Generation F means the power to be fierce. The power to be strong enough to publish something that makes me feel vulnerable and points to an example of the faux feminism we deal with daily.
My rapist is a feminist.
He went to the Women’s March on Washington one year after we broke up—a year after he raped me. There were pictures of him, smiling, happy pictures. Pictures with captions calling for equal rights.
A sign behind him read “My body, my choice.”
I wonder if he remembers how, the night we met, he walked me home, even though it was right around the corner. I thought it was sweet that he wanted to spend that extra forty-seven seconds with me. At the door to my apartment, he asked to use the bathroom.
Even though it took me longer to unlock my door than it would have taken for him to walk back to the bar in the first place, I let him inside.
He asked if he could stay the night. I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him.
“That’s okay,” he’d said. “I just want to lie down next to you. I just want to cuddle.”
I wonder if everyone’s definition of cuddling includes repeated attempts to remove my pants.
I wonder if I should have paid more attention to that. I wonder if paying more attention would have kept all of this from happening in the first place.
My rapist is a feminist. He posts links calling out television shows with all-male creative teams, telling them to “do better,” calling for a boycott of the Hollywood professionals who aren’t treating women with the respect they deserve.
I wonder if he remembers how, the last time we slept together, he argued with me about using a condom. I wonder if he remembers saying that I was overreacting when I told him he had a problem with consent.
I wonder if he is as ashamed of me as I am of myself for sleeping with him one more time, after he raped me.
My rapist is a feminist. He hosts events focused on equality and queer love. He attends future feminist dance parties and reposts articles on intersectional feminism.
I wonder if he remembers the night that it happened. If he remembers me telling him to stop. If he remembers pretending not to hear me. If he remembers pretending to be sorry. If he remembers the email he sent me, confessing and apologizing for all of the pain he caused me. If he remembers what a good showman he was.
My rapist is a feminist.
I wonder if he knows what that word means.