Thursdaynight, I participated in the "Take Back the Night" march for Sexual Assault Awareness Week. After the rally and the march around campus, I stood in a circle on the Green with the other marchers. I listened to stories of pain and courage from women and men about their experiences with sexual assault, violence and rape.
My frigid fingers molded themselves around a candle, hoping it would share its warmth. I allowed the burning wax to shimmy down the candle and congeal on my hands. The stories I was hearing were burning in me so intensely that I didn't take notice of my diminishing candle until the flame met my flesh.
My thesis was beckoning me from Kiewit, but my feet were grounded in that circle on the Green. I knew that I too couldn't leave until I shared a story. I couldn't let it go for a second time.
I told a story about my junior fall when I was on a leave term in Boston working at a shelter for poor and homeless women. I was dating a '94, and I came up to campus for a day to see him. We had gone hiking earlier and were napping when I awoke to find him thrusting my limp body. He explained that he had been "so horny," so could we have sex?
No, I thought. But, I didn't say "yes" or "no," and didn't fight it physically. I cried the whole time. He didn't notice. He mistook my hoarse sobs for extreme pleasure. Afterwards, I ran to the shower without a word and tried to scrub his hands and the feeling of self betrayal from my body. I came back to the room, and he asked where I wanted to go to dinner.
So there on the Green, I told my story. I waited and waited for that euphoric sense of power and strength to surge through me, making me feel proud. Instead, I returned home, shaking, feeling drained, vomitous and vulnerable.
My story was out there, yet I feel I didn't own it. I didn't own it in the sense that I have never allowed myself to explore its impact on my life, shying away from the heaviness of the memory. I didn't own it because it was awkward to hear myself yell, "I have something to say." The reason being that I never thought my anger was valid. What was valid was my self-loathing. I was weak. Why hadn't I just spoken up and stopped him?
A friend of mine and I always "talk big" to one another when we joke around. He always ends the banter by saying, "You talk the talk, but I don't see you walking the walk!" There I was that fall, feeling empowered and enlightened by working around women who are survivors in the truest sense of the word, yet when it came down to me in a bedroom, I couldn't walk the walk.
I talked the talk of an empowered, strong woman, yet I was still the victim of and conceded to a society that tells women to suck it up -- that sex it something you owe. I've never been able to forgive myself for the hypocrisy of that moment until Thursday night.
In the circle on Thursday night, I was elated to see so many women and men together, joined in friendship and a shared commitment. Yet, I was angered too because the people who really needed to hear the horrid stories that were told were not present. As we marched through campus and chanted "Hey, ho, sexual assault has got to go," I saw windows close in dorms, dark silhouettes of people shaking their heads, and the rolling eyes of passers-by. Ears that do not want to hear have a unique ability to clog on command.
Sexual Assault Awareness is not about a week you mark on your calendar. It is a way of life. I vow to and urge others who talk the talk to also walk the walk. I believe that most change happens through our individual encounters with people. This means that if you witness or are the victim of sexual assault (even by your partner), use your voice -- intervene. Don't condone ignorant comments or sexist jokes made by friends or strangers; they reflect an ideology that can lead to action.
Hopefully, we will all walk the walk someday. I will not walk around, but into and on top of those who think they are immune until they feel the weight of my body and the sound of my voice.
