This has been weeks in the making. This has been weeks of planning. This has been weeks in the “should we do this” phase. This has been years…

In the wake of the announcement of Brett Kavanaugh as a the next SCOTUS justice and the current “issues” surrounding his confirmation, I’ve been thinking. Inundated by all the social media brouhaha my mind has been sent spinning. For anyone who knows me, really knows me, this is a dangerous thing. I was instantly attracted (for lack of a better word) to Dr. Ford’s story. I become instantly obsessed with the story, the backstory, the facts, the division…the lines that were drawn. And I was, reminded.

I wasn’t driven by party lines. I wasn’t driven by this side or that side. I wasn’t concerned with Kavanaugh himself. I was driven by the story. By the hooplah that came with his confirmation. The arguments for and against “rape culture”. The meaning of what his confirmation portends. The meaning of “rape culture” itself. I read article after article. From op-ed pieces chastising 80s romcoms like Sixteen Candles and Animal House, to articles detailing Kavanaugh’s history as a judge. I devoured it. I learned as much as I could. I formed my own opinions. But there was one thing I couldn’t shake, one thing I couldn’t reconcile, one thing I couldn’t ignore…Dr. Ford.

Her story. And the bloodbath that ensued.

I didn’t know what I could do. I watched as denier after denier came forth. I watched as people tore her down, demanded proof that can’t be given, called her names, called her a liar…and I couldn’t take it anymore. I am one person. I have one voice. I have a small audience. I am not a blogger. I am not known. I don’t care to be. But, I have a story. It isn’t mine. I have worked in the past weeks to make it my own. To convince. To cajole. To make this story known. And now, after weeks of convincing I am going to tell you a story of a girl, now a grown woman, who was sexually assaulted. Raped in fact. A woman who has never told anyone of her story but me, because as a girl of 18 she trusted me and this secret we have kept for almost twenty years. She isn’t pleased with me. She both desperately wants this story told and wants to keep this “dirty little secret” unknown. It is our hope that through this story that at least one person will understand, will realize, why we remain silent.

Leanne: Tell me.
Heroine: I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how. I don’t want to.

We sat across from each other. Friends for years. Decades of history between us. Secrets untold, good and bad. A lifetime. I was reminded of being a child; my dad taught us to rub our sock-clad feet across the carpet to build up static electricity. I remember the feeling. The charge. Sliding along the hallway, building. And I remember the moment, when we met in the living room, charged, arm hair standing on end, reaching out to touch fingertips. Knowing. Anticipating the moment when skin met skin and we shocked each other. Sitting across from H I felt this same charge. This same wariness. This same anticipation. The wanting and the fear. Wrapped into one. Beckoning. Taunting. Haunting. Do we? Should we? Can we?

L: Tell me. Start at the beginning. Tell me.
H: I was so young. So naive. I didn’t understand what love was. What love is. I didn’t understand sex. I didn’t…

H: I was sheltered. Well, I wasn’t, but I was. I had a good family. My mom and dad protected me. They didn’t smother me, but they weren’t the parents that let me drink at home. They had rules. They had morals. I was raised Catholic. I was raised… to believe. I had “rules”. I had…I don’t know. I just grew up knowing right from wrong. I grew up protected. I grew up…safe…

H: I went to college about 5 hours from home. It was a small school. I didn’t really know anyone there. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t have a background. I was scared and I was excited. I had a chance to reinvent myself. I had a chance to be…just be…whatever I wanted. (falls silent for minutes…)

L: Is that a crime? To want to be someone else? To want to be something more than you were in high school? To find who you are?
H: I don’t know. I wrestled with it. Who I was. Who I thought I was. Who I was becoming. I was young. It was confusing. I wanted more than anything to be accepted. I told lies. I misrepresented myself. I broke out. I wanted to be…more…
L: So you lied about who you were in high school?
H: Yes and no. I was a version of myself. A phantom. Secretive. Intriguing. I was interesting, or I tried to be. I wanted to be likable. I wanted to be desired. I wanted to be…cool.
L: So you branched out. You pledged a sorority right?
H: I did. I didn’t know much about them, I wasn’t a legacy or anything, but I wanted something that I could connect to. You know? And I got a bid. It was bizarre. I went from knowing no one to knowing this entire sisterhood. All these people who said they loved me and valued me. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I didn’t want to be a “dud”. Does that make sense? It sounds so stupid now.

L: I do know, I joined the same sorority, for the same reasons. I needed a connection. I was six hours from home, knew no one after volleyball ended and I was alone. I needed people. I get it.

H: So you know, we were connected to a lot of fraternities. We were expected to attend mixers and parties. It wasn’t a bad thing. I enjoyed it. Walking in to a party, being a …, being known. There was a fearlessness to it. A power that came from being a …, even if I was just a pledge. I belonged. I had a right to be there. I was someone.

H: I don’t know where to go from there. I was in college. I was experiencing college and life and drinking. I was wild I guess… certainly wilder than I had been in high school. I worried that my parents would find out. That they would know I was out drinking, staying out until 2, 3, 4 in the morning. Doing things that they would never approve of. I was walking a line. The person I was, the person I was experimenting with and the person I wanted to be.
L: I don’t think that’s unusual. We all did that in college. It was our first time away from home. It was our first time without parental constraints. We all did things we aren’t proud of now, we all did things we hope our parents never know about. It doesn’t make it right, but it was sort of growing pains yea? Like it just came with the territory?
H: Yes? No? I mean, the goal was education. We lost that at times though didn’t we? I mean, we lost who we were. Who were supposed to be… becoming… like we were supposed to become this person that our parents or society or whatever wanted us to be. Maybe that’s the purpose. Maybe not. I don’t know. It was so long ago. I don’t know why it matters now. And yet I can’t let it go, I can’t forget it. The nostalgia creeps in. The longing of me then versus the me now. I hate you for this. I love you. I always will. But I hate you right now. This isn’t a story I want to tell.

L: I sort of hate me too but I can’t let it go.

L: Tell me again, about that night. Tell me about him. This is our chance. Not to crucify him, but to shed light on it. To make people understand. To at least bring understanding. We won’t name him. We won’t name his fraternity. We aren’t doing this for retribution. It’s too late for late for that. But maybe, just maybe, someone will read this and realize, “holy shit”…

We sit in silence for what seems like hours. Nostalgia. Longing. Reconciling. Remembering. Hovering between us. Then she speaks. Tenuous at first. Shaky. But as the story progresses so does her voice and her conviction. It’s haunting. It’s frightening. It’s awe-inspiring. To watch 18 years of shame. 18 years of fear and anger and secrets unfold before me. This isn’t my story….

H: It was a Saturday.
H: It was always a Saturday for this fraternity. We had a schedule…Thursday, Friday, Saturday…even Monday-Wednesday, there was always a party to be had. But it was Saturday. I’ll never forget that.
H: I got there around 9 pm, I had been drinking prior to that. We were in the basement. We always went straight to the basement. I stood off to the side. He came up to me. He was cute. He was a pledge. His name was … he spelled it … which I liked. It was different. He was so cute. He talked to me all night. He paid attention. He was kind. We probably spent three hours in the basement, just talking, laughing, hanging out, and occasionally sneaking a kiss. Neither of us were allowed to “hook up” as pledges. This was forbidden. It was dangerous. What if the sisters saw? What if his brothers saw? We were breaking the rules. We were being defiant. We were testing them. We were fearless.

H: The party was ending, people had left, the basement was emptying. Brothers were heading to their rooms, some alone, some with girls they’d picked up. My sisters were gone, I was alone. I had stayed too long at the party and I was in an awkward place. He lived in the dorms. Not my dorm, but across campus. We agreed to walk back to campus together. There was a shortcut through the woods and he didn’t want me to walk alone. He was a gentlemen. I was drunk. I was thankful for him. I was glad I wasn’t alone.

H: We got to my dorm, I remember standing outside smoking a cigarette. We were just talking. I didn’t want the night to end. This was my first romantic connection in college. This was my first college boy. I was giddy. I wanted the “date” to continue. I felt alive. I felt desired. I felt wicked.
H: I invited him up to my room. I knew my roommate wasn’t home. She went home every weekend because she had a boyfriend in her hometown. I knew I had the room to myself. I knew we’d be alone. I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted him.

H: I wanted him. I was so drunk. I was so convinced. I wanted him. He was so cute. He was so kind.

H: I wanted him.

H: He kissed me. Again and again, we kissed, in the dark, in my dorm room, alone. His hands were on me. Slow at first, then frantic. Pulling at my clothes. Grabbing. Almost manic. I wanted him and then I didn’t. I was frightened of him. I was frightened of his need. His desire. This wasn’t like a movie. This wasn’t a fairytale. I wasn’t a princess and he wasn’t here to rescue me. I was drunk and unstable on my feet. His breath was hot and tasted of stale beer and tobacco. I felt sick. I felt unsure. I felt dirty. I didn’t understand this, I wasn’t a virgin. I had had sex twice in high school. Once with a boyfriend I thought I loved and once with one I did. I didn’t recognize what it was or what it meant until that moment. But I realized, in that moment, I didn’t want this. I didn’t love him. I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to have sex with him. I didn’t want this. But here I was, I had brought him back to my dorm room. I had invited him up. I had asked for this. And now, I was saying no. I was a tease. I was “that girl” the one no one wanted to be, the girl they all talked about and despised. I didn’t want to be her. I didn’t want to be here. I was in agony but I felt obligated. After all, I invited him…yet I heard myself say NO.

H: I said NO. I said NO over and over again. I was crying. I was pleading with him. NO, PLEASE. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.

H: He put his hand over my mouth, he said “shhhh, it will be over in a minute”, (NO NO NO NO…PLEASE) “shhhhh”…”you’ll like it, I promise” (NO NO NO PLEASE NO)…”you asked me here”…(NO, PLEASE NOT LIKE THIS NO) “you wanted this”… (whimper…)…

H: It was over so quickly. So quickly. It’s an eternity and yet it was moments. A breath. A moment. In hindsight…nothing….
H: I was sobbing. He climbed off of me and off the top bunk, grabbed his clothes and in his boxers, he ran from my room, clothes in the crook of his arm, boxer-clad, naked, he ran. Just like that…he was gone…and I was there, skirt askew, innocence lost, humiliation suffocating me and I didn’t know what to do. What did I do wrong? Why did this happen? Was this my fault? Why did he run? Why did he abandon me? Why am I alone? What the f…is wrong with me? What DID I DO????

L: And you didn’t report it? You didn’t go immediately to the police? Why?

H: I don’t know. I was so confused. I was so ashamed. I was so…afraid. I went downstairs to the second floor. I had friends there. They smoked in their room and I needed a cigarette. I just needed a friend. So I went to the second floor. I went to Andy. I trusted him. I was scared. I was confused. I didn’t understand what had just happened. I needed to talk to someone.

L: And you found Andy?
H: I did.
L: What did you tell him?
H: He asked why I was crying. I told him I had just had sex with guy I didn’t want to have sex with.
L: What did he say?
H: He laughed.
L: I’m sorry, he laughed?
H: Yea, he laughed, he said “welcome to college, we all do things we aren’t proud of.”
L: Holy shit, I don’t know what to say to that…did you argue with him? Did you explain the situation to him? What the absolute f…
H: No. He was right. I asked for it. It was my fault. I put myself in that situation and I got what I deserved. I felt like I owed him. Like he was warranted sex because I had led him to believe that I wanted to sleep with him.

L: Ok. Let’s look beyond then to now. You never reported this right?
H: No, I never said anything. I was so afraid and so humiliated.
L: Afraid? Of what? Humiliated? Why?
H: I couldn’t imagine my parents finding out. How do I explain to them that I was drunk and invited a guy up to my room. How do I justify that? How do I explain to my dad that I wanted to have sex with a stranger? That I led him to this and then had second thoughts? How do you explain that? How do you say, I was drunk, I was horny, and then I changed my mind? How do you spin that without sounding like a whore? How do you relay that to your parents without destroying everything they tried to instill you from a young age? How do you admit that without admitting that you failed them? And then go beyond the parents. What if no one believes you? What if you call the police and they arrest you for underage drinking? What if the girls in the sorority hate you because you ruined the relationship with the fraternity. What if you become “that girl”? What if you become the girl no one ever wants to date or hang out with. What if you become a social pariah? What if…what if…what if…. I was 18. I was a child. I was so… I mean…how do you tell that story without being culpable?

How do you tell this story without being culpable?

This is the culture we live in. This is the culture I grew up in. This is my friend. She isn’t a liar. She isn’t delusional. The story she told me 18 years ago hasn’t changed from the story she told me two weeks ago. The wound hasn’t healed. We ask ourselves, how could Dr. Ford possibly remember these details… well, this is how…

H: I don’t remember the room number of my dorm. But I remember his name.
H: I don’t remember most of the classes I took in college. But I remember his face.
H: I have outfits in my closet I don’t remember buying. But I remember what I had on that night.
H: I remember where I was on 9/11. I can tell you the details of that day. Where I was, who I was with, what I thought. And I can remember the details of that April night. In my 41 years there are two events I can recall in vivid detail. One was the terrorist attack on 9/11 and one was that night with … in my dorm room.

There is shame in this story. There is humiliation.  A belief of wrongdoing. An anger. But it’s not what you think. The shame. The humiliation. The regret. It is found within a girl, now a woman, terrified of how the world would/will judge her if she speaks up. This event took place in the spring of 1996. The hurt, the pain, the emotion I see in her eyes, it isn’t faked. It isn’t contrived. It is real. I believe her. Without proof or evidence, I believe her.

We looked up the offender on facebook, thinking he’d be a non-entity, darkly hoping he was dead, or in jail, but it took no effort to find him. He’s friends with our friends. He has a career. He writes music about love. He sings about women he secretly covets and the lengths he would go to to so they would love him. He lives a normal existence. He isn’t outwardly tarnished or tormented by this past. He bares no scars. He exudes no remorse or regret. He shows no fear or humiliation. He is without blame. He is without name. He is without shame. He is without…

Women don’t report sexual assaults. They don’t report being raped. They don’t say anything because we live in a society that rapes them a second time when they do speak up. There is no proof I can provide to this story. There are no witnesses. There is no evidence. It is simply my word against yours…or his…And does he even know? Is this even on his radar? Is there something in the back of his mind that haunts him daily? Does he wake up and think “rapist”? Or does he just go on? As we just go on? Do we, does he, brush it off as capricious youth and boys being boys? Do we, does he, justify this behavior as college drunkenness and simply something unfortunate that happens?

This story isn’t an anomaly. This woman isn’t one in a million.

She’s your daughter.

She’s your sister.

She’s your wife.

She’s your best friend.

And she is scared and she is ashamed.

Do you believe her or do you blame her?

We all have free will. We all have a choice. We all have a line we can draw. We all can choose what we choose to believe. Who we believe. We all have the choice to abandon morality and humanity. We and only WE can determine what we do next. Where do you stand?