We Believe You: Survivors of Campus Sexual Assault Speak Out

by Annie E. Clark

  Every conversation where a survivor does not feel empowered to speak adds to their trauma. Every time we treat assault as something incredibly violent that happens to a few unfortunate girls, we retraumatize and silence survivors who never thought their assault was important enough, or worse—who thought their assault was boring.

  For all the survivors who are quietly reading this book, pretending it isn’t about you, and searching for a community to belong to, there is always an open seat next to me.

  I Believe Myself

  ON CREATIVITY AND HEALING

  A. LEA ROTH AND NASTASSJA SCHMIEDT

  When we experience violence, we become reduced to our bodies; it is as though our voices are erased by a perpetrator who chooses to impose their will over our own. Also, through social erasure, victim-blaming, and stigma, trauma becomes unspeakable.

  In the process of healing, it is essential to reclaim our voices, narratives, and self-worth. Since many survivors struggle to access a support system—or even an empathetic ear—creativity is one of the most powerful tools of healing accessible to all survivors.

  Creativity is a universal process through which we tell ourselves, “My voice and my story matter. I believe myself,” and it is a process through which we can invite others to support us in our healing journey. Self-love through creativity can heal the most destructive impacts of violence; self-love is an act of resistance and resilience, countering the isolation, shame, and loss of trust that endure long after an initial trauma.

  Ariane Litalien

  Ariane Litalien

  My Own Lingerie

  ABBI GATEWOOD

  And this is random and slightly odd—I’ve started sewing. I started making my own lingerie. It gives me something to do. I give it to friends. I don’t sketch, I just make what comes to mind. They tell me what they want and I picture it and I make it. They give me a color and then I take their measurements and pick out the lace and then I make it.

  I’ve made lingerie for myself. Most of what I make is bras. I feel comfortable because I’m wearing it for myself. Some are intricate and some are regular. I also make bodysuits. The more intricate it is, the more I like it. I don’t wear them for anyone; it just makes me feel good.

  I was wearing a push-up bra the night I was raped. I have not worn one since and don’t know if I will ever again. A push-up bra is very confining. You are stuck and tucked. The bras I make are very light and very freeing. You’re not confined and stuck. The bra is just an accentuation of you. You’re not forced into any kind of configuration.

  I’ve learned to not care about what my boobs look like.

  If you don’t like my face and need to look at my boobs, then I probably won’t like you.

  “Lux Libertas”

  ANDREA PINO

  To all survivors, it’s okay to not be okay.

  I went to the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina for the first time less than a week after dropping out of UNC, hoping that my spirit would feel at peace and return me to myself. My relationship with writing had gone missing for two years (ever since I filed a Title IX complaint against UNC), and writing’s absence had been inhibiting many facets of my life. Had I scared off writing with the themes I’d penned, expending my creativity solely on narratives often too painful to read aloud? It’s hard to explain just how important writing is to me; I sometimes feel that it will be my own words that lead me to the most danger. My past feels entitled, almost unrelenting in its desire to be written; preserved to remind me that where I am now does not erase where I have been, what I have done, and what has been done to me.

  When I feel most vulnerable I remember what my abuelo always told me—“Nunca, nunca, nunca pares de luchar”—the motto that helped me grow up.

  When I feel most alone, I think of “Lux libertas.”

  The University of North Carolina’s motto is “Light and liberty,” and since my first semester at Carolina, I’ve worn the seal of my university on a necklace. Even today, it reminds me that what prompted my current journey was my love for UNC and my self-imposed duty to seek justice.

  My life changed forever when I started at Carolina, and there are days when I think about how my life might have been different if I had gone to Yale, the way I wanted to when I was twelve.

  How would my life have been if I hadn’t gone to college, if I had stayed home like so many of my high school classmates? Until 2015, I never stopped thinking of what I could have done to have prevented what happened. To prevent my pain, my scars, my fear.

  For a long time, I felt that I was wearing a mask, hiding my pain from my family and my friends. I felt that I had to be the strong one, that I had to appear emotionless and resilient at all hours of the day. For too long, I couldn’t forgive myself for leaving Carolina without a degree. That was my lowest point.

  But it was at my lowest point that I uncovered parts of me I never knew existed. It was then that I felt closest to my family; to my little sister, Angie, my first best friend; and closest to the culture that has always been a part of me. It was then that I met my closest friends (many of them in this book), the people who have given me the love I never knew I needed, and they ignited the strength within me to heal. My Lux. It was at my lowest point that I raised my service dog from a shelter puppy to the superhero she is today, and to my guide during my darkest of days. It was then that I realized that what severed my writing from my heart was that I had forgotten to love myself.

  I learned that I was worthy of love, and worthy of self-love. I realized that self-love is activism. My libertas.

  Self-love is sitting under the tallest redwoods in the world, beholding the beauties of the Rocky Mountains (shout-out to Beartooth Pass), running to catch the sun along the peaks of the Badlands, and sleeping surrounded by the cascading waves of Santa Monica beach. Self-love is knowing that I will always have those who loved me during my most difficult times, when I felt farthest away from myself. Self-love is letting myself feel pain and sadness and fear when it is most terrifying to do so; it’s the validation to feel both happy and unhappy.

  * * *

  I learned that I was worthy of love, and worthy of self-love. I realized that self-love is activism.

  * * *

  Self-love is radical because our world tells us that sexual assault taints us, that PTSD breaks us, and that we can never be who we were before.

  As much as I loved the woman I was, I love every part of the woman I am today.

  There are days when she’s sad, and days when she’s happy.

  But every day, she feels loved.

  My assault was not my fault, and the mistakes I made along my journey have challenged and shaped me. To those whom I have hurt while trying to find myself, I know that pain may still linger, but I have learned. I’m still learning.

  But today, I declare my independence from the guilt that has haunted me.

  Today, I am happily unhappy, and I am okay with not being okay.

  Women’s Studies Built Me

  STEPHANIE CANALES

  I was born in El Salvador. My parents had a coffee plantation. When I was eight, my parents got divorced and my mom got custody. I was seventeen when we moved to the United States. It was really exciting. Growing up I didn’t date much, or go out much, because I always felt responsible for trying to help my mom and watch my younger sisters. My mom was a dentist in El Salvador, and a dentist over here. I loved music and school, but I needed to be a good example for my sisters. I took on a lot of responsibility that was not mine.

  In El Salvador, I had been assaulted, starting when I was twelve, by a couple of workers in my mom’s office. They each molested me, for a little over a year. After that it was hard for me to trust. So when we got to the United States, I felt like I could live for the first time, away from what had happened to me. I was not aware of the challenges of learning English, or trying to go to college, or trying to get a job over here. I was enamored with the idea of being free and starting over.

 
; We moved to Clovis, California, a small community, very quiet, peaceful. It reminded me of my grandpa’s town. Very safe. We could leave our bicycles outside the house.

  I had graduated from high school in El Salvador, so I started college in the United States when I was eighteen. I got my associate degree in psychology from Fresno City College when I was twenty.

  Around then, I met my first boyfriend; his family and my family were friends. I had never dated before, and I was coming from this painful experience. I didn’t feel like I deserved someone to treat me well; I chose an abusive person.

  Then I started my bachelor’s degree in psychology at California State University, Fresno. I wasn’t able to finish. My last class there was women’s studies. That class was the pivot point in my life. I was able to find the answers I had been looking for by studying violence against women and the sexual subjugation of women. I had been sexually assaulted, and so had my sister. And when I told my mom, she told me that she had been sexually assaulted, and her sister, as well.

  * * *

  My professor said it was important to evolve from “victim to healer, and healer to advocate.”

  * * *

  My professor said it was important to evolve from “victim to healer, and healer to advocate.” That for me was huge. After class I went to my car, an ugly half-white, half-black 1994 Toyota Corolla that I had paid $500 for, and I sat in that car and I cried. I was twenty-two.

  My professor’s name was Elizabeth Swearingen. She looked so strong and powerful. I wanted to be like her. She was not afraid of defending women. She was not afraid of voicing what was wrong about how women are treated in our society, and how the media treats women. She made powerful speeches. I felt inspired by her passion. I thought, “I want to have that, too.” She had long blond hair that was purple in the front. She always dressed so fashionably. She was somebody who expressed herself through her dress, through her work, through her life.

  After every class in which she talked about violence and sexual violence, I used to cry: “Oh my God, this is exactly where I am.” My boyfriend criticized my hair, the way I dressed; he gave me constant criticism. He would make me go change my clothes. I would get a punch in the arm for something he didn’t like. He would call me names, say I wasn’t going to do anything with my life, tell me I was boring.

  I would be sleeping and he would start sex, and if I didn’t want to, he would keep going. Or he’d come home drunk and be aggressive and I felt like I didn’t have a choice. I was petrified. I would go blank. I was living like a victim.

  School was a sanctuary. I confided in my friends.

  After that women’s studies class, I started therapy.

  A couple of years into therapy, I was looking for an internship, so I went to the rape crisis center. They have a forty-hour program that trains students to become interns, and I became an intern, and then I moved from intern to employee.

  I wanted to be an advocate: from victim to healer, healer to advocate. At the rape crisis center, I realized that an advocate is the first person a survivor can trust—before the police or their friends or even family. That was very important to me, to be that person someone could trust, because for years I couldn’t trust anybody.

  I started doing workshops at Fresno State on sexual assault. It was the right timing because, nationally, the White House was getting involved in the issue. Within six months, I was able to help at least five hundred people. We had conversations. People were moved. At the end of those six months, I put together two or three forty-hour trainings, and at least sixty more people became advocates. That was amazing. The rape crisis center started offering internships and scholarships for the women’s studies department.

  When I finally broke off with my boyfriend, it was not easy. It took seven tries to leave him. I had dated him from the time I was twenty until I was twenty-three, and I was in a cycle of violence. I was going to therapy the entire time and trying to graduate. I told him I needed to go to school; the way I framed it was that I wanted to continue with my schooling and was not ready to settle down. I also finally said the relationship was abusive. Now that time has passed and I see him, we both agree it was abusive. I wonder about men’s mental health. He tells me he wants to be different and doesn’t know how. I tell him to go to therapy.

  * * *

  We both agree it was abusive. I wonder about men’s mental health. He tells me he wants to be different and doesn’t know how.

  * * *

  I’ve been single since that relationship. I’m dating now but I’m not in a relationship.

  Ending that abusive relationship was the beginning of the healing process for me. After that, I became president of People Organized for Women Empowerment and Representation. I started working with Planned Parenthood, because we started giving students information about reproduction and women’s health. I had utilized services from Planned Parenthood when I was dating my first boyfriend. Also, when I was working with survivors of rape I would refer them to Planned Parenthood when the survivors didn’t want their families to know they had been raped, and of course Planned Parenthood offers confidentiality.

  I ended up with two degrees—psychology and women’s studies. And my life is so different. The people who surround me are better. My friends are better; my job is better.

  I now work at the Leadership Counsel for Justice and Accountability. We advocate for disadvantaged rural communities in the Central Valley of California. People are losing their jobs, drinking bad water, living in crowded conditions.

  Rape in the fields is horrible for women. To work in the fields, they often have to do a sexual favor. Women who work in the fields call it “the green motel.” They know what they’re gonna go through: sexual favors to work there, and being raped in the fields.

  The Central Valley of California produces food for much of the country, like corn, almonds, peaches, oranges, and strawberries. And yet people have no idea what these women go through.

  I want to go back and get a master’s degree in either global affairs or women’s studies and then become a family therapist. My goal is to have my own practice or my own nonprofit that helps women, especially those who have been assaulted.

  I tell everybody I meet that if they can, they need to take at least one women’s studies class: it will help you feel empowered.

  Women’s studies and therapy built me.

  Everybody heals differently. Therapy is not the way everybody heals. Some people heal through art, some people heal through advocacy, some by empowering others. For me, being an advocate meant I was healing. If I could be an advocate, it meant I was strong again and I could help others. “Victim to healer, and healer to advocate.” From the moment my professor said that, it became part of my evolution. I wasn’t a victim anymore.

  * * *

  Everybody heals differently. Therapy is not the way everybody heals.

  * * *

  The Teal Forks Timeline

  FABIANA DIAZ

  Fabiana Diaz with teal forks representing nearly six thousand survivors on the University of Michigan campus at the time.

  3:53 a.m.

  It was hard enough trying to fall asleep. Now, I seem to be waking up every hour, tossing and turning, my brain on fire. I know it isn’t illegal, and we did mention it to Vice President Royster Harper, and she even gave us the money we used to fork the Diag, the most central location on our campus, where at least ten thousand students walk every day. So there’s no way we can get in trouble for this, right?

  4:57 a.m.

  I might as well get up; my alarm is going to go off in three minutes, anyway. It’s still pitch-black outside. Perfect. Forking the Diag. How are we going to do it—only seven of us, with our buckets of teal forks? One thousand two hundred forks in all, each fork representing approximately five sexual assault survivors on campus. Anna did the math—that was Anna’s job. Anna, my co-coordinator for this project and my partner in crime.

  5:05 a.m.

 
; I shower, thinking about the number—5,806 survivors. The fact that we have almost six thousand survivors on this campus is a scary thought, but not shocking. It makes sense. One in four women is a survivor of sexual assault by the time she graduates. I never thought that I would become a statistic.

  5:37 a.m.

  Dressed in black, rain boots on, and it’s only drizzling outside. As I rush out of my room, scarfing down a banana, I realize I forgot the signposts. The key to this project! If people saw more than a thousand teal forks without any explanation, I would just be getting weird looks.

  6:00 a.m.

  Everyone is on time. We gather around, hand out buckets, and I yell, “Let’s go!” As my knees drop to the cold, wet ground, I begin to fork. The first one is for me. The next one is for my sister. The one after that is for my mom. Next, for my best friend. And then one for my coworker. For my resident. For my roommate. I have someone in particular on my mind each time I drive a fork into the ground. The pain comes in a wave, but the empowerment I feel pushes the pain right out. Holding back tears, I look around. Rain starts to pour down, but everyone keeps on forking. As more and more students arrive to help, I feel I’m swimming in a pool of survivors, and for once I do not feel alone.

  7:53 a.m.

  Students starting their normal routine—coffee in one hand, phones attached to the other—begin to look up and assess their surroundings. A couple wander over to read the signposts (good thing I went back for them). Then I see this young student who looks a bit lost or maybe sleepy. We make eye contact and she walks toward me. As I slowly get up, she kneels down, grabs a fork, whispering, “For me,” and bursts into tears. I embrace and hold her as we sit on the grass, sobbing. Two strangers, united through painful memories and emerging, stronger, from the pain.