by Chessy Prout
My friends used to make fun of my appreciation of nature, but honestly, that’s my favorite thing about ME. Always breathe in your surroundings and know that there is still good in the world, (it also helps with episodes of dissociation)
I enclosed a small black-and-orange pin that I got during a courage retreat that I helped lead at my school earlier in the year. I also gave Emily Doe my phone number.
. . . if you ever want to talk to somebody who may have a tiny sliver of understanding (and a penchant for social justice) . . . I want to eventually build a web of survivors so strong that can be there for every young woman enduring a trial in the US, and maybe even try to stretch it overseas. (I know it’s a little grand, and there are plenty of victim advocates, but I’m a 17 year old with millions of dreams!)
I never heard back from her, but sometimes I liked to imagine Emily Doe boxing somewhere, getting stronger just like me.
I wrote this list in May 2016. I’d later name my advocacy campaign after the first line.
NINETEEN
Jane Doe
When I sent my letter to Emily Doe, I gave her my phone number but not my name. It seems silly now. I obviously would have told her if she called. But at the time it seemed impossible to write down my name, Chessy Prout, in the same sentence as “St. Paul’s assault victim”—even to another survivor.
That’s why when Mom and Dad filed our lawsuit against St. Paul’s in early June, we did so anonymously under the name Jane Doe. It’s a common practice among survivors of sex crimes as a way to protect their privacy and avoid revictimization. Though there had been leaks, my name was not widely known—not even among some of my relatives—and I wanted to keep it that way. I could not weather more hate mongering.
The lawsuit triggered a new wave of stories from national news outlets, including the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, NBC, CBS, and others. Many of them called up our lawyer, Steve Kelly, and asked if I was ready to talk.
A heavy anchor sank in my stomach. Coverage of my case wasn’t going away. When we’d refused to comment to Newsweek last year, we ended up with a hatchet job. Meeting with Mr. Purdum after he finished the Vanity Fair piece didn’t help either.
If I wanted my truth fairly and accurately represented, it seemed like the only option was to speak out. I knew I was my own best advocate, but I loathed the limelight. I worried that people would judge me and assume that I craved this attention. And I was nervous about the long-term ramifications. I peppered Steve with questions.
“Do I really want to be known for the rest of my life as the St. Paul’s rape victim?” I asked. “Are people going to Google this forever? When I have children, will they see this?”
“Let me tell you something,” Steve said. “I was an activist from the age of fourteen, when my sister was raped and murdered. My name was all over the media. But when I graduated from law school and went to work at a big firm, I didn’t want anyone to know anything about my past. I didn’t tell anyone anything.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I wanted to make it on my own. I wanted it to be on my merits,” Steve explained. “I didn’t want to use my sister’s murder as an excuse or anything about my family’s background as a way to get ahead.”
“I understand. I don’t want to be seen as profiting because of this—like getting famous because I was assaulted,” I said. “So how’d it go for you not saying anything?”
“I was miserable. It was the most miserable time of my life, because it’s such a huge part of me that I was hiding,” Steve said. “You don’t have to go around telling everybody. But when you go through something like this—a centrally defining event—it feels dishonest if you don’t acknowledge it.”
I understood what Steve was saying. It seemed impossible to compartmentalize this part of my life. My experience seeped into classroom discussions and casual conversations with friends about fairness and women’s rights. It shaped my worldview.
“So you think I should speak out publicly?” I asked.
“For me, it was the right thing,” Steve said. “But it’s not the right choice for everyone. For some people, they do better by not speaking out. I have people in my family who are like that. It’s okay to stay private. It’s a personal decision.”
I sighed deeply. I didn’t know what to do.
Dad suggested that while we were in New York for more college visits, we could have exploratory meetings with some of the producers who were calling. It would be a chance for us to learn about the process and how they would like to present my story. At a minimum, Dad explained, we would show them that we were real people and perhaps educate them on the impact of these crimes so they could be more sensitive in their coverage.
“We’re not committing to anything, right?” I asked.
“Absolutely no commitments whatsoever,” Dad reassured me. “This is your call all the way.”
That sounded fine by me. First we met a team that had impressive credentials making documentaries for HBO.
I anxiously inhaled french fries as I listened to their pitch: they wanted to be flies on the wall and film me at home, in school, on my upcoming trip to Cat Island. They wanted everything: my name, my face, my friends, my life. I’d be completely, totally exposed.
On the one hand, being able to show people what my life was really like was something I’d thought a lot about since I was a kid and read the book The English Roses, where a group of mean, popular girls got to see the difficult home life of a girl they bullied at school. Afterward, they felt bad and took her into their circle and learned not to make assumptions about others. I was tired of people judging me immediately as a pretty blond girl, popular and ditzy and shallow. That wasn’t me.
But a documentary like the one they were proposing felt too intrusive. I explained my hesitation and smiled politely while I polished off my fries.
The next day we met with a producer from a network who promised that I’d have control over any questions if I decided to do an interview. I told the producer of my dream for victims to be called survivors instead of accusers by the media and the need for reporters to pay more attention to the difference between jail and prison and misdemeanors and felonies. She listened and we agreed to stay in touch.
Our last stop was NBC at 30 Rockefeller Plaza. This was one of my all-time favorite spots in New York City. It’s a Prout tradition to visit every holiday season to watch the ice skaters and admire the towering Christmas tree.
It was June, so the skating rink was closed and an outdoor summer concert stage was built up in an alleyway by 30 Rock’s side entrance. Dad and I met Savannah Guthrie, one of the cohosts of the Today show, in between her filming schedule. Savannah told me about her background: first as a lawyer, then as a legal correspondent for Court TV. Issues like sexual assault mattered to her.
She listened attentively and nodded while I explained what I hoped to achieve if I went public. Suddenly someone knocked on the door to give her a three-minute warning that she was needed back on air.
Dad and I watched Savannah attend to her news duties, and then she resumed our conversation several minutes later. Her professionalism and compassion impressed me.
Later that morning it was time to get down to business. We met with the Today show producers and talked about the importance of bringing more awareness to high school sexual assault.
“If I do do a TV interview, I don’t want to show up empty-handed,” I said. “I want to create a concrete place where people can get help or be empowered.”
I was assertively dipping my toes in the water. I liked having important people listen to me and care about what I had to say.
“We could do something like this,” one producer said, and pulled up NBC’s #DreamDay website, which featured celebrities and politicians sharing their dreams in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech.
NBC was willing to do whatever it took to make me comfortable. I could use my initials
instead of my full name. I could be filmed in profile or in shadows to protect my identity. I nodded my head but again made no promises.
As the meeting ended, Dad and I thanked everyone for their time. I walked out bowled over by their enthusiasm and their interest in helping survivors.
But still, I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be.
“You’re coming with me!” I declared to Mom. “You’re coming to Cat Island. You’re going to love it.”
After we boarded the tiny aircraft in late June, I tried to find my place. The prop plane had two people per row, seats A and B. My ticket read C. Chance—or rather Bahamasair—put me in a rear-facing jump seat, and I had no choice but to buckle in.
Just like my visit two summers ago, the kids mobbed our van as we pulled up to Old Bight Mission Home. I was shocked that they all remembered me. This year I was one of the oldest youth leaders, so the kids decided to pair me with the most “eligible bachelor” in our group and said they would marry us in the nearby church.
Luckily, Mom was there to stop them from getting carried away. I was wary of introducing Mom as “my mom” because these kids had been abandoned or removed from their families. Instead, I introduced her as Ms. Susan.
Mom and I handled different activities for the children during the day and came together at night for Bible study with the youth leaders and other adults.
We went around the circle, talking about the prayers and how they related to our personal struggles. For the first time in front of Mom, I confided that I was questioning my faith. It seemed hard to believe that a loving God would put someone through so much pain: an assault, a trial, hate sites, panic attacks that just wouldn’t go away. I didn’t reveal every detail in that circle, but Mom understood.
We’d talk more when we were alone at night. Mom and I shared a “private room,” except that it had a bathroom connected, so everyone walked in to use it.
We couldn’t flush the toilet until morning because of water restrictions. So the stench of urine (and other things) competed with the smell of decaying crab carcasses wafting from the compost pile outside the one window above our bed.
Still, I treasured these late-night moments. I curled up next to Mom like when I was little. We’d pray together in bed, Mom whispering in my ear, “You’re not alone, sweetie. God is definitely walking with you. Keep asking questions and searching. You’re going to find answers.”
On our second-to-last day, we got up at five a.m. to trek to the top of the Hermitage. I climbed out on the ledge of the stone monastery and squinted at the turquoise-blue blanket rolling endlessly to the horizon.
Waves crashed against the rocky cliffs as the sun crawled up the sky. I stood by myself and closed my eyes. A breeze swept over me while I listened to an orchestra of chirping crickets.
I slipped into a nature coma. I felt peaceful. Confident. I felt brave. When I’d last stood on the Hermitage weeks after my assault, sweaty and swollen from a wasp bite, I was reminded that I was seeking justice for more than myself. Now I thought about Mr. Pillsbury and how he had suffered in silence for half a century. Was I ready to speak out for more than just me? Could I sacrifice my name and my comfort to help other survivors? God, are you out there?
It felt like déjà vu back in Naples. Instead of fighting over my return to St. Paul’s, my family was now divided on whether I should publicly tell my story.
Mom and Dad embraced the idea of me finding my voice and speaking out. I had nothing to be ashamed of, they said, and I could help other victims.
Lucy, protective as always, disagreed. She didn’t trust the media for one second, even after then NBC News president Deborah Turness met with our family in July and talked about the network’s commitment to raising awareness around sexual assault.
“Everyone just wants a sound bite,” Lucy said to me afterward. “They’re not going to give you time to tell your whole story.”
She worried that I wasn’t thinking through how this would affect the rest of my life. I’d always be branded the St. Paul’s sexual assault victim. Didn’t I want to be more than that?
Lucy was also nervous about the fallout for her own life if we went on television together as a family and bashed St. Paul’s. She didn’t want to lose her remaining friends from boarding school and feared a new surge of online bullying would hurt her job prospects.
I understood Lucy’s concerns. My assault had already exiled all of us from the St. Paul’s community. It had decimated Lucy’s happy high school memories. The Internet trolls had taken aim at her once before, hurling lewd comments that still popped up on Google.
But what she didn’t understand at the time was that no matter what I did in life, I would always be a survivor of sexual assault, and it was up to me to own my trauma and support others with the resources I had.
Steve sensed that I was being pulled in different directions, so he set up a meeting in Washington, DC, with Angela Rose, a survivor who went public as a teenager.
Mom gave me some background articles to read on the flight, and my eyes nearly fell out of my head: Angela was seventeen when she was abducted in 2001 outside a shopping mall near Chicago and assaulted by a repeat sex offender on parole for murder. Angela had spent the last fifteen years funneling her anger into activism by starting an organization, PAVE—Promoting Awareness/Victim Empowerment—to help shatter the silence around sexual assault and to provide support for survivors across the country.
Months earlier Angela had sent me a copy of her book Hope, Healing & Happiness and wrote me a note.
Brave Survivor—
Please know you are not alone in wanting to be strong for your family. I had to as well. But I also needed to embark on my healing journey too. You are not alone—I’m here if you need me!
Love,
Angela Rose
I guess I was finally cashing in on that offer. Mom, Dad, and I were settling into our hotel room in Washington when a very tiny, very pregnant lady came barreling through the door with outstretched arms and an enormous smile. This was Angela. She had on a gorgeous red dress with a thin satin ribbon above her belly and a sparkly necklace. I hoped I could look as glamorous as that if I was pregnant one day!
Steve observed as Angela gave us an overview of PAVE’s work organizing chapters at high schools and college campuses to engage young men and women in conversations about sexual assault and healthy relationships.
As an example, Angela handed out white wristbands with the words CONSENT IS _________ printed in blue on the front. That campaign encouraged students to fill in the blank and express why consent was important to them and to post about it on social media. Some PAVE chapters successfully targeted boys’ soccer teams and other athletes to help spread the word and make the bracelets cool. That was definitely needed at St. Paul’s. Especially for the soccer team. PAVE was all about proactive, positive messages.
I silently digested the information, while Mom and Dad asked questions. Steve looked over at me and then announced, “I think everybody should leave except Angela and Chessy. They’re the ones who need to talk.”
After the room cleared out, Angela and I moved over to a brown sofa and chatted as if we were old friends. I told her the assault reminded me of the earthquake I’d experienced in Japan, and how my world was turned upside down yet again. I wanted to get my life back.
“I’m not sure what I should do about telling my story publicly,” I said. “Everyone in my family feels differently.”
“Chessy, this needs to be your own decision,” Angela said. “Sexual assault is a crime of power and control. You need to have one hundred percent control over what you want to do next. You can’t be pushed one way or another.”
“I’m worried about how it’s going to change my life. I’ve started to feel some sense of normalcy back in Naples,” I said. “There’s part of me that just wants to be a kid again.”
“That’s completely understandable,” Angela said. “There’s time to do whatever you w
ant. You can speak out now or later or never. And even if you speak out, it doesn’t mean you have to be an advocate forever.”
I told Angela that I was most scared of the backlash, scared of the negativity, scared the fragile protective shell around me would crack. I worried that I’d open myself up to more harassment when people knew my face and name.
I asked Angela how her friends reacted when she came out as a survivor at seventeen.
“Most of them supported me,” she said. “When someone comes out as a survivor, the response is usually very positive.”
“Really?” I asked skeptically.
“You know what, I need to connect you with Delaney Henderson,” Angela said. “She’ll tell you what it’s like. You’re going to adore her.”
Delaney was a high school survivor who went through three criminal trials, Angela explained, and had recently become a PAVE ambassador, speaking out against sexual violence in high schools. That was something I felt passionate about.
“Yes, I’d love to talk with her!” I said. “I’ve never met someone my own age who’s been through this.”
Angela had Delaney on speakerphone before I finished my sentence. Delaney said she’d been following my case for years, one of the many strangers in my cheerleading squad.
Delaney lived a few hours away in Florida and wanted to visit me in Naples. I couldn’t wait—it had taken me two years to find a survivor my age who’d gone to trial and was trying to make a positive change. We exchanged phone numbers and made plans to FaceTime the following week. When we hung up, I was struck by how young Delaney sounded but also how fierce and strong she seemed.
“I really do want to make a difference,” I said to Angela. “I want justice for me and for other people. I want to remove the shame and blame that’s so pervasive around sexual assault. I don’t want people to feel that way anymore.”
