them were exhausting (a la the Brienne chapters in GoT). Some characters we barely ever saw again!

The outrage!

And so, for such a mixed bag, please let me present you with a Long Island Iced Tea. Sweet on the onset, a gut punch on the offset. Too many ingredients. But still… it was a good idea… right?

Other things I’m enjoying as of late:

I Cheerfully Refuse by Leif Enger | “I Found” by Amber Run & “I Can’t Hear It Now” by Freya Ridings, from the series Arcane, League of Legends | A Sea of Unspoken Things by Adrienne Young & There Are Rivers in the Sky by Elif Shaek

Glad to be back. Hope this week wasn’t too heavy for you! We’ll lighten up for the rest of the month—promise!

xx,
bb corcs