Let me say right up front that I’m not an idiot, and I know I will be told I’m victim blaming.
My answer to that is, “Sure am. Not a problem.” The trendy way of shutting up any complaints of women not behaving in any sensible way is not going to work with me.
I’ve been observing the dynamic of victim worship in America for three decades. Call it an outgrowth of rooting for the underdog. It’s nauseating. About ten years ago I realized new writers (and some not so new) thought that if someone was a victim, he was by nature sainted. They wouldn’t bother to develop a character beyond “he/she is a victim” and we were supposed to accord all virtues to this creation.
I didn’t like it in fiction, and I like it even less in real life.
Victims can be victims – real victims, tormented by real suffering – without being in any way good people, or even someone you want to touch with a ten-foot pole. In fact, any veteran police officer will tell you that habitual victims and habitual criminals are often drawn from the same group, where amoral victimization is the norm. There are also historical figures like Robespierre, who sent many a person to the guillotine before he too was devoured by it.
