SLUTWALK

Scantily-clad 'SLUTWALK' Women March on New York after Police Tell Them to 'Cover Up' to Avoid Rape

Protesters dressed in their underwear have taken to the streets of New York today after it emerged the NYPD were warning women in Brooklyn to cover up in the face of sex attacks.

The latest 'slutwalk' protest comes a day after women in Park Slope were warned short skirts should not be worn and shorts that show too much leg have been deemed inappropriate.

On today's march the protesters chanted 'No means no - however we dress, wherever we go.'

Naked ambition: Hundreds today participated in SlutWalk NYC, rallying in Union Square and marching through the East Village as part of a worldwide grassroots movement challenging the blaming of rape victims

Flesh on show: Female marchers walked without any tops and one even went bra-less in order to make the statement that women should be able to wear what they want without risk of sexual attack

Outraged: The march was organised after a NYPD officer 'advised' women not to wear short skirts after at least 10 unsolved sexual attacks have occured

Speaking to the New York Post, organiser Sammy Lifson, 21, said: 'The cops in Park Slope have really stepped up their presence and they're trying to be helpful.

'But to focus on women isn't going to help catch the perpetrator.'

The international series of protests known as SlutWalks, sparked by a Toronto police officer's flippant comment that women should avoid dressing like 'sluts' to avoid being raped or victimised, is taking root in the United States.


Some women and men who protest dress in nothing more remarkable than jeans and T-shirts, while others wear provocative or revealing outfits to bring attention to 'slut-shaming,' or shaming women for being sexual, and the treatment of sexual assault victims.

The police officer made his comments in January to a group of York University students at a safety forum.

He later apologised, but his comments were publicised widely on Facebook and Twitter.

Worldwide: The SlutWalk movement began in January after a Toronto policeman said women should not dress like 'sluts' if they wanted to avoid rape

Variety of costumes: Some protesters wore jeans and t-shirts, others dressed more provocatively

They inspired a march in Toronto that drew more than 3,000 people, as well as SlutWalks since then in Dallas, Asheville, North Carolina, and Ottawa, Ontario.


The movement has since spread around the world, with slut walks organised in several countries.

Yesterday's ‘advice’ was given out in response to at least 10 unsolved sexual attacks that have taken place in the area since March.

But in Park Slope, which is famous for being liberal and feminist, the campaign has provoked fury.

Jessica Silk, founder of neighbourhood watch group Safe Slope, told the Wall St Journal that such a measure was 'completely inappropriate'.

Inflammatory: One of the women spoken to by the NYPD officer said he the cop told her a short skirt would make the rapist think he could get 'easy access'

Global: There have been SlutWalks in London, Brussels and across Europe

One of the women who had been spoken to, who identified herself only as Lauren, told how she was three block from her home when she was stopped for wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

The 25-year-old claimed a cop asked to speak to her then did the same to two other women wearing dresses.

Lauren claimed he asked if she knew about the sex attacks and when they all replied yes he 'pointed at my outfit and said, "Don't you think your shorts are a little short?"

'He pointed at their dresses and said they were showing a lot of skin,' she said.

Lauren claimed the cop said such clothes could make the rapist think he could get 'easy access'.

The officer then said that they were 'exactly the kind of girl this guy is targeting'


Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2044213/Slutwalk-women-march-New-York-NYPD-tell-cover-avoid-rape.html#ixzz1sWgnEn8A

Sarah's Story

Before gym clas one day I asked Sarah
"Are you ready to tackle the rope".
Red hair, swept away effortlessly by a single bobby pin.
"Not today." She said.

It's sickenening sweet how much she undermines herself.
I'm not sure if she's humble or just hallow,
but she looks so effortless in being,
so I didn't say anything.

Her hair so tightley pressed against her scalp,
aching to be taken out;
looks efortless too.
Tiny gym shorts with the words
"Go tigers!"
a smile matching her cheerlead form figure:

Why can't she see what I see.

She ties knots better then she climbs.
Knotting her flaws
and embedding her falls deep into the soft spot of the floor
dents.

We didn't get to the top today.
Or yesterday.
Or the day before tomarrow.
Before we got to that place where lips are inches away from touching
like polar magnets: that didn't belong but we kept pressing towards eachother because
I loved the feeling.
I loved her.

Red hair pressed so tightly to her scalp.
It must be red from blood.
Blood that shrikes in her veins because
red rose lipstick smear in the locker room
runs her cold.

Red rumors run her gazes up and down the hallways,
,in and out of every ear
every door
every
useless
hurtful
word
out of every
useless
cruddy
mouth.

She's better at tying rope then climbing it.
She's better at laughing then being laugherd at.
She's better at hanging high than feeling low.
So maybe that's why tomarrow in the gym she hung so high
her red hair fell down and everyone gased at the top of the ladder that
Sarah climbed during the lunch period that no one had gym and tied the knot
and jumped.

Pretty People: Ponelope (Over Achiever's Disorder)

OCD.

My dad told me once that it stood for "over-achiever's disorder,".

I didn't realize he was lying until I started lying to myself and saying that it was "ok".

But it wasn't ok,

It wasn't fine.

And that why I turned to writing, I guess.

Writing about some suicidal girl crying in a corner,

Writing about the boy who everyone laughed at and

Made tire tracks on his hands.

Writing about people...

People who were, are, is me.

And I couldn't hide from that.

I remember staying up for hours, curled in a ball crying like a seeding being watered with pesticides and growing up in a garden of GM Carbon-Copies. And being the wild flower, I never learned how to be wild or look like the flower I was.

I would have these terrifying visions always flashing in front of my eyes, that I would try to roll them backwards to keep the visions to myself so no one else had to be tormented.

And I wrote about that too.

I wrote about how the only thing I  wanted was my

Dreams to be as close to reality as they possibly could;

Because reality is only half of the pain we live through

And the hurtful part of it all is the

Nightmares that come true

And the dreams we never dreamed.

I never acted upon my suicidal thoughts,

I never did anything to fuel the fire that burned my happiness down like an ashtray full of wasted promises.

I did the only thing I could do: write.

Write about how the night consumed me

In every way and rocked me

To sleep because my dad had work in the morning

And could only stay with me for a few minutes when I

Woke up screaming and I-

I learned how to breathe.

"Water will wash away everything"

But breathing will make everything slow down and hurt less..

Maybe even make it feel good.

Breathing grounds us and frees us and

Fills us and simplifies us.

As complicated as we all think life is,

It all comes down to

Breathing.

Ask me where I was last year.

Last year...I never thought that I would even be here.

Last year I thought I would be hanging from my closet, not hanging at the mall.

This year everything is going to be fine, because I'm fine.  My friends, my family, my writing always reminded me that I was going to be okay, and that they were there for me. I can't even begin to describe how much they helped me. I'm not suicidal anymore, and I am getting better at handling my OCD." I know its clichéd, but I just had to take it one step at a time. I always tell myself that it's my mind, and I can choose what I think. Being suicidal is scary, and it can feel as if there's no way out, like nothing's ever going to change. But things do change. The best thing to do is find a strong support system, and get help. Immediately. There's nothing to be ashamed of-it's actually a very common thing. I know it's hard, but you have to remember that there's always something to live for. Even if you don't have that "something" right now, you'll be able to find it if you hold on. And if you have OCD, don't be embarrassed."

Pretty People are born out of ugly experiences.

OCD is not me.

OCD is a part of  me.

And what tam I?

I am a pretty person.

Someday.

Every day.

Starting Today.

Penelope     Age: 15      April 5, 2012

Her Bathroom Stall

She ducks into the bathroom stall
To write.

To write things she cares about.
Things other people care about.
Things no one cares about.

She just writes.

She steals into the stall-
The one with the broken lock
Hanging from its silver hinges-
And pulls out the black pen-
The one with the insurance company name
On its glossy surface-
And puts the tip to the wall-
The one with her past phrases and poems
Printed across its blue face-
And
She
Writes.

Writes because her mother can't afford paper,
Writes because her father can't afford love
Writes because her favorite book-
The one with the author's signature
And the words "Never give up!" on it-
Was thrown out because her parents know nothing about her
And her brother is too dead to stick up for her.

She turns back to the stall wall.

She reads everything she's written before today-
Reads the love poem
With the winky face at the end
And a heart around the title-
Alex.

Reads the sloppy paragraph
About loving someone who you don't deserve
And hating every second of it.

Reads the verses about a bloody car crash
With the letters R.I.P. written bigger than anything else
Underneath her brother's name
In cursive.

Reads the phrase she scrawled
In moods good and bad:

"Never give up!"
"Never give up!"
"Never give up!"

Reads the responses other people
Carved into the peeling paint,
Some flattering,
Others hurtful,
And she lingers on the one
Done in purple Sharpie that the
Overalled janitors had tried to wipe away
With useless Dawn soap
And water from the tap-

"FAGGOT"

She cringes when she sees it
In all its dirty glory-
Wants to shout back at it,
Tell it that she's not gay
But what's the point in lying to herself?
They all knew Alex was a girl.

"Never give up!"

"FAGGOT"

In frustration,
She scribbles everything out-
The love poem,
The paragraph,
The phrases,
The phrases,
The phrases,
The giant
FAGGOT.

Then, beside the huge cloud
Of black curls and dashes
She writes in tiny letters:
"I hate myself."

She wasn't sure if anyone would ever see,
But then,
Just in case they would,
She writes
"Goodbye."

Time passed,
And months later,
Everyone wondered how she managed
To hang a rope from the old school's banisters.



By: Serena                              Age: 15