Yes, I’d been drinking. Before I’d been asked, I knew what was coming.
Were you drinking?
Yes. We all were.
I didn’t ask that. Were you drinking? What were you wearing? Do you remember who you went out with that night?
I couldn’t bear it. They wanted to jump on this case when they thought I’d been punched, kicked, hit. But when they learned my genitalia had been molested, jabbed, penetrated without my consent, it was a whole different story. Suddenly it was: What did I do to bring it on?
Sure, it was my dress. My drink. What I’d said. My makeup. My company.
I brought it on. Clearly, I’d asked for it.
Student involved in an unwanted sexual encounter of their own regard.
What does that mean?
I’d been asking to be raped.
- I wear makeup
- I drank alcohol
- I wore a tank top
- I had breasts
- I flirted
- I wasn’t a virgin
- I’d gone to the party
Like boxes being ticked off on a registration form, I’d filled in all the details needed. This wasn’t a case of a boy who’d broken the law, this was a case of a girl who’d wanted sex, then claimed she didn’t.The ONE cause of rape is rapists. #brockturner #endrapeculture Click To Tweet
Forget that I asked him to stop and wasn’t aware of the start. Screamed, while my face was being pushed down. No matter I’d clenched my limbs so tight there were bruises of his fingers where he’d pried my thighs apart… as I laid on my stomach desperately clinging to sheets and strewn clothes I could put between us.
I had proof. But that proof would have to wait until I’d sobered up, lest campus police deliver a drunk minor to a hospital. I wanted to know how to proceed, but no one even wanted to know his name. To know his name would be putting a face to the criminal, and the face of the victim was just a freshman. A girl who’d wanted to party… although I’d rarely ever attended a party before, almost 6 months into the year.
Why. Why paint a brutal story? Something time has begun to heal?
Because I am your daughter. I am my daughters. I am every other woman who has been pushed aside. Abandoned. Criminalized and told we wanted it.
I am she.
Look at my face, not his. Not his beautiful teeth, or manicured nails. Don’t even attempt to imagine his pristine hands- those digits he’ll jam into any girl he’s fed alcohol to. His “20 minutes of action” begging for something more that he’s had before.
Six months in jail will do nothing for Brock Turner but feed his hunger. He is a predator. This isn’t the fist time he’s assaulted, but the first time he couldn’t pay her off, or someone stopped him. Next time he will do more, and somehow be so much more confused. Conflicted. Poor little rich boy. Poor super star athlete brining money into the campus. Poor future Olympian. Poor rapist.
If only that girl hadn’t been drinking, too. If only she’d said yes and stayed awake. If only she knew how her being raped was causing him so much turmoil. If only he could eat a fucking rib-eye.
In my case, as so many before and undoubtedly, so many to come, we were all asking for it. Via our dress, our makeup, our pasts, our drinks. I repeated this fact again and again. So what if I was drinking? I didn’t force myself on anyone. I didn’t aggressively touch anyone. I was assaulted.
Yes, by your account, that is what happened. But you didn’t report.
Every step you take towards the hospital, from calling campus security (If you don’t want your mom to know, maybe sleep this off) to your dean’s office will result in red tape… and at some point you decide whether you fight the red tape or the demons that threaten your very existence. The ones that tell you that you’re not worth it, that your life is over. The ones that remind you, you are prey. You were drinking. You did wear a skirt.
Brock Turner represents more than one rapist. More than one college campus. More than one privileged college athlete.
Live in fear? Every day.
But also live in the advocate. Live in the idea that our goal as a society is not to teach our daughters how to not get raped. Not how to detect drugs with nail polish. Not how to travel in packs or what to wear.
But to teach our boys to not rape.
number one cause of rape is rapists.
I wish I hadn’t spent so much time on what I’d done wrong. If only I hadn’t been encouraged to do so. I wish I’d had a lighthouse to look towards…