Not long ago, one of my editors asked me which book I thought every sixteen-year-old should read. I immediately replied: Asking for It, Kate Harding's feminist analysis of "rape culture" in the U.S. Inflicting a 259-page book upon the nation's youth that, among other things, details some of the most heinous rapes of the past decades may sound sadistic. But I didn't suggest it as a moral lesson to guilt boys into believing their sexy feelings doomed them to a life as future predators, and terrify the girls into changing their behavior, lest they become future victims. Exactly the opposite: As I wrote here last year, dark as Harding's book is, I found it surprisingly uplifting, a "plea for wisdom, moral clarity, love, and cooperation between men and women, and great sex between sane, consenting people of all ages."
I now wish to add a second book to that hypothetical curriculum, one that happens to share a title with Harding's: Asking for It, the second novel for young adults by Irish writer Louise O' Neill, released in the United States this month, which depicts a brutal rape closely resembling two American cases that made international headlines: Daisy Coleman (whose name we know because she chose to speak publicly about her own rape), the fourteen-year-old high school cheerleader in Maryville, Missouri, who accused two popular senior athletes of raping her and her thirteen-year-old friend, then dumping her body on her doorstep, where she spent four hours in subzero temperatures. In a similarly notorious case in Steubenville, Ohio, an unconscious girl was dragged from party to party, sexually assaulted and physically desecrated in front of multiple witnesses, then humiliated with photos of her own assault posted on social media. O'Neill's novel, set in Ireland, makes use of details from both American nightmares: her main character, eighteen-year-old Emma Donovan, is raped and then abandoned on her parents' porch, exposed cruelly to the elements (in her case, she gets sunstroke and blisters on a hot day). And as in the Steubenville case, she is ritually humiliated by her friends and classmates when photos of her assault surface on Facebook.
Stories ripped from the headlines — from Law and Order to true crime — often suggest pulp paperback, not serious literature. But this is not that kind of book and O'Neill is not that kind of writer. Like Harding, O'Neill is unabashedly feminist (her first novel, Only Ever Yours, depicted an anti-feminist dystopia closely resembling Margaret Atwoods's Handmaid's Tale). The novel became an instant classic upon its UK release last year: Patrick Sproull of the Guardian called O'Neill "the best YA fiction writer alive today"; Jeannette Winterson said O'Neill "writes with a scalpel"; Only Ever Yours won Book of the Year at the Irish Book Awards.
My proposed course, Asking for It 101, might not pass muster with the same school boards that for two decades insisted American teenagers in many states were OK with abstinence-only- based sex education that refused to consider that any teenager, girl or boy, might want to consent to sex — until President Obama mercifully issued an executive order to defund these programs, starting in 2017. But it should pass muster. Every sixteen-year-old who reads these two books in tandem would understand how crucial it is for people of any age to cherish their right to decide where and when and how to consent to sex with a person they actually want — and when that right to autonomy is violated, to label it the crime that it is.
Harding's nonfiction approach provides a rigorous critical, historical, and intellectual foundation to understand rape culture, and the tools to fight back: With her trademark wit, she meticulously dissects and eviscerates the myths and outright lies that enable rapists, and she provides devastating comebacks to anyone who would dare to argue otherwise. But in a work of fiction, O'Neill achieves something that may only be possible in that form: She demands that readers themselves become first- person witnesses to Emma's rape. We know what happened in that room, because we, too, were there.
Nonfiction, first-person accounts of rape can, and do exist. But they often come at devastating cost. Both Daisy Coleman and her mother have spoken publicly about her rape, in essays, articles, and a Netflix documentary. Unlike the vast majority of victims, Coleman did report her rape within hours (she went to the hospital so fast her blood alcohol level was still spiked seven hours after her assault). But sexual assault charges against her accuser — whose grandfather was a state representative — were soon dropped, despite strong forensic evidence. Her mother was fired from her job as a vet within months of the assault, and the family left town. Soon after, their house literally burned to the ground.
Sexual assault narratives often follow a collection of numbingly similar narrative arcs: in Emma's story, a pretty, popular girl being assaulted by older, popular boys deemed untouchable due to their wealth, social connections, or athletic prowess. (Another familiar story is that of the unpretty, unpopular girl targeted by the same group of boys, who decide no one will believe someone like her could interest someone like them anyway.)
But rather than calling it cliché (or worse, falsehood) it seems mythic, something closer to archetype. Beauty is the oldest form of female power; its history so entrenched, even in allegedly post-feminist times the ways in which beautiful women are elevated and punished for their perceived power still follow predictable patterns. And the oldest, most extreme form of punishment to put women in their place happens to be rape. Emma is raised to think of her beauty as currency: it pays for her friendships, her popularity, beautiful clothes, handsome boys, and may, one day, bring her love, adventure, and financial security. ("You can have all of this," says her glamorous aunt, gesturing around her London apartment. "It'll be easy for you, with the way you look. And you can hold a conversation, which always helps.")
Other cultures may sacrifice their prettiest virgins to the gods; for Emma, the price of beauty is constantly managing the effect her body has on others. Sex is required (though pleasure clearly is not), but it has its own complicated set of rules: Sleep with too many people, and she's a slut. Sleep with too few, and she's a snob. But when even her dad's golfing buddy looks her up and down, there is no possible way to avoid rejecting (and therefore pissing off) a virtual army of suitors. Scolded by one friend for "encouraging" an older boy, she worries she might hurt his feelings ("I don't want him to think I'm a bitch"); she consents to an unwanted hook-up because "It seemed easiest to go along with it."
The night she is invited to a party with older boys, she remembers the guy who called her "hot, but boring as fuck," so she takes a pill when it is offered. Going in for a kiss, she thinks: "This is the price of my beauty and I am willing to pay it." She does consent to go into the bedroom with an older boy, but when the sex becomes violent, she is afraid to tell him to stop. And then she remembers nothing, until she wakes up, bloodied, blistered, and half dressed on her parents' front porch.
Something else we'd learn in Asking for It 101: Being a man does not make you a rapist. (Emma's two strongest defenders are boys: her brother, Bryan, who channels the pure righteous rage her parents should — but cannot — summon, and her childhood friend Conor). But many men who get away with sexual violence are likely to do it again More than a year before, Emma's friend Jamie claimed to have been raped at a party by one of the same boys. Emma herself encouraged Jamie not to tell; not to use that word, telling her, "No one likes a girl who makes a fuss."
For Emma, there is no choice. Within hours, photos of her assault are posted to Facebook, and the fuss is made for her. They are graphic, ugly photos: Four boys, all of whom have known her since childhood, not just assaulting her sexually but mocking and desecrating her prone body. Hundreds of likes, dirty comments, slut, skank, whore. She was asking for it.
Emma is still the girl who does not make a fuss. She blames herself. But in this, too, she has no choice: Once a school administrator sees the photos, the state files a case against the boys, also without her consent. What happens next may be worse than the actual assault.
While the boys go to school, parties, and soccer matches, Emma becomes a virtual prisoner in her own home. She is blamed for ruining the boys' lives, for the town's sports team losing their matches, even for the city's drop in tourism. Her father barely speaks to her; her mother covers up her resentment in bottles of wine. The minister who baptized her as a child delivers a sermon denouncing her and praising the men she accused: As Emma puts it: They are "innocent until proven guilty. I'm a liar until proven honest."
Emma is no feminist superhero; unlike Harding, she does not provide a model others can use to fight back. "I would have preferred to see that as well," writes O'Neill in her afterword, "but, sadly, it didn't feel truthful." Unlike Daisy Coleman, she never does speak up for herself; like Coleman, she turns the blame on herself and attempts suicide several times. But O'Neill's empathic approach has created an important thing: a work of fiction that can help readers believe in the reality of injustice and suffering.
Amy Benfer has worked as an editor and staff writer at Salon, Legal Affairs, and Paper magazine. Her reviews and features on books have appeared in Salon, The San Francisco Chronicle Book Review, The Believer, Kirkus Reviews, and The New York Times Book Review.
Reviewer: Amy Benfer
