"Kiss Me, I'm Wasted"

When I was a kid I loved St. Patrick's Day. My mother would leave trails of money around the house and pretend the Leprechaun had come to visit us. As I got older, and realized this was a actually a strange tradition, I wondered why we had this holiday. Then, I went to Penn State, and I understood.

St. Patrick's Day is an excuse for people to get drunk. In State College, students line up outside of bars at 6am. They show up to class with coffee cups full of "Irish Coffee." Whether it is the over promotion of bars on College Avenue, or the chance to eat green eggs and ham and wash it down with a pint of green beer, I don't know; but I do know that, on the whole, Penn State students LOVE St. Patrick's Day.

So, in 2007, when St. Patty's Day fell during Spring Break, everyone was devastated. Then, someone simply invented another day, dubbing it State Patty's Day and solving everyone's problems. It's continued every year since because...well... it's another excuse for students to get wasted, and the only thing better than one St. Patty's Day is TWO.

Only problem is that State Patty's Day comes with alcohol related conduct violations. A lot of them. So many, in fact, that last year the event's founder publicly denounced the holiday he created. In 2009, “police saw students vomiting or urinating on sidewalks in broad daylight. Drunken driving arrests were up, and more than 20 people needed emergency medical services.” In 2010, local police received 365 calls, EMS received 53 calls (the majority of both were related to alcohol), and 160 people were arrested.

Despite occasional bars agreeing not to participate in the event, State Patty's Day is scheduled to go on. This year, it seems they've indirectly adopted the theme "Kiss Me, I'm Wasted," as a Facebook event, created by Penn State student, Rachel Yamin, and Bloomsburg University student, Bertt Kazatsky, advertising State Patty’s Day T-shirts with this slogan, is gaining popularity. Kazatsky apparently designed the shirts, playing on the common saying "Kiss Me, I'm Irish," and seeing as he is not a PSU student, reached out to his friend, Yamin, to help sell the shirts to her classmates. Over 2,000 shirts had already been sold by the time the Collegian spoke up.

I was happy to see Penn State's Daily Collegian take a formal stand against the shirts in their recent editorial. Only problem is that this article comes after another article that drew attention to the t-shirts; meaning that the Collegian, in a way, has actually helped to advertise for the shirts by giving information about where the t-shirts are being sold, what dates and providing a picture of the shirts. I am glad to see a response to this article raising concern for the message of the shirts, but I know that realistically, the Collegian has probably helped to raise T-shirt sales rather than stop them.

After talking to some fellow alumni and reading through comments in response to the articles, I am concerned with the number of people who find them funny and lighthearted. It seems that some people seem to think that the problem is that if girls wear the shirts, other people will take it as an invitation to make out with them.

As a former student at Penn State, I am not afraid of the t-shirts leading to an outbreak of unwanted kissing (although, trust me, there will be at least one person who tries to take advantage of these shirts--some drunk that will make a move on a girl just because of her shirt--I have seen stuff like this happen.)

The main problem is it that these shirts are another example of support of rape culture. The message, "Kiss Me, I'm Wasted," normalizing the idea of sexual acts paired with excessive drinking. I am against the message on the shirts because the more we see messages like this, the more normal it becomes, and I know first hand that there is a problem at Penn State--like many other universities-- of sexual assault after, and facilitated by, excessive drinking.

I am not knocking Penn State students. I was one of them myself. And I know that not every student at Penn State is peeing in the streets during the middle of the day, or falling down the stairs as they walk through their class in the auditorium. I was one of the students watching all this happen, which means that I can accurately report that 1) not everyone partakes in the ridiculousness and 2) extreme things like this really happen. (And 3) most people fall somewhere in between these two extremes--is it possible to have fun without acting like a fool.)

I also know that not every male at Penn State is looking to take advantage of females....but I do know, first hand, that this happens. I know, first hand, that there are boys at Penn State (and outside of Penn State) that get girls drunk so that they can hook up with them. I know, first hand, that sexual assault is a problem on Penn State's Campus and throughout State College. I know that, in some circles, getting a girl wasted so that you can have sex with her is not only accepted, it is a tactic. So as "funny and lighthearted" as the t-shirt may seem just goes to show how imbedded rape culture is in our society, and as an alumni of Penn State, you can rest assured that I will not be purchasing or supporting these t-shirts.

Wall of Shame- D&G

1. Start with a half naked girl.

2. Put her on the floor.

3. Add half naked man.

4. Put him on top of girl in seemingly sexual position, but place him in dominating role, forcibly holding her down by gripping her wrists.

5. Add three more men, looking curious but content, undressing in stages through the cycle as they stand watching.

I'm sorry, but...uh...what are they selling?

New Website!

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Holy Water

winterofdiscontentviaFlickr

(sitting naked in the shower.)

If water could be made holy through the silver ball that hangs,

pushing it out like rain to bead against my pale face, do you think

it could gather up the poison from beneath my skin? could it run in trails

down my naked back and suck the demons into each drop

and flush them down the drain? could it calm this tension growing

in my stomach? Could it flood on through and preform the miracle

that I need right now, multiplying a fish to help feed the crowd 

of angry sinners in my head? Would they quiet down then, leave me

to listen to the rush of water, the gurgle of it falling down.

He says from all sin He will wash me clean. He says for all these ashes

I will someday turn to rose. He says that even in the dark when I lie beneath

the devil, when I leave this body that He's scultped out for me, even when

I cry and cry and swear I'm no one but alone, He's already here,

if just a figurative shadow in the corner of this room that sits and lets

the tears run down His own face as they run down mine and feels this torture

with me and understands. If water could be made holy could it save this tired

soul, could it wash the heavy outer layer of hatred from my body, and do you think 

He could forgive?

Peace

can i walk away now and leave you there

knowing that I will never know if you were

watching the back of my head as I did not

turn around. Can I stand up, head in the clouds

on some sort of platform labeled success

and keep my eyes from wandering down

to the gutters where I know you lie. Will I

stop wondering if you see me now, stop

smiling just incase you do, stop holding on

to each breath that I take, as if I must measure

it first to make sure I've packed enough life

into each moment now to make up twofold for

each moment that you robbed of me. each bad day

seems somehow worse as it runs through the filter of

the past and I must replay the source of this discomfort

that can never just be a present moment pain.

has it been enough time yet. one day for each

minute. one year for each day. I serve a lifetime sentence just waiting for parole, while you walk

free. and if I try to take any role in retribution,

the only person that I hurt again is me. how many times do i have to decide 

to be bigger than all this, to beat it, to never let you win. 

how many times must I loosen my white knuckles 

and open up my calloused hands and let you go. 

how many times again do I tell the universe 

that I understand that I will never understand and all I ask for 

is peace. peace. that floats like sunlight on the waves of a lake.

that splashes away onto the next wave as I try to snatch

it up. peace that I cannot find in one all-consuming, life

altering decision. It's never ending. One more time. One

more time. One more time. I choose to live.

Wall of Shame

Example of Rape Culture

I found this in a men's fitness magazine at the gym. 

Some Days

Some days it feels like all I do is keep starting over. I work and work and work. I run until I cannot run anymore. I write until no words are left. I try, as hard as I can try. And I let it sink in for one small second that I am making progress, and then, I fall.

Some days, I figure that this is just the nature of the beast. I’m connected to a group of people I know only a millionth of their names, all suffering a similar life sentence. I understand this in a way the rest of the world will never understand. Some days, I know that it will be like this forever. My life will always be different. It will always come back. No matter what I do and where I go. No matter what I accomplish. There will never be a way to remove this part of my life from the person that I am today.

And then there are other days that I want to scream until my voice is horse. I want to scream and throw things and tear it out of my body in whatever way I can. I want it gone. I want him out. I want to be done with this. I want it to have never happened, so badly it takes over my entire body with a force I cannot explain. I don’t want to deal with this for one more second. I’m done. I’m done being a victim. I will never let him win.

Some days, I fight. I refuse to let this own me. And some days, sadly, I surrender to it and I get through the night by remembering that tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow, maybe I won’t have to deal with this. Tomorrow, maybe it will somehow disappear.

Some days I feel like maybe I could talk. I want to call up a friend of mine just to tell her my secret. Just to get it off my chest and let someone else carry it for a while. Some days I get close to actually dialing the numbers. And some days I swear that no matter what I do in my life, I will take it all with me to my grave. I will never let people know what really happened. I will never let it be real.

Some days I feel connected. I hear another story, and through the sadness that I feel I find a small piece of understanding in the knowledge that someone else out there is this big world feels the same things that I am feeling. They know what it is like. Even if I never meet them. Even if they never know we are connected. Somehow, this helps.

And some days I feel completely isolated. I know that no one in the world will ever, ever, ever understand. I think that it would be better if I didn’t get out of bed, or if I just laid down on the floor and stayed there until people forgot about me.

Some days I can’t even remember what it was like. I think about it and I pause to wonder if it ever actually happened. Maybe it was all just a crazy story that someone told me. Maybe it’s just a story that I know. A story about a girl I used to be friends with.  A sad story, but not mine. Not mine.

And some days, sometimes, I let it sink in. And I can still feel the fingers wrapped around my wrists. I can still feel them across my mouth. I can still feel him. And it makes me so nauseous and numb that I can’t even try to deny its existence in my life.

Some days I can’t help but to question God. Why? Why? Why did He let this happen to me? What will it take for it to go away now?

But at the end of every day, I bow my head and thank Him, with tears in my eyes, that I am still alive. I found a way to survive.