SlutWalk

Feminism, Activism and Media

K. Mendes

• Publisher: Palgrave Macmillan
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9781137378903, 9781137378897
• eBook ISBN: 9781137378910
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Cultural & Social Anthropology
• Index: Social Sciences

SlutWalk explores representations of the global anti-rape movement of the same name, in mainstream news and feminist blogs around the world. It reveals strategies and practices used to adapt the movement to suit local cultures and contexts and explores how social media organized, theorized and publicized this contemporary feminist campaign.

1

Introduction

In January 2011, Toronto Police Constable Michael Sanguinetti addressed a small group of York University students on campus safety. Prefaced by the statement ‘I’m told I’m not supposed to say this’ he went on to advise that, ‘women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized’ (Kwan 2011). While his intention might have been to protect women, his comments that ‘slutty’ women attract sexual assault perpetuated the long-standing myth that victims are responsible, or somehow ‘are asking’ for the violence used against them. In response to PC Sanguinetti’s comments, Toronto residents Heather Jarvis and Sonya Barnett translated their anger at the ways women were slut-shamed and victim-blamed, into political activism. Creating a website and Facebook and Twitter accounts, the women invited the public to join them for a ‘SlutWalk’ to the Toronto Police Headquarters to vent their frustration. On 3 April 2011, the first SlutWalk set off from Queen’s Park in Toronto, attended by thousands. Although the organizers asked people to dress in their normal, everyday clothing to demonstrate the ways that sexual assault occurs no matter what women wear, a number of attendees showed up in ‘provocative’ attire to make a statement that no matter how they dress, they do not deserve to be assaulted.

Before the first march even took place, the movement went ‘viral,’ attracting much initial publicity via the feminist blogosphere, including popular sites such as Rabble.ca, Jezebel and Feministing (McNicol 2012). By the end of the 2011, SlutWalks emerged organically in over 200 cities and 40 nations, mobilizing tens of thousands of women, men and children (Carr 2013). In 2014, although the movement had slowed, SlutWalks continued to take place in major cities such as Baltimore, Bloomington, Denver, Edmonton, Guelph, Jerusalem, Johannesburg, Melbourne, Miami, Milwaukee, Munich, Orlando, Ottawa, Philadelphia,¹ Portland, Reno, Rio De Janeiro, Rochester, Salt Lake City, Seattle,² Toronto, Vancouver, Victoria (Canada), Warsaw and Washington DC. In July 2014 a record breaking 11,000 people turned up to the fourth annual SlutWalk in Reykjavík, Iceland (Kaaber 2014).

Because there has been an erasure of (Western) news coverage of feminist activism and protest since the Second Wave (Mendes 2012), with feminism frequently being labelled ‘dead’ or ‘redundant’ (see Douglas 2010; Gill 2007; McRobbie 2009; Mendes 2011a), SlutWalk’s global reach and its ability to generate international headlines provides an opportunity to assess how modern feminism, and feminist activism is represented in a global context. Specifically, how has an anti-rape movement been represented not only by the mainstream news media, but by the thriving feminist blogosphere, across a range of cultures where women’s equality differs greatly? While post/Third Wave feminism is regularly assessed in popular culture, less research explores its representation in the news media (for exceptions, see Gill 2007; Mendes 2012; Varvus 2002, 2007), and few to date have examined its representations in feminist media (see Carr 2013; Dow & Wood 2014).

At the same time, an abundance of research is emerging which focuses on the rise of a new protest culture, and its relationship to social media (see Atkinson 2009; Castells 2012; Gerbaudo 2012; Harlow 2011; Juris 2012; Lim 2013; Madianou 2013; Marmura 2008; Penney & Dadas 2014; Wolfson 2012). Yet, despite this, most studies are concerned with anti-globalization, anti-capitalism, or the Arab Spring, and pay little attention to the ways in which feminists have harnessed social media and the internet to challenge sexism, misogyny and ‘rape culture’ (for exceptions, see Chattopadhyay 2011; Harp et al. 2014; Keller 2011, 2013, 2015; Puente 2011; Rapp et al. 2010; Shaw 2012a; Zobl & Drueke 2012). As Chandra Mohanty argued: ‘Because social movements are crucial sites for the construction of knowledge, communities, and identities, it is very important for feminists to direct themselves toward them’ (2003, p. 528). And while the mainstream news undoubtedly remains an important vehicle through which people come to learn about and understand modern protest, the rise of blogs, online magazines and social media platforms opens up new spaces which are increasingly necessary to explore.

As a result, this book will present findings from research on eight English-speaking nations which held SlutWalk marches between 2011 and 2014 (Australia, Canada, India, New Zealand, South Africa, Singapore, the UK and the US). The analysis will examine representations of SlutWalk in mainstream news and online feminist media sites. These findings will be enriched with insights gathered from interviews with 22 SlutWalk organizers from around the world. My aim is not to provide a complete ‘history’ of the movement, but to add insight into some of the ways it has been represented, choreographed and experienced, all of which contributes to a wider political project of the ‘storying’ of feminism (Hemmings 2005) and feminist activism (Mendes 2011a). In order to contribute to the storying of feminism, however, one must first understand how SlutWalk came about.

The genesis and development of SlutWalk

In January 2011, Toronto resident Heather Jarvis was on Facebook when she came across an article from York University’s student newspaper The Excalibur, recounting PC Sanguinetti’s comments about how women could avoid being ‘victimized’ by not dressing like ‘sluts.’ Angered by the perpetuation of rape myths – particularly the idea that women who dress provocatively, drink alcohol, or who enjoy sex, are regularly blamed if sexually assaulted – Jarvis shared the story on Facebook, creating an online dialogue between friends. In one exchange with Sonya Barnett, Jarvis stated she wanted to go to the Toronto police headquarters to share her anger, and was immediately supported. After exchanging a few messages, Jarvis and Barnett agreed to stage a protest. The idea for the name emerged when Barnett told a colleague about their protest, who jokingly asked if they were going to call it ‘SlutWalk’. Both Barnett and Jarvis liked the name, and plans for the first SlutWalk began with the creation of a website, Facebook page and Twitter account (Jarvis 2012).

Although the numbers of protesters said to have attended the march range from 1,000 to 3,000 people (McNicol 2012; ‘Toronto’s Slutwalk sparks blogosphere feminism debate’; Onstad 2011), it not only attracted local media attention, but was reported across Canada and the world, fuelling the emergence of this grassroots political movement. News records indicate that marches first began springing up in Canada and the US before moving across the Atlantic to the UK, Australia, Singapore, New Zealand, South Africa and a range of other non-Western and non-English-speaking nations (see also Carr 2013; Dow & Wood 2014). Significantly, the movement also went ‘viral’ amongst the feminist blogosphere and received much publicity and attention. SlutWalks generally consist of a march, ending with a range of speeches from sexual assault survivors, sex workers and members of anti-rape organizations. In several cases, the march is either preceded or followed by a range of events including consent workshops, flashmobs, film screenings, poetry readings and more.

Defining SlutWalk

As a grassroots political movement, operating without an equivocal ‘leader’ or base (Carr 2013), it is difficult to provide a universal definition of SlutWalk, its key aims, message or goals. Instead, the movement has been shaped by its geographical and temporal settings, local issues, current events and organizers’ personal understanding of sexual violence and rape culture. As a result, the movement’s message and key aims have at times varied and, like feminism itself, there is no monolithic SlutWalk (Genz & Brabon 2009). That said, despite operating in a number of regions with differing cultural, social and political contexts, an examination of various Facebook pages, websites and Twitter accounts reveals the following priorities:

• A movement that challenges ‘rape culture’ and the idea that victims are to blame for sexual violence

• A movement that seeks to reclaim or re-appropriate the word ‘slut’

• A movement which promotes the idea that no one ‘asks’ to be raped or sexually assaulted

• A movement which encourages a ‘do not rape,’ rather than a ‘don’t get raped’ culture

• A movement to improve the current judicial and police systems regarding sexual assault

• A movement to increase the public’s awareness and education surrounding issues of sexual violence and to provide support and outreach for survivors

• A movement that promotes respect for the individual and the variety of choices they make (including freedom to dress how they want)

• A movement which fights for women’s rights

• A movement that is inclusive of all genders, ages, ethnicities, classes and sexual orientations

Although the above is not a comprehensive list, nor do all of the items on it apply to all SlutWalk satellite groups, it gives a flavour and provides context for some of the most mentioned goals or explanations provided by SlutWalk organizers themselves, which are important to know as we move through this book.³ And while helping us understand how SlutWalk emerged and what it stands for is important, these items don’t make sense without first understanding the cultural context in which they emerged – namely what feminists and scholars call ‘rape culture.’

SlutWalk in a time of rape culture

For several decades, feminists and academics have increasingly talked about the development of a ‘rape culture,’ or a socio-cultural context in which male dominance is eroticized, and where young men and women are taught that male aggression is a ‘healthy’ and ‘normal’ part of sexual relations (Herman 1978). As a result, rape culture not only fosters the belief that men are entitled to women’s bodies, but that rape ‘makes sense’ in certain scenarios, and is an inevitable part of life (see Buchwald et al. 2005; McNicol 2012; Valenti 2007). Tired of the routine objectification of their bodies and the ways that women are told to accept violence as a ‘natural’ part of sexuality, the SlutWalk movement emerged at a time when the absurdity or ‘dislocation’ of this culture was becoming increasingly evident to large sections of society (see Shaw, F. 2011). Although they might not have been familiar with the term ‘rape culture,’ there is no doubt that women (and many men), had become increasingly frustrated by the ways they were being policed and held accountable for other people’s actions. As co-founders Heather Jarvis and Sonya Barnett articulated on the SlutWalk Toronto website:

We are tired of being oppressed by slut-shaming; of being judged by our sexuality and feeling unsafe as a result. Being in charge of our sexual lives should not mean that we are opening ourselves to an expectation of violence, regardless if we participate in sex for pleasure or work. No one should equate enjoying sex with attracting sexual assault. (SlutWalk Toronto 2011)

And while a number of high profile articles have been published in recent years, denying the existence of rape culture (see Kitchens 2013, 2014; Roiphe 1994), below are some recent examples which provide the emotional fodder for large scale resistance to it, including SlutWalk.

Rape culture exists in a town near you

In March 2011, a month before the first SlutWalk took place, an 11-year-old girl in Cleveland, Texas was gang raped by 18 men while the attack was filmed on a mobile phone. In its report of the crime, The New York Times included quotes from the community, stating the girl wore makeup and fashions ‘more appropriate to a woman in her 20s’ (McKinley 2011), thus suggesting she was responsible for her attack. Furthermore, local residents were quoted talking about how the perpetrators would ‘have to live with this for the rest of their lives,’ while ignoring the impact the assault would have for the victim.

In August 2012, while SlutWalks were marching into their second year, a 16-year-old high school student in Steubenville, Ohio was raped by two classmates while passed out at a party. Over a six hour period, the girl was undressed, transported and sexually assaulted while other party-goers captured and disseminated images and texts about the assault via social media. Although there were many witnesses to the assault, no one attempted to intervene. As one witness explained, he didn’t stop it because: ‘It wasn’t violent. I didn’t know exactly what rape was. I thought it was forcing yourself on someone’ (Carter & Harlow 2013). Not only is men’s entitlement to a woman’s body symptomatic of rape culture, but so too is the lack of knowledge of what rape actually is or looks like (Meyer 2010).

At the trial of the men who were charged with the 2012 gang rape and murder of a 23-year-old Delhi student on a moving bus, their lawyer stated he had never heard of a ‘respected lady’ being raped in India, and that, as an unmarried woman, she should not have been out in the streets at night (MacAskill 2013). Rape culture supports the policing of women’s behaviour (they shouldn’t be out at night), and justifies male violence if a woman is (perceived) to be out of line. In this way, rape culture serves as a reminder for women to remain in their ‘proper’ place, and demonstrates that if they fail to do so, they will be (threatened with) rape, battery or murder.

This line of thought is also responsible for the views that some women cannot be raped – such as sex workers, ‘sluts,’ or women of colour, who are always thought to be ‘up for it.’ At the same time, the disabled or those not conventionally beautiful are thought to be so undesirable that they would be grateful for any sexual attention at all. Yet rape culture also excuses sexual assault as an inherent part of masculinity, as we saw in 2014 when two teenage cousins were raped, strangled and then hung from a tree in Uttar Pradesh, India. In a country where it is estimated that a woman is raped every 22 minutes, not only were two of the attackers police officers, but the leader of the region’s governing party told an election rally that in cases of gang rape, ‘boys will be boys’ (Blake 2014), thus constructing male violence as ‘natural’ and ‘inevitable.’ This routine excuse of rape is a key feature of rape culture.

‘Legitimate’ rape or ‘bad sexual etiquette’?

One key feature of rape culture is the qualification of rape in terms of its legitimacy. Scholars have noted that when most people think of rape, they think of a stranger attacking a woman in a dark alley – a scenario in which the victim puts up a valiant fight and sustains visible injuries (Meyer 2010). Research has found that any other type of rape is likely to be classified as ‘sex gone a bit wrong’ (see Benedict 1992; Meyer 2010). It is therefore perhaps no surprise that when commenting on the 2012 rape accusations filed against Wikileaks founder Julian Assange by two Swedish women, British MP George Galloway insisted that one of the crimes in question – Assange having sex with one of the women while she slept – was merely a case of ‘bad sexual etiquette.’ Galloway went on to state that even if Assange’s actions were captured on camera, they would not constitute rape ‘as anyone with any sense can possibly recognize it.’ This is because, as the two had previously engaged in consensual sex, ‘not everybody needs to be asked prior to each insertion’ (‘George Galloway attacked over Assange “rape” comments’ 2012). Similarly, when the US government tried to extradite film director Roman Polanski, who was accused of drugging and raping a 13-year-old girl in the 1970s, The View host Whoopi Goldberg declared: ‘I know it wasn’t rape-rape. It was something else but I don’t believe it was rape-rape’ (Robertson 2009). This is despite the fact that Polanski admitted his actions and even apologized to the victim (Hare 2011). When rape is downplayed as ‘bad sexual etiquette,’ when rapists are forgiven for their crimes because of their celebrity status, or when qualifications are made about ‘real,’ and ‘legitimate’ rape, these discourses downplay the nature of the crime, and therefore set the context for how it will be handled. This informs what is known as the ‘second assault’ (see Wolburt Burgess et al. 2009), which is another key feature of rape culture.

The second assault

For many victims, the post-assault experience can be just as traumatic as the assault itself. This is credited to the veracity of rape myths – or generalized, false ideas or beliefs about rape which trivialize it, suggests that it did not occur, or can only occur in certain contexts. Rape myths serve to redirect blame for this crime on the victims, or to reduce the perpetrators’ culpability (Bonnes 2013, p. 210; Meyer 2010). Franiuk et al. (2008) argued that rape myths are key to the perpetuation of sexual assault in our culture because they make people question the legitimacy of rape cases (cited in Bonnes 2013, p. 211). The cultural acceptance of rape myths mean that when victims report the assault (to friends, family or the authorities), they are often questioned about their appearance, behaviour, profession, or sexual past, as a way of transferring blame to them (Benedict 1992; Bonnes 2013; Meyer 2010; Worthington 2008).

With this in mind, it is no surprise that, for example in the British and American context, figures show that between 80 and 90 percent of rape is never reported (Campbell 2013, p. 84; Dodd 2014; The White House Council on Women and Girls 2014). The underreporting of this crime is often due to women’s own internalization of rape myths, which either prevents them from seeing the crime as rape (e.g. if it was done by an intimate partner), or makes them believe that they were responsible (see Bonnes 2013). Yet despite the chronic underreporting of rape, it is commonly believed that women ‘cry rape’ because they are ashamed about the encounter and want to save face (Meyer 2010), or because they want to punish or get revenge on the suspected assailant (Benedict 1992). In 2013, Britain’s Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) found that, in fact, false rape accusations are ‘extremely rare’ – mounting to around two per month, but are extremely damaging to the credibility of all victims who seek justice (Crown Prosecution Service 2013). Other research has similarly suggested that false rape accusations are around two percent, the same as most other crimes (Lonsway & Fitzgerald 1994 cited in Bonnes 2013, p. 211; Lisak et al. 2010).

In Britain, of the estimated ten to 20 percent of cases that are reported, the complaint is withdrawn (often from pressure from the police or family), or the accusation is not acted upon (amidst lack of evidence) 80 percent of the time (Dodd 2014; The White House Counci...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• List of Figures and Tables
• Acknowledgments
• List of Abbreviations and Acronyms
• 1 Introduction
• 2 Contextualizing the Issues
• 3 Situating SlutWalk
• 4 Representing the Movement: SlutWalk Challenges Rape Culture
• 5 Representing the Movement: SlutWalk is Misguided or Opposed
• 6 SlutWalk Hierarchies and Organizers’ Roles
• 7 SlutWalk, Community and Cyberactivism
• 8 Conclusion
• Notes
• References
• Index