But, Abuelita, I’m afraid to speak with you because I’m afraid you may say, “Me, too.”
It’s difficult for me to realize that so many that I love have been assaulted. They were scared and embarrassed to tell their story, afraid that their friends would be disappointed. I, too, felt that way. I was raised with high morals like you, with a life enlaced in strong religious duties that always led me to believe that the woman was to be pure till marriage.
I did not have that choice, Abuelita.
It’s easy for me to channel this anger into writing, but to explain it is to feel it in a constant cycle: to feel those weeks of denial and of refusal to accept that it was not my fault, and that I am still whole. This is why I can never share this letter with you.
Along the journey, I felt like one of many numbers of Latinas who have been sexually assaulted—and, just like my sisters’ families, my family knew nothing of what happened to me. I wore the veil of a victim for weeks before I could remove it and accept that I was a survivor. But I now know that I’m not alone in my silence, nor am I alone in my determination to break it.
I want you to know that nothing you did brought violence on me, but that I consider you my guide. It was you who worked tirelessly for our family to come to this country, and it’s you who has given me the world.
Yo soy una mujer, Abuelita.
And it’s thanks to you that I am the woman I am today.
I am smiling today, because I am surviving, and I am healing everyday.
I am a survivor, Abuelita.
I don’t know if you will ever read this letter, and I am sorry that I am not ready to put these words down in español.
But I want you to know that I am strong, I am fighting, and I hope that you are proud of me.
Te amo, Abuelita.
Tu primer nieta,
Andrea
I Startle Easily
ANONYMOUS A
There is a mark I can’t shake, which prevents me from forgetting this experience entirely: my jumpiness. I am unable to suppress the dramatic bodily tensing whenever someone approaches me outside of my peripheral vision or walks up behind me and touches me to gain my attention. Each time, with embarrassment, I deflect—“Sorry, I startle easily”—and pray that they don’t press me to explain why.
It was an unusually warm night for the end of January, the spring semester of my first year of college. Some women who lived on the floor above me in the dorm invited me to go to a party with them at a fraternity house. I was pretty studious and didn’t go out much back then. I remember feeling anxious because I didn’t even really own any good “going-out clothes,” and was also worried about going to a party at a fraternity house.
I’m a black woman, who grew up in the South, and was, thus, wary of hanging out with large groups of drunk white men. My friends assured me that this party wouldn’t be too raucous, and that since this was the “Jewish frat,” there would be lots of other people of color there. My friends were drinking and offered me a tequila shot; I declined, as I didn’t drink, but I agreed to go with them.
The first few hours were fine—fun, even. The music was good, and I had fun dancing on the dimly lit living-room-turned-dance-floor. Beer, spiked punch, and liquor were flowing, but I stuck to water and just enjoyed the hip-hop and pop hits booming on the speakers.
* * *
I’m a black woman, who grew up in the South, and was, thus, wary of hanging out with large groups of drunk white men.
* * *
Around one a.m., I was standing near the edge of the party, trying to find my friends, when I felt arms reach around my torso from behind. I was quickly and firmly dragged to a dark corner, boxed in, and groped. I squirmed and pushed, trying to get away, but was not strong enough to overcome my attacker’s arms. My resistance only caused him to pin me against the wall harder. I remember feeling his hot, alcohol-infused breath on the back of my neck as Ludacris’s “What’s Your Fantasy” blared in the background. In a panic, I completely froze as this stranger touched and grabbed me in private places, slapped me, bit me. In the longest three minutes of my life, I was molested.
Eventually the song ended. He let go, and as he walked away I turned around and recognized him as a guy who was in my drama class—someone I’d never spoken to; I didn’t even know his name.
I wandered around in a bit of a daze, holding back tears, trying to find a friend so that I could leave. I found the women I had come to the party with; they were hammered, and didn’t understand when I yelled above the music that I needed to go home. Alone, I exited the house and walked into the cool night, waiting for the campus’s night shuttle to take me home.
The rest of that semester was a blur. I tired frequently, had trouble concentrating. I felt like I was walking under a dark cloud all the time, and I gained a lot of weight. I remember trying to describe to a few close girlfriends what had happened at the party. It didn’t go well. Perhaps they didn’t understand or couldn’t relate. Perhaps they felt that these experiences were a normal part of college life. Perhaps I didn’t know or have command over the right words to fully articulate what had happened to me: “I was sexually assaulted. I was molested. I felt violated. I am afraid.” As a result, I didn’t disclose to anyone else. I tried to forget about what happened, tried to suppress the experience, and strove to make it through the rest of the semester and move on with my life. One memory, though, is clear: as I packed up my dorm room to move out for the summer, I remember praying, “God, thank you for helping me make it through this semester. Please help me find a purpose. Help me make meaning out of this.”
The summer right after that experience, I found myself working with teenagers in a rural town. Many were going through puberty and didn’t know how to deal with this life transition, and many of the girls were experiencing sexual harassment from their male peers. I started thinking about how having knowledge of your body relates to the development of self-confidence and self-esteem. Over the next year, I worked to develop a program to teach youth sex education, and I continued working with this program until I graduated from undergrad. This program was definitely beneficial for the students, but it was also the first step of my own healing and activism. It was a way for me to intellectually process my experience: “Maybe if I’d had more self-confidence, and had the knowledge and language to talk about my experience, people would have believed me,” I thought. “I want these girls to be knowledgeable and feel ownership over their bodies, so that something similar never happens to them.”
* * *
I remember praying, “God, thank you for helping me make it through this semester.… Help me make meaning out of this.”
* * *
Gradually, the healing continued. Toward the end of my undergraduate career, as I took more women’s studies classes and learned more about the reproductive justice movement, I found myself in spaces where I was able to meet other women who’d had experiences that were similar to—and oftentimes much worse than—mine. Hearing these women’s stories validated my own experience, and during the summer before my senior year, I finally disclosed my story to someone who, I felt, actually heard me and actually understood.
Despite the healing that took place over time, carrying this secret also left marks on me that would display themselves at various times throughout undergrad. When I look back on my grades from the semester I was assaulted, the mix of As and Bs looks fine on the surface. But that semester I earned the lowest GPA of any semester during my college career.
I had always been attracted to black men, but suddenly I found myself fearful of them. I crossed the street or avoided eye contact when passing a black man who was unfamiliar to me, all the while, my head yelling, “Your avoidance perpetuates the racist idea that black men are predators! Walk down the street like a normal human, because he’s probably a normal, nice guy!”
Wearing makeup, doing my hair, and dressing somewhat fashionably no longer interested me, as I didn’t want to draw attention to m
yself. Once, a friend suggested that I try on some wedge heels while we were shoe shopping. My immediate reaction was “No! I can’t run from an attacker in those!” She looked at me like I had four heads.
In the few instances when a guy was able to see through the wall I tried to build to keep myself invisible and asked me out on a date, I had small panic attacks—body shaking, breathing heavily—as I worked up the nerve to go. When a friendship with a guy began to look like it was transitioning into a relationship, I found a way to end it. The worst part of it all is that since I never reported my experience, I continued to see my attacker around campus. By the time I recognized that I should report my experience, other thoughts got in the way: “The black community already has issues with police, don’t stir up trouble.” “Police won’t believe me. They’ll think I somehow brought it on myself as a black woman.” “Don’t start trouble within the black community on campus—people might take sides.” “Remaining silent is better.” Because my attacker was drunk that night, I don’t think he ever recognized who I was. But I never forgot—and will never forget—his face. And every time I saw him, despite trying to hold it together, I eventually panicked and had to leave wherever I was within five minutes of seeing him.
* * *
“Police won’t believe me. They’ll think I somehow brought it on myself as a black woman.”
* * *
My assault took place seven years ago, and I’m thankful for how far I’ve come in that time. It took me five years, but eventually I got over my fear of black men and began to feel comfortable dating again. I’ve dedicated my career to public health, working on issues related to reproductive health, HIV, and interpersonal violence. I’ve been able to informally offer support to other women who have disclosed similar experiences to me. I feel that by the grace of God, I’ve been able to find purpose in this nightmare. But there is a mark I can’t shake, which prevents me from forgetting this experience entirely: my jumpiness. Despite my furious will, I am unable to suppress the dramatic bodily tensing and the yelp that escapes my mouth whenever someone approaches me outside of my peripheral vision or walks up behind me and touches me to gain my attention. Each time, the person looks at me extremely confused, wondering where this reaction is coming from. Each time, with embarrassment, I deflect: “Sorry, I startle easily—how can I help you?” and pray that they don’t press me to explain why.
Star Wars
JOHANNA EVANS
Classes had started that week, the fall of 2006. I was a freshman at Dartmouth, on my own for the first time and struggling to make friends. Not knowing where else to meet people, I followed my floor mates to a fraternity party, but after fifteen minutes of the awkward, vapid frat scene I decided I’d rather be alone.
Some guy offered to walk me home. I said, “No, I think I’m just going to watch Star Wars and go to bed.”
“I’m going in that direction anyway,” he said. “And I’ve never seen Star Wars.”
At the time it didn’t occur to me I was in danger.
I let him walk with me. He followed me back to my dorm room, where I stood in my doorway and said, “It was nice to meet you.” He pointed out my movie posters and pushed his way in. I started getting ready to go to sleep; went to the girls’ bathroom down the hall, put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth. I came back and said, “Okay, I’m gonna watch the movie and sleep.”
He said, “Well, can I watch it with you?” He was Muslim. This was 2006, and I was very passionately against the Iraq war. I didn’t want him to think I was afraid or distrusted him just because he was Muslim, so I let him stay. Then he started kissing me, and I pushed him away and said, “Hey, we’re gonna watch this movie.” He started kissing me again, started undressing me …
There are parts of it I cannot remember, because something in me doesn’t want to. But I remember having him on top of me, and feeling his slimy needle dick inside me, and telling him over and over, “No, this isn’t a good idea.” He didn’t listen to me, and I froze in terror and confusion, utterly unprepared for the situation.
Being a survivor is like playing three-card monte for the rest of your life. You think you’ve figured out how to recover, but you’ve been following the wrong card. Another piece of the experience resurfaces and unravels your sense of self. There was a time that the worst part was that I was raped watching Star Wars, that he took that away from me too.
Don’t laugh. Star Wars represented my belief that good will triumph over evil. It reminded me of childhood, of family. But I now have my own son, who is helping me reclaim Star Wars and rediscover the strength, courage, and hope I had before.
Blackout
ABBI GATEWOOD
How can I forgive myself? I’ve been led to believe that my poor judgment, my decision to drink like every other college student does, led to the assault. Maybe it did. Maybe my inebriation was an invitation for him to enter me as if I were an ATM.
All you have to do is put in your card to get the goods. All he had to do was put the drinks in to get the goods.
Is a woman’s body the equivalent of a car wash? You can put in some money and go in and out whenever you want?
He didn’t have the guts to rape me when I was awake. He made it easy for himself.
The saddest part is not that he raped me but that he found it okay to rape me.
Gang Rape at Oregon State
BRENDA TRACY
In October 1997, I met this guy and had an immediate connection. He was a football player. Anthony. Went to Oregon State.
Anthony graduated. Then in June 1998, when I was twenty-four, I accompanied my friend Karmen to her boyfriend’s apartment.
We get there and it’s the two guys who live there, then two guys from California who were visiting, then a fifth guy who was friends with Anthony—a really nice guy. I remember I had always thought if I wasn’t dating Anthony I would have wanted to date him.
They’re smoking weed; Karmen and I were not. They were playing video games. Then they wanted to drink, so they sent me and Karmen out for orange juice. When we got back, they suggested to me that I drink and at first I said no, but then I took an orange juice and Tanqueray. I first sipped it, and then gave it back because it was too strong. I started to feel dizzy and warm. I was sitting on a sofa. I remember seeing one of them look at me and he grabbed Karmen’s hand and led her to the bedroom. The room was spinning. Then I passed out.
When I awoke I was naked, flat on the living room floor, feeling really heavy. I couldn’t move my arms or my legs. There were four men, all wearing white tank tops. I turned my head to the right, and there was a man trying to force his penis into my mouth. So I turned my head to the left, and there was another guy trying to force his penis into my mouth.
A guy was raping me. And a fourth guy was stroking me, and himself, and laughing. They all high-fived each other.
I passed out again. I woke up as they were pouring alcohol down my throat and I was choking.
Another time I woke up and they had propped me up on my hands and knees, and they raped me from behind. One of them was in front of me and I was trying to stay conscious and to say, “You’re Anthony’s friend. Please make them stop.” He had a hard time getting erect and the guys made fun of him.
I was in and out of consciousness. They were tossing me around the apartment like a rag doll. I said I was gonna throw up. One of them picked me up and carried me into the bathroom, and raped me from behind while I was laid over the sink and vomiting.
They used a small flashlight on me. They used an alcohol bottle on me. Toward the end they used ice on me because I was so swollen and dry they couldn’t get inside me anymore. So at that point they gave up. That was six or seven hours later.
A Letter to My Daughter
ANONYMOUS K
Me, I worked from home for seven years. I worked fourteen hours a day, and I guess when you work sometimes in your pajamas you lose time.
I lost time after what happened.
I ori
ginally wanted to write a letter to my daughter about all this, but then I just couldn’t. I get lost in my head, and I’m not a good writer anyway. Besides, I never shared this with anyone. You’re the fourth person to ever know.
I was raped my freshman year. It was 1985, so thirty years ago; actually, it was very much around this time of year. Fall. I went to a toga party with my roommates. I had a pink toga on. I was talking to this guy, and he was tall, and I was just really intimidated by the whole college thing, but I was also excited about it.
This guy, he took me into the back room … and for the longest time, what felt so long, I was in shock.
I was in shock.
I wasn’t fighting back.
He was so strong.
I didn’t even have a voice.
I am in shock.
I remember walking back to my dorm.
Being so numb.
Walking through campus alone.
It was just supposed to be a toga party.
After, I had a hard time at school. I really had a hard time at school. There was no one to reach out to. This is 1985. And where it happened—it was a very popular frat. I would never go there again, but I did go out again sometimes.
I ended up dropping out. It was the second semester of freshman year when I left. My parents didn’t know. They still don’t know. They just know that I went into a really deep depression. I just didn’t know how to cope anymore.
So, after that I started going to a local business college. I was so lost. I didn’t know what to do. I was going through motions. I finally told my best friend, who was in nursing school. It was such a different time, back then. I hate to keep saying that, but it seemed like a different time. I was alone and there was no support system. When I told my friend what happened, she just said, “So sorry that happened.… So, what are you doing this weekend?” and made it seem like not a big deal. But it was a big deal.
We Believe You: Survivors of Campus Sexual Assault Speak Out Page 6