Abby McDonald: "Polanski, rape, and the myth of Not Like Us"
Rape, the myth goes, is something Other. It is separate, and dramatic, and
above all, perpetuated by men we don't know.
Rapists are not loving fathers, or supportive brothers, we tell ourselves
-- and each other. Rapists don't go home for the holidays and help with the
tree, and watch the big game with their father, and throw the football
around with their nephews. Rapists don't tip the homeless guy, because they
have some spare change from Starbucks. Rapists don't survive the Holocaust.
Rapists don't sit in the cubicle across from us at work, and send us funny
xkcd cartoons. Rapists don't have uneventful, long-term relationships with
their college girlfriends. Rapists don't show up on set every day, directing
a critically-acclaimed movie. Rapists don't get married, nervous in a tux
at the end of the aisle. Rapists don't spend their weekends browsing at the
farmer's market, and then stop for brunch and do the NYT crossword.
Rapists don't co-write this screenplay with us. Rapists don't hang out at the pub
with their friends, watching football and drinking just half a pint of
beer, because they're driving. Rapists don't meet us casually at an awards
ceremony, and charm us with wit and wry humor.
We tell these myths to ourselves and each other often, but of course, they
are lies. A rapist is nothing but a man who doesn't listen when you say
stop.
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