4
Thursday, March 21, 1991 / University Daily Kansan
Opinion
THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
Reporting crimes
Rape should be reported in order to help society begin to understand and try to end the problem
five women reported they were raped during this year's spring break rush
on Padre Island. The incidents made the reality of the violent crime crystal clear:
One out of every four women will be the victim of rape or attempted rape.
Although rape education is no longer a taboo topic, the blame and fault of the crime tend to weigh heavily on the victim's shoulders.
The result is that fewer than 10 percent of rapes are reported.
And sadder still, fewer than 1 percent of the reported raps end in a prosecution.
But the decision to report a rape must be left up to the victim.
The director of the Douglas County Rape Victim Support Service said the rape victim might gain a sense of control by reporting the crime.
On a larger scale, reporting rapes may help
society dissolve some of the myths about rape so that it can help the victim instead of fostering ignorance.
According to FBI statistics, a woman is 20 times more likely to be raped in the United States than in Japan and 13 times more likely to be raped here than in England.
Seventy-five percent of rapes are committed by people the victim knows
We must understand that a rapist doesn't look like a rapist. The assailant can't be spotted across a room. There are no safe havens from rapists. No one is immune.
We must realize that a rape victim is always the victim.
And don't think for a second that rape doesn't happen on this campus.
The University Information Center offers crisis intervention 24 hours a day at 864-359-3011.
The Douglas County Rape Victim Support Service can be reached through Headquarters at 841-2345.
Tiffany Harness for the editorial board
Exxon to pay fine
Restitution is weak but sets example for future
E xxon Corp. last week agreed to pay a federal fine of about $1 billion to be applied to cleanup and restoration for
the damage caused by the Exxon Valdez oil spill.
The tanker ran aground March 24, 1989, on a reef in Prince William Sound, spilling about 11 million gallons of crude oil.
After the extent of the damage became clear, Exxon agreed to plead guilty to three criminal charges that the company negligently discharged crude oil into navigable waters and killed migratory wildlife.
By handing down a large fine to Exxon, the federal government set a good example to show other corporations that they will be responsible for negligence that leads to environmental disasters. But Exxon's punishment is relatively light.
While the $1 billion settlement is the largest single amount ever paid as a result of environmental damage, Exxon chairperson Lawrence Rawl said the payments would have virtually no effect on the company's financial performance.
The company will be able to deduct $900 million of the fine as a tax write-off. The remaining $100 million portion of the fine is the only part that cannot be deducted.
Because paying the $1 billion is intended as a punishment to Exxon, the fine should have some effect on the corporation.
The punishment would have a greater effect on Exxon and make a stronger statement to other corporations if more of the $1 billion was not tax deductible.
But Exxon should be praised for reaching an agreement with the government without going to trial. Instead, the company could have chosen to pay a team of lawyers for a lengthy and costly court battle
While the fine is an appropriate step, the federal and state governments still could be tougher on companies responsible for environmental disasters. By making it clear that corporations will not get away with carelessness concerning the environment, perhaps companies will educate themselves on preventing disasters instead of only cleaning them up after they occur.
Amy Zamierowski for the editorial board
FLAXMAN university Daily Kansan
NEW MEMBERS OF
THE ENDANGERED SPECIES CLUB -
Man violates woman's space, now fear replaces innocence
Memory of averted attack returns with warm Spring weather
The last thing I thought about that day was that I might be attacked.
After working long hours as a waitress in Louisiana, I wanted to escape the heat and indulge in a southern tradition: crab fishing. Tot put, we caught a net and a net, I went to the spot locals claimed was the best crabbing in town.
The river was bustling with activity. Above the humming of insects and the chorus of birds, speed boats filled with skiers roared by, breaking the shimmering water into ripples of white-capped waves.
Suddenly it was very quiet on the river. A deathly silence. The skiers had left. The birds stopped chirping, the humming insects became still.
I didn't notice him at first
The trick with the crabs was incredible. I wanted to learn it. I didn't think twice about talking to him.
A man was crabbing beside the river bed. He looked so big, I remember thinking. At 6-feet-4 and with massive hands, he could swiftly pick crumbs out of his net and flip them into a pocket, without getting pinched once
But a shadow fell across my path. "Na, you know, it's been a long time since I came to me as a woman," he drawled, coming at me with his huge, looming body.
Elicia
Hill
Staff columnist
I should have.
After two hours of small talk and fishing, my bucket was brimming with squirming crabs. I stood up to go.
Fear surged through me. The kind of numbness fear that glues your tongue to the roof of your mouth.
My blood reed.
I was alone. Almost
"Oh God,   God no.     " I screamed silently. As swiftly as he had caught the crabs moments earlier, those massive hands caught me
Then, as if I was watching in a front row seat, I heard myself talking. Fast.
Like a drowning victim who thrashes at the water, I struggled to be free. But those hands were strong
"If you do this, I hate you. I won't be your friend anymore." I'll never crab with you again." I babbled, hoping that he wouldn't notice the insanity of what I was saying since I didn't know him at all.
Somehow, the words managed to accomplish what my strength could not.
"Oh no, I want to crab with you every week," he said. "You're my friend. Promise me you'll come back."
"Clean, sure." I lied through
clinched teeth. "Sure, you go now
before I get to help you to get home."
I walked backward to my car with
The last thing I was thinking that day was that I might be attacked. And although I thought about reporting it to the police, I didn't.
the bucket of crabs sloshing over my shoes. He followed me up to the car.
"You d better not lie to me. If you are I'll just take you now."
Don't run . . He could still get you
Just smile . Put the key in the lock
A few more inches
As soon as the key slid into the ignition slot, I floored it.
The last thing I was thinking that day was that I might be attacked. And although I thought about report, I didn't think it would report it because nothing happened.
Nothing, except that my life was changed. Now, whenever I go anywhere alone, I'm not alone. Fear is my companion. I'm on guard. Aware.
And for six years I have been haunted every spring with this thought: When the weather gets warm and the birds sing and the insects hum and the river shimmers in the sunlight, just maybe another woman will decide to go crabbing "at the best spot in town."
Maybe a man will be crabbing there, too.
A man . . with massive hands.
■ Elicia Hill is a Lawrence graduate student.
St. Patrick's Day in Ireland isn't just about crack
I has taken me a few days, but I have, at last, gotten over the culture shock of St. Patrick's Day in the United States.
I have lived in Ireland for more than 20 years; my parents are Irish, my friends are Irish, and coming from Belfast, I have had plenty of opportunity to ponder nationalism and identity. But I have never seen anything as bizarre or foreign to me as St. Patrick's Day over here. I think it is about time that somebody told you a few truths.
For a start, St. Patrick was a non-drinking, non-fighting man of the church — an archbishop no less — and, horror of horrors, he was French. Basically, the story goes that little Patrick was wandering through the French countryside chewing some garlic and generally minding his own business when, all of a sudden, some hairy oats interested him. He handed Patrick into a bag and sold him into slavery. So it was that poor Pat found himself on a hillside in Ireland looking after a whole load of sheep. They didn't speak a word of French and his baiting was definitely not up to scratch, so Patrick turned to God for company.
Clare
McGinn
Staff columnist
Well, the man upstairs pulled a few strings for Patrick, and he found himself back in France training to be a priest and determined to return to Ireland to bring Christianity to the heathens and the sheep. Well, they need it because they were up to all sorts of evil things like drinking alcohol, cursing, fighting and fighting (the heathens, that is, not the sheep). So, Patrick worked his way up the promotion ladder and, sure enough, the day came when Bishop Koch launched a highly successful "Just Say No" campaign, which involved kicking the snakes out of the country and any other drunken lout who would not convert to Christianity.
So how would St. Patrick view the carrying on that goes on in the United States in his name? Believe me, we don't. We believe in behavior in Ireland. On St. Patrick's
Day at home, things are extremely low-key. We do not drink beer — let alone green stuff — until our brains are floating in it. Real Irish people have a healthy respect for alcohol, and therefore we pace ourselves throughout the year instead of saving up for one unholy binge March 17.
We do not dress up in green, sport gaudy plastic shamrocks and jig down the roads shouting "Top o' the morning to ye." Most of us do not have red hair and freckles. We never say "Sure an 'beggarrh," "ST. Patrick and the saints in heaven preserve us" or "To be sure."
None of us, when sober, have ever seen a leprechaun, the little people or the banshee, and nobody in Ireland had seen one. We have bage — except in a dare emergency!
However, I have discovered that there are some other unusual things to contend with if you are from Northern Ireland and find yourself trying to make conversation with people over here. For example, at a party or in a bar, the usual “Do you come here often?” or “What’s your sign?” is replaced by that searching come-on, “Are You Protestant or Catholic?” followed by the romantic inquiry, “Do you support the IRA
terrorists?" and, my favorite,
"What's the solution to the struggle
in Ireland?"
So I frequently get embroiled in inadequate but complicated explanations to the effect that what is happening at home is not a religious war but more a conflict over national identity. I do point out that social conditions and the class structure also are significant factors, but primarily the majority of people really lack political education, leaving the political and terrorist extremists to make the headlines and keep the pot boiling.
By the time I've finished my lecture, the guy who is used to "I'm Virgo so you must be Capricorn" has either fallen asleep or decided to bore me with his personal philosophies on life and the universe.
On St. Patrick's Day in the United States, things are made a lot easier in the "getting to know you" department. All that is necessary is one of those "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" buttons, which in normal circumstances would read, "Kiss Me, I'm Desperate."
The strangest and most dangerous thing for native Irish people in America concerns a linguistic difference which, if they are not careful,
can land them down at the police
station with a lot of explaining to do.
The word in question is "crack."
In Ireland, North and South, this means having fun, laughing and pure enjoyment. It has nothing to do with drugs whatsoever. But here if I was to say, "Why don't we go to a party for some crack?" or "How's about some crack?" or "I had great crack last night with my friends." I am quite liable to build myself a reputation as some sort of drug fiend.
I have a friend living in Boston who was driving back from a party one night when she was stopped by a
traffic cop. Well, he was obviously a friendly sort of chap and, after pointing out that Marie had been driving a ted too quickly, he struck up a conversation with her. When he discovered that she was from Ireland, he asked her what she had been up to in the States.
"Oh I've had nothing but crack since I got here!" Marie replied. The poor guy was shocked that such a healthy-looking, nicely spoken girl should have been so quickly corrupted and, after a lecture on the drug scene in the United States that lasted the best part of an hour, Marne was able to go on her way. She's never used that word again.
So remember that "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling", which, by the way, is an American song, it is not because it is St. Patrick's Day. Nor has it anything to do with fairies, leprechauns, shilahlues, pots of gold at the ends of rainbows, shamrocks, green beer, or corned beef and cabbage, which are that we have found a place where the crack is good — Dublin!
Clare McGinn is a Belfast, Northern Ireland, exchange student majoring in American literature.
KANSAN STAFF
CHRIS SIRON
RICH CORNELL Managing editor.
TOM EBLEN General manager, news adviser
Editors
AUDRA LANGFORD Business manager
Managing editor
MINDI LUND Retail sales manager
JEANNE HINES Sales and marketing adviser
Business staff
Editors Business staff
News. Melanie Matthes Campus sales mgr. Sophie Wohbe
Editorial Tiffany Harness Regional sales mgr. Carmen Dresch
Planning Holly M. Neuman National sales mgr. Jennifer Claxton
Campus Jennifer Reynolds, Co-op sales mgr. Christine Musser
Pam Sollin Production mgrs. Rich Harsbarger,
Sports Ann Sommermath Kale Stader
Photography Keith Thorpe Marketing director. Gall Einbinder
Graphics Meissaa Unterberg Creative director. Chris Hathy
Features Jill Harrington Classified manager. Kim Crowder
by Davld Rosenfield
Letters should be type, double-spaced and fewer than 200 words. They must include the writer's signature, name, address and telephone number. Writers affiliated with the University of Kansas
Great columns should be typed, double-spaced and fewer than 700 words. The writer will be shortened.
The Kansas reserves the right to reject or edit letters, guest columns and cartoons. They can be mailed or brought to the Kansas newsroom, 111 Staffer/Fell Hall.
Sketch