by Chessy Prout
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To my sisters, Lucy and Christianna, and my sisters and brothers in survivorship
—C. P.
To brave girls and women everywhere
—J. A.
INTRODUCTION
You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.
—C. S. LEWIS
There is no one narrative for a survivor of sexual assault. We all have our own journey; you’ll read about Chessy Prout’s in the pages to come. Mine began nearly four decades ago on a winter evening, at a prestigious college campus on the East Coast. I was an eighteen-year-old student, going to a dance at a fraternity house with friends. We danced, we listened to music, we enjoyed the party. Until one young man assaulted me in a crude and insulting way, and I ran, alone, into the cold dark night.
I have never forgotten that night. I was filled with shame, regret, and humiliation, while he was egged on and encouraged by his friends.
Several years later, while working as a legislative aide on Capitol Hill, I was assaulted again, this time by a distinguished guest of the US Congress. I was twenty-three years old, and I didn’t say a word to anyone. And then one night walking home from a diner just a few blocks from the Capitol, I was mugged and grabbed. When I broke free, I ran again, alone, into the cold dark night.
I never told anyone. My family didn’t know—not my husband, my children, my friends. The truth is that my experiences are not remarkable or unique. Sadly, they are all too common.
I lived in silence for most of my life. But in June 2016, Emily Doe, the survivor of the brutal assault by Brock Turner at Stanford University, bravely shared her story. Her powerful words and the severe failure of the justice system to hold her assailant accountable inspired me to publicly tell my stories. Since that time, I’ve been heartened to see more courageous young women come forward to shed light on the all-too-persistent culture of sexual violence in our nation.
I was blown away when I saw Chessy Prout’s interview on the Today show in August 2016. Her poise, strength, and courage reflected a young woman wise beyond her years. I saw in Chessy someone who wasn’t satisfied with the status quo and who was ready to take matters into her own hands.
I also had the realization that forty years of my generation’s silence had helped create the system that Chessy and her contemporaries are fighting to tear down. A system that blames the victim. A system in which justice is too easily escaped by those who prey upon their fellow students, service members, and citizens.
It is time to push back.
As Chessy was going public with her story and taking back her own identity, I was inspired by her and other survivors to begin working on Capitol Hill to establish a group dedicated to ending sexual violence. Sexual violence is not a Republican or Democratic issue: it’s a challenge that faces all our communities, our military, and our institutions of learning.
I was encouraged to find members of the US Congress, men and women, Republican and Democrat, who were willing to take on this effort. The Bipartisan Task Force to End Sexual Violence is still growing in numbers but is already beginning to serve as a catalyst for change. We continue to educate our fellow lawmakers and push for reforms that will help empower survivors and prevent these crimes from occurring.
We can change the laws, but what really needs to change is the culture of sexual violence. That begins with conversations and the strength to speak truth to power as Chessy is so bravely doing.
I first met Chessy and her family in a coffee shop on Capitol Hill. We told our stories and realized that we shared a mission of education, advocacy, and empowerment in our quest to end sexual violence.
I invited her to join our panel for a film screening and discussion on Capitol Hill focused on the challenges the digital age is presenting to survivors of sexual violence. With her confidence and quiet resolve, Chessy made quite an impression on the members of Congress she met that evening. Chessy is helping to lead a generation of young people who are shaking up the system and saying, “Enough is enough.”
Since that time, I’ve had the opportunity to work and meet with Chessy on several occasions and I continue to be impressed by her courage and resolve. So much of what she eloquently writes about has been a mystery to me for the past forty years of my life. I recognize the tears, the nightmares, the anger, and the loneliness, even when our family and friends surround us with love. But luckily, and most importantly, I recognize the inspiration, the resolve, and the hope for a better world that motivates us to become advocates.
Chessy embodies the inspiration and the courage to rise up and take back what is rightfully ours—our voice, our autonomy, our hopes and dreams, our future. It’s an honor to stand with incredible survivors like Chessy to create a kinder, better, and safer world for everyone to thrive and succeed.
I was in the third class of women at Dartmouth College and I have lived in the shadow of St. Paul’s School for sixty years. Chessy’s description of the hierarchy of influence and privilege on campus and the fear of challenging the status quo is all too familiar to me. For the past forty years, I was silenced by shame and self-blame. But now, through Chessy’s courage to stand her ground, I have found my voice.
Chessy did not know that, two years after her trial and one year after she went public on the Today show, revelations about Harvey Weinstein’s behavior would have millions tweeting Tarana Burke’s #MeToo, showing solidarity with those who have experienced sexual harassment and sexual assault.
Chessy’s case is one of many that led us to the present, where we’re challenging institutions, Congress included, on the power imbalances that lead to sexual oppression and a system that’s set up to keep people silent.
In short, we have arrived at a cultural tipping point. What are we going to do about it?
Together, we can lead a movement for change in our schools and in our society, so that every person can thrive in a world of respect and autonomy.
When I was a young lawyer, raising two sons with my husband, Brad, and managing a demanding workload, I spoke up about fairness and equality for women, promoting equal pay, flexible work schedules, and paid family leave. I remember a male colleague admonishing me—“You’re rocking the boat, Annie. Don’t rock the boat.”
Chessy, I am a certified boat rocker and I can’t think of a better first mate than you. I believe in you. I am proud of you. And I am honored to change the world with you.
Ann McLane Kuster
US Congress
Concord, New Hampshire
Representative Kuster claiming her rights.
PROLOGUE
It’s May 31, 2014, the night before my older sister, Lucy, graduates from St. Paul’s, the boarding school we both attend in New Hampshire. My extended family is here in Concord for the weekend festivities, and Dad, a St. Paul’s alum, is bursting with pride.
I’m a freshman and I’m hanging out with Lucy and our cousin Katie, watching an awards ceremony honoring student athletes. We arrive too late to get seats in the wooden bleachers, so we end up standing near the road overlooking a pond. Everyone is clapping and cheering.
But I can’t put my hands together. I should be mesmerized by the midnight-blue water re
flecting everything beautiful around it, the clementine sun sinking in the sky, the redbrick academic buildings, the ethereal pine trees. But my knees are wobbly and my legs feel like Jell-O.
A sticky breeze ripples across the flag. It’s warm outside and the guys are sweating in their royal blue and crimson blazers and straw hats. Lucy and her friends are wearing strappy sundresses. I have on a loose-fitting blue shirt and white jeans so I can cover my body, cover everything that he touched last night.
I look over again at the pond. I used to be obsessed with that view. I took a photo of it almost every week this spring as I walked from the dining hall to my dorm. How could a place that’s so beautiful, so filled with endless promise, cause so much ugly pain?
Suddenly I notice Malcolm Salovaara staring at me and whispering to him, to Owen Labrie, a popular senior and captain of the soccer team.
Four days ago I received an invite from Owen to climb hidden steps and bask together in the nicest view on campus. I knew what it was—a Senior Salute invitation. It’s a tradition at St. Paul’s in which seniors try to hook up with younger girls before graduation.
As much as I love an artsy Instagram photo, I didn’t want to be just another sexual conquest. Besides, Lucy had briefly dated him and told me to stay away. But after I sent Owen a sassy rejection, a friend who lives in Owen’s dorm confronted me.
“Owen’s not going to pressure you or do anything to hurt you,” my friend promised. “He’s a nice guy. He just wants to spend time with you.”
My friend kept insisting I go. Owen had a secret key with access to a cool view. Didn’t I want to see that? I’m only fifteen years old, but I’ve lived overseas in Japan and I’ve been on my own at boarding school for a year. I could handle a rooftop excursion with an eighteen-year-old senior.
If I’m honest with myself, I didn’t mind kissing him. Owen’s cute and a golden boy, beloved by teachers and bound for Harvard University in the fall.
I glance over at Lucy and I’m afraid to tell her what happened last night. I don’t want to ruin graduation weekend. It’s the first happy milestone for our family since the 2011 earthquake in Japan uprooted our lives. But I feel shattered like I did back then, my world unraveling beyond my control.
St. Paul’s was supposed to be a rock of stability after a difficult few years. It felt safe and familiar, the natural place to be after Dad and Lucy attended. But in one horrible night, I ended up with Owen in a dark, locked room. My fierce independence, my youthful innocence, stolen.
I look up and see Malcolm playing connect-the-dots with his eyes, staring at Lucy, then at me, and then at Owen. His smirk sends shrapnel through my body.
I blink back tears. I need to get away from here, from him, from what he did to me. I don’t know who to tell or what to do. As I walk with Lucy and Katie uphill past the pond and the squash courts, a stillness comes over my body. I have to tell Lucy. I know she might be angry that I didn’t listen to her, but she would understand that I didn’t want this to happen. She knows me better than anyone. She’ll know what to say, what to do.
“He had sex with me,” I say, tears slipping out of the corners of my eyes, “but I didn’t want it.”
Lucy wraps her arms around me. Then she utters four of the most important words I need to hear: “It’s not your fault.”
Before I can say anything more, fury flashes across Lucy’s face.
“I’m going to kill him,” she says.
A few hours later, Lucy hunts down Owen on the chapel lawn, her silky brown hair swaying violently across her back.
“This is for taking my sister’s virginity,” Lucy yells.
Then she punches him in the face.
I make it through graduation on Sunday without breaking down, and Lucy has left campus along with the rest of my family. Now I’m studying for math and science finals. But I’m overwhelmed. Word has spread, and students in my dorm confide that Owen has violated other girls too. I need to focus on something else.
I decide to check email, and then I change my Facebook cover photo to one of me and Lucy from yesterday’s graduation. Lucy has me in a semi-headlock and is holding a celebratory cigar in her right hand. Classic silly sisters picture.
A few minutes later a classmate writes Owen Labrie’s name in a comment under the photo, as if we were notches on his bedpost. My head begins to spin, and I hear my phone ringing. It’s Lucy. She’s shouting.
I’m upset that Lucy is upset, but I’m not mad at her. I’m mad at me like she’s mad at me. But I’m also mad at Owen Labrie. I race through my dorm crying, trying to figure out what to do. I still don’t understand what happened to me. Should I tell an adult? Do I go to the hospital?
Later that night, the friend who pressured me to go out with Owen texts a sickening manifesto:
Chessy, I know what happened with you and Owen, and I just wanted to say I’m really sorry . . . I know him really well and if he thought he was doing anything to hurt you physically or emotionally he would’ve stopped . . . So before you tell anyone names, I just want you to consider the circumstances. Owen is starting a new life in a new place, and next year will be a fresh start for you too . . . I just love you both and I know what he did hurt you, and maybe you didn’t necessarily hate what he was doing at the time. I don’t want to see either of you get hurt.
Maybe I didn’t hate what he was doing? Is this some kind of threat? My body convulses and I shriek uncontrollably.
Dr. G., a dorm adviser who lives next to me, hears me and brings me into her apartment. I start to tell her what happened, using hypotheticals, because that’s what we were advised to do at orientation in the beginning of the year when talking about serious stuff with adults.
“What should I do?” I wail.
“Call your mother,” Dr. G. says. “How you handle this will inform the rest of your life.”
ONE
March 11, 2011
Ihad only one question on my mind as I walked toward my sixth-grade math class: Which bedsheet would make me look like a real Grecian goddess?
Later that night was the annual Bingo fund-raiser at our all-girls school in Tokyo, and this year it was a Greek-themed event. You’d never seen Bingo like this: the entire gymnasium and cafeteria filled up with students, parents, and teachers who pounded their fists on the tables in frenzied excitement.
Some of my friends were already wrapped in exquisite togas. I was twelve and loved any excuse to dress up, but was holding out until I found the perfect sheet. In the meantime, I wore my regular school uniform: navy knee-high socks and a white button-down shirt tucked into a thick polyester blue-and-green-plaid skirt.
I hoped Mom would let me borrow one of the nicer sheets that shimmered in the light. She was chair of the silent auction and had been working on the Bingo fund-raiser for months. Maybe I’d even thread leaves into my blond hair like the wreaths worn at the ancient Olympic Games.
As I made my way into Mr. Martindale’s room on Friday afternoon, I noticed some girls giggling as they climbed under their desks, pretending there was an earthquake only they could feel. Nothing was moving.
In Japan, earthquakes were pretty routine. Sometimes we had one every week, and we had just felt one on Wednesday. I’d lived in Tokyo since I was six months old, so I barely noticed the small quakes anymore. But new kids at my school, the International School of the Sacred Heart, usually freaked out at the tiniest tremor.
Just before the bell rang, I was knocked to my knees. Windows rattled back and forth and books tumbled off the shelves. This was no pretend earthquake anymore: it was the biggest one I’d ever felt.
I squeezed under a cluster of metal-legged desks for safety with five of my classmates. My head banged against the hard bottom of the desk as I was tossed around like a rag doll. Mr. Martindale stood by the sliding doors and grasped the frame to steady himself. White geometric cubes rained down from the windowsill as the tree branches shook angrily outside.
I locked eyes with my best friend, A
nnie. I thought we were going to die. My eyelids shut like I was trying to avoid the scary part of a movie. I didn’t want to see how this ended.
When the tremors paused, the loudspeakers blared: “This is an emergency.”
“Get up,” Mr. Martindale shouted. “We’re evacuating.”
The clock at the front of the room read 2:54 p.m. Thumbtacks fell from the bulletin board, sending a poster of Albert Einstein to the floor. We hurried past blue lockers in the hallway and filed out the side emergency stairs. Students streamed out of every door of the building, turning the hilly driveway into a sea of shivering white togas.
We always gathered outside for earthquake drills in case buildings collapsed. But it didn’t feel any safer there. Electrical wires swung like vines in the jungle. A gray building towering over Sacred Heart moved across the blue sky as if it were a cloud.
I stood on my toes while my class descended the giant hill leading down to the parking lot. I searched frantically for my older sister, Lucy, a freshman at the high school, and my four-year-old sister, Christianna, who attended the pre-K program. It was close to pickup time for the younger kids, which meant Mom was probably close by. I spotted her across the parking lot with Christianna, and I waved wildly. Relief washed over me. Thank God they were safe.
“Mom, I’m okay!” I shouted over the commotion, and threw my fist in the air with my thumb pointing to the heavens. Hot tears filled my blue eyes as I wove my way through a knot of cars, parents, kids, and teachers. I flung my arms around Mom. I wiped away the wetness before anyone saw. You didn’t show signs of weakness in Japan. Being stoic and humble were the most admired qualities.
But sometimes I couldn’t help myself. Lucy was a teenager—fifteen—and better at keeping things buttoned up. She had dark hair and hazel eyes and looked more like Dad, who is half-Japanese. I had the all-American looks from Mom’s family.
