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rape

The glitz and glamour of sexual assault

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[I wrote this last winter, shortly after the second debate. I don’t remember why I never published it. I also don’t know why I’m publishing it today. Maybe because I can’t seem to write anything else coherent and this is an easy way out – posting something I already wrote. Maybe because this topic is always worth addressing. I suppose the why doesn’t even matter, anyway.]

I posted this on Facebook, following the debate a few weeks ago:

Just a friendly PSA: women don’t come forward for fame. Women come forward to bravely speak their truth so they can survive and be free.

A friend commented [sarcastically], “Nothing like the glitz and glamour of sexual assault.”

Yup – I know that’s what I always wanted. You too, right?

It is infuriating and terrifying to think that people out there still believe that the only reason a woman would share a story is because she made it up while trying to get in the spotlight.

Absent a serious mental condition, women don’t go around making up stories to ruin someone’s life in the interest of fame.

Newsflash: the reason so many of us don’t tell, or didn’t tell for so many years, is because we didn’t want to be in a spotlight.

It’s not a club that anybody wants to be in. But we find ourselves there – and so we find a way to survive. And that often happens by sharing our stories. Not because, “Ooh! This would be so cool to talk about, and maybe I’ll become rich and famous!”

There was nothing exhilarating or glamorous about anxiously sitting on a couch in front of a friend, trying not to throw up or panic, trying to look her in the eye, drenched in the shame I thought was mine, as I spoke the words and told her my stories. There was nothing fun and exciting about sitting in therapy and working through the years and the memories.

It was freeing. Liberating. Relieving. Terrifying. Worth it.

But not glitzy. Not glamorous.

That’s not how this works.

Sometimes, a survivor does become famous. But when that happens, they’re not famous because of what happened to them, or because of who hurt them. They’re famous because of their bravery in speaking their truth. Because of the hope and courage they give others. Because of the freedom they then feel, and inspire in others.

The problem is, the people who are going to read this are the ones who agree. The ones who have the same thoughts. The ones who don’t get it, who are still so ignorant, those are the ones who will never see these words. But we write, and we talk, on the off chance that someone reads something, and talks to someone who talks to someone who talks to someone who had a different opinion, and through the grapevine, they are educated and enlightened. 

The day that we talked about rape jokes

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One day this summer, staff of our oldest boys came up to me.

“Jen,” they said. “Can we do a group on rape comments? The sexual jokes keep coming and yesterday [Name] made a joke about what he would do to [Celebrity] if he found her drunk and passed out. They just don’t get that rape isn’t something to joke about. And I think they get so much of this from the internet. They just don’t understand.”

[For a little more context: these boys, besides being clueless adolescents, also happen to all have Asperger’s Syndrome, or related social-cognitive challenges.]

And so the following morning I sat with the group of 13-15-year-old boys.

“Remember a few weeks ago we talked about jokes?” I began.

“Yeah, like the deadly jokes?” one of them asked.

“How you can’t joke about suicide or religion or race,” another added.

“Right. And what did we say about sexual innuendo jokes?” I asked. We quickly reviewed how, at their age, innuendo exists, and it’s funny. It can be funny to look at a banana and think it looks like something else. It can be funny to hear someone say “I blew so hard,” when talking about blowing up a balloon. It’s okay. That’s expected. It just depends on who you share innuendo with, and when. You don’t make that type of joke with a staff member, or a teacher, or a parent.

I asked them if they knew of any other deadly topics that we hadn’t talked about, and after guesses like, “family” and “disabilities” (they are such good kids, SUCH good, sweet kids…), one of them guessed, “sex?” And another guessed, “rape?”

They all burst out laughing. As expected. But I waited, and then I asked them, “Who knows what the definition of rape is?”

As we began to walk down this path of conversation, laughter came in and out, but I held their gaze and I told them, “It’s okay. It’s an uncomfortable topic. People laugh when they feel awkward or uncomfortable. It’s okay. If you need to walk away or take a break, it’s okay.” They all stayed.

We talked about what rape is. We talked about where they hear rape comments (the internet, they said. One boy said, “Everything is inappropriate. It could be a video of a TREE on YouTube, and if you scroll down, there will be racist and sexist jokes and comments about sex.”).

Next we talked about the difference between sex jokes and rape jokes.

“While sex jokes are often “deadly”, meaning that they can have negative consequences depending on who you say them to, rape jokes are ALWAYS “deadly”, no matter who you make them with. And that’s because sex and rape are not the same thing.” I said.

“But they kind of are,” one boy said. “It’s the same actions.”

“I’m glad you brought that up,” I told him. “Does anyone know why people have sex?”

They laughed again.

“Horny!”

“Love!”

I told them they were right. “Does anyone know why someone rapes?”

Silence. And then,

“Attraction?”

“Lust?”

I looked at them and said: “A person rapes for one reason: power. When a person rapes someone, it isn’t about sex. It’s not about attractiveness.”

“Wait,” one boy said. “I get it. So even though the physical actions are similar, the intent is different.”

Another boy added, “I guess you never know what someone has been through, which is why you shouldn’t joke about it?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Kids are so smart.

“Right.” I told them. And then I shared some statistics about sexual abuse and rape. I watched their eyes widen as they looked around the table, counting the number of boys and the number of women. “Wait….” one of them said. “So someone here might have had that happen to them?”

You just never know. You don’t take that chance.

We talked about how damaging it can be for someone to hear a joke about rape. We played out some scenarios, doing Social Behavior Mapping, to look at the effects of a rape comment. They talked about how maybe people would feel unsafe around them, might be worried that they were going to harm them, might think that they disrespected women and maybe wouldn’t want to be around them anymore. These were their ideas. Their thought processes. They got it.

We talked about the kind of people they want to be. We talked about what they can do if they hear a rape comment or joke. How they could be a bystander or not. How they can choose to laugh or not. How if they choose to laugh, what message it sends. They got it.

We could’ve skipped all this. We could’ve sat them down and said, “You will have a serious consequence if I hear one more of those comments.” We could’ve. But what would that have done? The thing is – we have to have these hard conversations. It’s okay if they laugh. It’s okay if they want to walk away. It’s okay. But we have to talk about it, because otherwise they don’t know. Otherwise they don’t have the space to ask the questions. Otherwise they go on doing what they’re doing because nobody has given them a reason or an opportunity to do otherwise.

So we talk. We have the conversations, and over and over again, we talk.

It’s time

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This has been a long time coming. It started with a whisper in the back of my brain and I wrote Musings. Then it grew to a hunger in my soul and I wrote Telling Stories. And now I just know: it’s time. It’s time to press publish and say:

I am a survivor.

Of sexual abuse. Of sexual assault.

And right now, statistically, 1 in 4 girls, and 1 in 5 women who reading this are going to say, whether in a whisper to themselves, or as a shout out loud: me too.

I walk by survivors every day. I talk to survivors every day. I just don’t know that I’m talking to them, and they don’t know that they’re talking to one too, because nobody is talking about it. Because of fear. Of shame.

Fear and shame that stopped me from speaking about it for years.

But I’m working through it. With some time, some healing, long conversations, a lot of love and compassion, and the guidance of some incredible women, my mindset is shifting. The deep dark secrets I’ve kept don’t have to be deep and dark. And they’re not secrets, they’re stories. Secrecy implies there’s a reason to keep quiet. And with this – there isn’t. And while nothing positive comes out of silence, a lot of positive comes from speaking.

I’m reframing.

Because:

Do people who have been hit by a car feel fear in sharing their story because they think they’ll be blamed? Do most victims of a crime sit and stew over telling friends about the crime that WAS COMMITTED AGAINST THEM because they think people will shame them and point a finger?

When someone is killed, it doesn’t matter if we say killed or murdered. Dead is dead. We don’t only consider it a crime if it was a gun and not a knife. It doesn’t matter if we call it robbery or burglary. We don’t tell someone who had their wallet stolen, “Well, you DID have it in your pocket where it was easy to grab. So you kind of asked for the thief to take it.” We don’t ask victims to defend their experience. Because it was a crime. A crime was committed against them.

This is no different.

People get bogged down in semantics. Was it rape? Sexual assault? Sexual abuse? Molestation? Do the words REALLY matter? Do the details REALLY matter? Does it REALLY matter to know who put what where, and when, and what was I wearing and was I drinking and how old was I and how old were they and were they male or female and how many times did it happen and what’s my favorite color and what color eyes do I have? Does it in any way change the fact that it was a crime, and it happened?

The details matter to me, because they’re my story. My memories. The words of the chapters of my life. But they don’t matter in that they don’t change the underlying truth.

And it’s not “personal”. Because what happened actually had nothing to do with me. It wasn’t my event or my choice, so there’s no reason I should have to hold it as my secret. No reason I should have to carry shame about it.

The point? The point of speaking is to stand in my truth. The point of speaking is to stop keeping a secret that never should’ve been a secret. The point is to release that which I no longer need to hold within. The point is that silence will do nothing for me or anyone else but speaking will. The point is for any of you who read this, sigh, and say, me too. The point is any little bit of courage that this gives another survivor.

And now – I am rooting down. Standing tall. Holding tight. And owning my story.

Vanderbilt rape trial charges

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[Ed note: this post, as you may have gathered, is about the Vanderbilt rape trial. It’s a little graphic. If, for whatever reason, you don’t want to read it – then just don’t read it.]

First, there was this article. The headline: Accused Vanderbilt football player blames gang rape on university’s culture of ‘sexual freedom’. A tough article to read, one that evoked anger and sadness and despair – but necessary to see that this is our reality. This is rape culture. It’s real and it exists. And I have friends, dear loved ones, who have suffered because of it.

Then, a few days later, this article. The headline: Vanderbilt rape trial: Defendants found guilty on all charges. Finally, I thought. A bit of good news. A glimmer of hope for survivors. A step in the right direction, away from rape culture, and towards justice and empowerment. 

I read through various articles highlighting it all, how the rapists’ families cried when they heard the verdict (and I must wonder….did they cry because they truly believed in their innocence? Or did they cry because the guilty verdict erased the last trace of doubt that their sons were not rapists?). And then I found the greatest, most empowering part of this article. If you scroll all the way down to the bottom of the article, it lists all of the counts with which the rapists were charged.

And I am going to post them here, for all to see. Because it’s important that people see them. Both men and women. Especially survivors. Especially individuals who have had one of these awful events done to them. And I’m going to talk about them. And it’s graphic, and maybe upsetting. But it’s necessary.

The charges:

Charges against Cory Batey:

Count 1: Guilty of aggravated rape, anal penetration with fingers

Count 2: Guilty of aggravated rape, vaginal penetration with fingers

Count 3: Guilty of aggravated rape, mouth penetration with penis

Count 4: Guilty of attempted aggravated rape, vaginal penetration with penis

Count 5: Guilty of aggravated rape, criminal responsibility for anal penetration with water bottle by Brandon Banks

Count 6: Guilty of aggravated sexual battery, contact with private areas

Count 7: Guilty of aggravated sexual battery, slapping of buttocks

 Charges for Brandon Vandenburg:

Count 1: Guilty of aggravated rape, criminal responsibility for Batey’s anal penetration with fingers

Count 2: Guilty of aggravated rape, criminal responsibility for Batey’s vaginal penetration with fingers

Count 3: Guilty of aggravated rape, criminal responsibility for Batey’s mouth penetration with penis

Count 4: Guilty of attempted aggravated rape, criminal responsibility for Batey’s vaginal penetration with penis

Count 5: Guilty of aggravated rape, criminal responsibility for anal penetration with water bottle by Banks

Count 6: Guilty of aggravated sexual battery, criminal responsibility for contact with private areas

Count 7: Guilty of aggravated sexual battery, slapping of buttocks

Count 8: Guilty of tampering with evidence by destruction of condoms after rape

Count 9: Guilty of unlawful photography, by sending images to other men

I teared up reading that. Our culture has taught us to believe that IF something is considered rape (which culture usually tries to make us think it isn’t), it’s ONLY rape if it is violent penis-in-vagina penetration. Anything else? It gets dismissed. And consequently, individuals dismiss their experiences. Which I can attest to – I know too many women who dismiss their experience because it doesn’t fit society’s definitions. This changes all of that. Look at those charges. It says it right there: aggravated rape is anal penetration, vaginal penetration, and mouth penetration. With penis, and with fingers, and with objects. Someone forcing you to perform oral sex on them is rape. Someone performing oral sex on you without your consent is rape. Someone penetrating you with fingers is rape. Does anyone else see how powerful that is? It’s right there. These men were found guilty for those charges. This was not “vaginal penetration by penis” rape, but it was still rape. And the world sees that.

The other aspect that seems validating were the counts issued against the second man. Despite the fact that he did not physically perform all of the same acts as the Batey, he was found guilty due to criminal responsibility for Batey’s actions. Which basically means: Vandenburg was there, he knew what was happening, he could’ve stopped what was happening, or at least refused to participate, so despite the fact that he might not have physically penetrated in the same way as Batey, he is still responsible.

I can guarantee you that at least one person reading this blog right now has had a similar experience of some sort. So, to you: maybe you doubt it was rape. Maybe you think, “it wasn’t violent, it wasn’t penis-in-vagina penetration.” It doesn’t have to be. And no longer am I just saying that, but there is an actual case now, actual charges, an actual verdict and actual jurors, saying otherwise. If you were penetrated in any way, without your consent, it was rape. It doesn’t matter if it was penetration with an object, a finger, a mouth, or a penis. It’s rape. And if you’re telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal because there was no penetration, but there was butt-slapping, fondling, touching without consent? Look at the charges. They were convicted for those counts of aggravated sexual battery. It’s not “nothing” and it’s not “no big deal.”

I think this case is significant. I think it’s monumental. I think it could be a step toward a cultural shift. But almost more importantly? I think it’s validating, I think it’s reassuring, I think it allows anyone out there who is a survivor to let out the breath they’ve been holding for years.

I hope that one of you, reading this, has been able to let out that breath.

I believe you.

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The news is making me sick. Bill Cosby, UVA, Ann Coulter. I’m nauseous. It’s hard enough reading about the horrors that individuals endured. It’s even worse reading about the people who shame them, doubt them, blame them.

So I just needed to say:

I believe you.

To those of you who have bravely spoken up and weren’t believed, and those of you who haven’t spoken up for fear of blame and doubt: I believe you.

To those of you who don’t perfectly remember all of the details: I believe you.

To the ones who were drinking: I believe you.

To the ones who wore a dress or a skirt: I believe you.

To the ones who knew your attacker: I believe you.

To the ones who are men: I believe you.

I believe you that it was a man. And I believe you that it was a woman.

I believe those of you for whom it was a family member. And those of you for whom it was a doctor. Or a religious official. Or a famous figure.

I believe those of you who changed your mind partway through.

I believe those of you who were children.

I believe those of you who were adults.

I believe none of you were “asking for it.” and I don’t believe in that expression. I believe that saying someone was “asking for it” is as ridiculous as saying someone was “asking to be murdered”.

I believe that staying silent while it happened doesn’t equal consent.

I believe that every single person has someone who will believe them. And I believe in continuing to be brave and sharing until you find that person. And I believe that person might be a good friend or relative, but it might be a distant coworker or fellow blogger or somewhat of a stranger. But I believe that person is out there.

I believe that nothing you could say would make me believe you less.

I believe you’ve been doing the best you can do with what you have.

I believe it can get better.

I believe you.