As a feminist, I follow a bunch of feminist blogs. I've "liked" them on Facebook or frequent their pages, and several times a week, I see something about rape on college campuses. These stories, often first person narratives, are overwhelmingly about young women who were raped on campus, whose college or university disbelieves them and refuses to handle the issue. The issue is coming to light more, leading to things like the Know Your IX campaign and the White House's Not Alone campaign. It's so important that this issue is being discussed.
I am teaching a college class this semester, and I just had
to complete a 90 minute sexual violence webinar on rape, sexual assault, sexual
harassment, and dating violence, as well as on Title IX and the Clery Act, my
obligations and responsibilities, the college's policy on sexual violence and
harassment, etc. It is important, and
necessary, and I was glad to do it. As
glad as I was, though, and as interested as I was in learning what is being
taught, it was hard for me to get through.
In fact, being on a college campus again has been a challenge in more
ways than I care to count.
So here's the thing: I'm tired of seeing these
articles. I'm tired of thinking about
it, and reading about it. I'm tired of
the comments, or discussion, or lack of discussion on these issues. I love that it's being discussed, don't get
me wrong, but I always get the sense (and perhaps this is my bias) that people
think this is the issue that happens to other
people. This happens to other girls. The slutty
girls. The ones that go out drinking
all the time. The ones with a history of
poor decision-making. Given that most of
my friends are around my age or older, this is talked about as something that
happens to college-aged folks. And yeah,
it's bad, and as feminists, we're outraged...but we're outraged in a
theoretical sense, almost. We're angry
that this happens to people. We're sad that this happens out there.
We're pissed that this issue is a problem for the young'uns
today.
We never want to think that bad things have happened to the
people we know. We never want to believe
that our friends have been hurt. But,
statistically, it's true. It has to be
somebody's friend that this happened to, right?
It could have been yours.
I know this because I'm that friend. And I know that people never imagine that I'm
that friend. The shock on their faces
when I tell them can't be disguised, because, you know, this issue is one that
happens to people. It's not one that happens to friends. Right?
I've gotten to a point now that I can tell people that I was
sexually assaulted. I can raise my hand
and say "me too," or even mention it sometimes in conversation. It's taken a long time, but I can do that.
The shame, for me, lies more in everything that happened
after the assault. It lies in the way
things were handled. It lies in the way
I was made to feel and led to believe that I was unworthy of love and
belonging. Psychological jargon calls
this "secondary wounding" or "secondary trauma," and it's
real. Research suggests that one of the
most important things after a traumatic event is the presence of social
support. The absence of social support
is devastating.
In short, Title IX says that no person shall be excluded
from participation in, subject to discrimination within, or denied the benefits
of an educational activity on the basis of sex.
It states that schools (schools receiving federal funding) are legally obligated to respond to and
correct "hostile educational environments," or risk losing their
funding. In fact, schools are given 60
days to investigate and respond to reports of hostile educational environments. Under the Clery Act, schools are required to
inform survivors of sexual violence about their reporting options. Schools must make accommodations to remedy
the hostile environment - and the burden of the "remedy" must not be
put solely on the victim/survivor. Title
IX protects the individual making the report from retaliation. A hostile environment can occur based on an
event that took place on campus or off: if it is having an ongoing impact on a
student's ability to access their education, it is a hostile environment.
For me, the "hostile environment" looked like
this: walking into the classroom of my cohort of 3 years on Monday morning to
find that my seat of 3 years had been taken.
No one looked at me or said anything.
I had nowhere to sit, and all around me were whispers.
The "hostile environment" consisted of: being
followed out of class to the bathroom, when no one was around. Being pushed against the wall and cornered,
while being told that I am "fucked up," that I'll never be
successful, that I made it up, that I'm lying, that I'm being unfair. It meant having her sneak up behind me, and
put both arms around my neck, telling me she won't let me go until I forgive
her. It meant phone calls and text messages. It meant people talking over me in
class. It meant people laughing and
whispering whenever I spoke. It meant
rumors. It meant being completely
isolated. It meant no safe place. It meant being afraid to go to the
bathroom. It meant panic attacks before
class.
The "hostile environment" was no one ever asking
me my side of the story. It was no one
ever reaching out. It meant friends
turned against me, and the one who didn't was harassed until she did. We had all seen how issues with students were
handled in the past. We had all seen
what our colleagues were capable of doing.
No one was willing to stand up with me against either side.
The "hostile environment" consisted of being told
that I should kill myself. It was having
my butt grabbed in the hallway, and then hearing the laughter as she walked
into the room full of my peers and said, "oops...I just (air quote)
sexually assaulted her in the hallway."
This wasn't college.
This was graduate school. I was
24. I should have known better. I should have known how to handle it, right?
I did. I confronted
them, and things got worse. I told a
grown up, just like they teach us to do when we're young. But the first grown-up didn't know how to
handle it, and the second grown up told me that I should know better than to
"go to a bar with my boobs hanging out." They had a "slap on the wrist"
conversation with the people in question, and I was told not to talk about
it. I was never given resources or told
that I had options. I requested that I
not have to work in groups on projects with the two people most closely
involved, and this request was denied. I
was immediately placed in groups with them, and I had to figure out how to
survive the panic and the hostility enough to get the work done.
The "hostile environment" consisted of being told
that "faculty gossip."
"You don't want word of this getting around, do you?" It consisted of learning months later that it
was discussed at faculty meeting. That
the story was misrepresented and mis-told.
That everyone knew, and no one did a damn thing.
So I didn't talk about it.
I went to class with the same people every day. I was ignored, I was talked about, I was made
invisible. I was scared, and always
waiting for what would happen next.
Above all, I was terrified that faculty or administration would find
out. I was terrified that I would be
prevented from getting my degree. I was
scared beyond reason that they would deem me broken and kick me out. So I stayed quiet, and I dealt with it for a little
over a year. I passed my oral
comprehensive exams in the middle of the worst of it. I collected data for and wrote my 200 page dissertation. I took enormous class loads. I worked several jobs and went through the
necessary clinical rotations. I served
on Student Government. The more
stressful things were, the better my grades became, because I dealt with it all
by studying, by reading, by devoting every inch of me into being the best
student I could possibly become.
And then I went on internship and moved halfway across the
country. But I still didn't talk about
it. I couldn't talk about it. Because it still -- even still -- feels
somewhere deep inside me like I did something wrong. An entire institution of people couldn't have
been wrong, could they? My entire
cohort...they couldn't have all been wrong, right?
I graduated two years ago, and I am just beginning to get
over the fear that they could take my degree from me. That they could somehow prove that I am not
competent (even though I know that I am both highly competent AND
successful). I feel that, by telling the
story, I am selling short my education.
I am indicating that maybe my education was not what it should be. That maybe people will think less of me as a
professional because of this story. How
good can an educational institution like this be?
Two years ago, shortly after I graduated, I knew I had to do
something. Through a series of events, I
found out about the Maryland Coalition Against Sexual Assault (MCASA). I called and spoke with people there and told
them what I wanted. Given that all of
the above events occurred in another state, and a considerable amount of time
had passed, my options were limited...but they gave me options. At the time, what I felt most comfortable doing
was writing a letter. The attorney I
spoke with informed me about Title IX, pointed me in the direction of the
Office of Civil Rights' "Dear Colleague Letters" providing
additional guidance on Title IX, and I wrote a letter that I sent to the
president of the university, the dean of my program, members of the board of
trustees, a vice-president, and a few other important people I could think
of. It was 8 pages long and had
references and everything. It took
months for me to write. I am probably
prouder of this letter than I am of my dissertation. I'm not afraid to admit that it's kick-ass.
There have, reportedly, been changes made as a result of
this letter. I don't necessarily believe
it...but I try to. I try to believe that
I did what I could do. I try to believe
that I took the steps I could to ensure this will not happen to anyone there
ever again. I don't believe I made that
sort of change, but it wasn't for lack of trying.
When I talk about being sexually assaulted, people are
surprised. They are saddened. To some extent, they think they
understand. Talking about this other
piece of the experience is even harder than I can explain to you. It's harder than I can even put into words. I fear that people won't believe me. That they'll think I'm exaggerating, or too
sensitive, or that I did something to make this happen. After all, who is usually
"right?" One person? Or an entire institution of people?
And yet, it's necessary.
I need to tell this story. I need
to stop thinking, "I could never have that strength" when I read
articles about girls doing amazing things at their colleges. Because I do have that strength. It is here, living in my chest and pumping
through my veins. I, too, can be
"proof" to my corner of the world that this does not only happen to
the "slutty" girls, or to the girls who are abrasive or loud or beautiful
or ugly or dumb or quiet or unassuming or timid or whatever other adjective you
can put there to make yourself believe that this only happens to people you
don't know. It doesn't only happen at
the large institutions. It doesn't only
happen to girls with prior history of trauma.
It doesn't only happen to drunk college students. It doesn't only happen to girls under
21.
Truth is: it happens.
To me, to women (and men) like me, and to women (and men) very different
from me. The stories you read are
stories of people like me. We speak and advocate as loud as we can, but we need
more voices to create change. The ways
in which I attempt to change the world are small. Writing.
Reading. Sharing. Telling stories, and encouraging others to do
the same. Signing petitions. Talking.
Teaching. We need systemic change
to happen in our educational institutions and in our world in order for change
to be realized.
How are you
working towards this goal?
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