Know My Name

by Chanel Miller

  I heard it all, but mainly I stared at the chairs where Brock and his attorney would be sitting. I felt a pinch in my throat, as if, were I to blink enough times they’d materialize. She said I didn’t have to look at his defense attorney, even when he was speaking to me. I could look into the audience, lock eyes with a friend. But I knew no friends would be coming.

  Claire was in France. Tiffany was not allowed in the room as a fellow witness. My mom was going to be in the courthouse, but I refused to let her watch, knowing my focus would shift to protecting her. I feared I’d withhold, unable to disclose the full truth, not wanting to hurt her. I would do it alone.

  Alaleh handed me a thick manila folder, filled with transcripts of my interviews from the hospital and police station. You don’t need to study as if this were a test, she said, it’s just to freshen your memory. The court reporter walked in to introduce herself; she had short hair and sharp glasses, walked with an ease like she ran the place. She would be sitting at a desk slightly adjacent to the judge. Don’t be afraid, she said, smiling, dipping her glasses down so I could see her eyes. If you get nervous, just look at me. She winked.

  A part of this felt familiar. When I was eighteen, I took a Spoken Word course with Professor Fulbeck. Before every show, we would go to the venue, check out the lighting, the stage, test the mic. Day to day I was shy, but onstage I was different. When I stepped out, I became another person.

  Freshman year, a classmate told me she’d woken up to a guy having sex with her, her virginity lost, as she faded in and out. She said that’s why she hadn’t been to class in a few weeks, but it was okay, she shrugged. Within a week, I’d written a spoken word piece called Nice: I’m tired of being good, being nice, in this life, where rebellion is not wearing my retainer for one night. I want to evoke feelings, create enemies, appear a little corrupt, I want to bitch out some bitches, I want to fuck some shit up. At this point people would be laughing and clapping as the piece swelled, amused as punches were thrown, until I dropped the line, To the dick who stuck his dick in my passed-out friend. Sudden silence.

  Are you self-conscious because your dick is shorter than a ruler, so you got her drunk and gone enough to rule her? Because your fleshy dangler didn’t find your hand that handsome, your wang banger needed a real companion, so you got her alone, put the sword in the stone, you had her violated, she’s degraded while you’re the one shallower than a kiddie pool, I pity your lack of dignity, pity your— I reeled it off while making eye contact with each person in the audience.

  I’ll have you bawling about your balls while you’re calling me the meanest, and that is how I’ll vanquish your fetus-sized penis and to top it off . . . I’ll shoot it. People erupted, hollering and stomping. When I competed in slams with Nice, tens went up from the judge’s table. My parents were stunned, but supportive. Each time I hoped he was watching.

  Writing and performing this piece was easy, because at the time I was in a relationship with the first boy I loved, made powerful because I was safe, and sex was kind, and the piece was for her, not for me, and I could use fancy wordplay and speak fast and bring down the house by verbally annihilating a dick. Now that I was the one assaulted while unconscious, I could hardly speak. Sitting in front of that microphone in the empty courtroom, I just nodded my head, and I thought of my young self, bold, parading around the stage, wondered where she had gone.

  Tiffany drove home the evening before the hearing, would be in Palo Alto for less than twenty-four hours before she rushed back to class. She’d never seen the courthouse or met Alaleh. Strange that we were suffering through the same process, but there was nobody looking out for her or helping her prepare. I would argue that testifying would be harder for her because she remembered; would have to describe what he did while he stared. And still she had homework, would have to be in class the next morning, as if she’d never lived this day.

  What are we supposed to wear, she said. Images we’d Googled of women’s court clothes displayed tall women with hands on their waists, long hair twisted into soft tendrils, pencil skirts, legs slender as stair banisters on pointed heels. How the heck are we supposed to look like this. It was dark out, we were at Kohl’s, wandering around the gleaming white floors. I texted my advocate for guidance; something comfortable, respectful. Got it. My sister emerged from the dressing room in a large shirt with a Minion on it, pantless. What would they do if I showed up in this. I said, Tiffany, this is serious, and walked out in diamond-encrusted capris, a visor, a shirt that said BLESSED.

  As the closing announcements droned overhead, we abandoned our game, succumbing to the business casual section, our arms growing heavy with earth-toned sweaters. She stepped out in a maroon crew neck with a dipped hemline. Are you testifying or giving a speech at your child’s spaghetti dinner fund-raiser? The floral button-ups transformed us into frumpy secretaries. Damn it, Janice, did you remember to fax my W-9? Finally I found the one, a sweater the color of old milk, soft and quiet. Emily’s new uniform. I looked like someone who would lend you a pencil. My sister nodded in approval.

  It was dark now and time to study the transcripts. We sat at opposite ends of the dining room table with our stacks of paper. I heard my dad say to my mom, Aren’t you happy our girls are here? It was true I was grateful for these impromptu family reunions. Still, the reason we were all brought together loomed. We read in heavy silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of a page turning. One of the most important rules established early on was that Tiffany and I could not discuss the case. If our facts aligned too closely, we would be accused of conspiring. But her presence alone was a gift, made it possible for me to begin reliving the night.

  As I pored over the pages, the feelings began leaking in. To read each line was to be in a room slowly filling with water. It filled and filled until there was a space just big enough to keep breathing, a sliver of air between water and ceiling. Just when I thought I was going under, it stopped. I knew it could not drown me again. It was in the past, the assault stuck inside these papers. The water began to drain.

  I stayed focused, typing up notes, putting all my facts in order. I ingrained the details until I could recite the night backward and forward in fifteen-minute time frames, from the moment I decided to go to the party to the moment I was released from the hospital. I’m nervous, my sister said. It’s okay, I said.

  If you get nervous, look at the court reporter. She winked at me. They don’t expect you to remember everything, it’s been ten months! It’s simple, we just tell the truth. Everyone’s gonna be like wow, she’s an angel, but that guy gives me the heebie-mother-freaking-jeebies. Plus we spent seventy dollars at Kohl’s so we kind of have to make it worth it, you know. We don’t have to be afraid because we have nothing to hide.

  It was true, and I felt it when I said it. She was smiling now. I let her look over her notes, and then walked to my room. My eyes began dripping. There was one thing I didn’t add. I’m nervous too. I have no idea what’s going to happen.

  The plastic security frame was my portal, a doorway into this unfamiliar world. The security guards escorted my mom, Tiffany, and me into the tiny victim closet, which was furnished with a dirty yellow couch that looked sculpted out of earwax. A metal-legged desk piled with torn, expired magazines. A cloudy bag of markers with uncapped, dry heads. Dusty stacks of domestic violence brochures. A laminated red poster with bold yellow lettering read: VICTIMS HAVE THE RIGHT TO BE TREATED WITH FAIRNESS AND RESPECT FOR HIS OR HER PRIVACY AND DIGNITY, AND TO BE FREE FROM INTIMIDATION, HARASSMENT, AND ABUSE THROUGHOUT THE CRIMINAL JUVENILE JUSTICE PROCESS. Papers left behind with kids’ drawings; a drawing of a heart, cramped lettering inside, Because I’m scared. My mom was uneasy in the sordid space, wanting to make it better somehow, and left to get us warm milk at a nearby café, some cookies, chopped honeydew.

  Anne, Julia’s mother, was on her way, had offered to come and be in the courtroom, my sole supporter. J
ulia was abroad that quarter. I’d later learn that when she returned to campus she’d begun suffering from panic attacks every time she walked past the fraternity at night. This would happen for the next two years.

  As we waited, my advocate Bree arrived. I noticed she’d gotten a haircut. It was nice to talk about her hairstyle, like we were friends in a normal context and she had not been assigned to me from the YWCA so I wouldn’t be alone. When she saw me fidgeting, she told me to press the soles of my feet to the floor, a grounding technique. She reached into her purse and pulled out a toy; a long, bright-blue wiener dog that had fur like rubbery spaghetti. It may be helpful to have something to squeeze while you’re up there, she said. I stretched it out, shook it around. My sister got a squishy skull.

  Alaleh would come get me when they were ready. An hour passed. My steamed milk cooled. At the knock, my sister squeezed my hand. I followed Bree and Alaleh down the hall. Do I raise my right or left hand to be sworn in, what if I forget everything, is my fly zipped, do I look okay. I began pacing, breathing in and out audibly. I was self-conscious of the noise I was making, embarrassed I could not disguise my panic, but figured she’d rather have me breathing heavily than passed out. Take a look, she said. Through a thin rectangular window in the door, I scanned the room, a small audience, the back of his head. I froze, locked on the bare skin of his neck. I wanted to hold on to my last moment of being hidden. But Alaleh was pulling the doors open, and there was nothing left to do but walk through.

  At this time the people call their first witness, Chanel Doe. Heads turned as I came in, I didn’t know where to put my gaze. I switched the blue wiener dog to my left hand, so I could raise my right hand to be sworn in. I said, I do. Words I thought I’d speak first at my wedding, not my rape trial. I felt the eyes taking me in. I wondered if they were surprised I was Asian, if I looked like a woman, or a girl, if I appeared mundane, less pretty than imagined, why didn’t he choose someone better looking, stop, what are you thinking, be quiet. As I stepped toward the witness stand I wanted to keep walking and walking, but when I touched the back of my chair, I sat to face forward, here I am.

  I was told to make myself comfortable. I did not understand what that meant; I tried lifting my chair to scoot it forward, everyone watching as I thrust haltingly forward an inch or two. Alaleh reminded me to speak loudly and clearly. With shaking hands I tilted the thin stem of the microphone toward me. I heard someone clearing their throat. Bree sat in a chair down to my right, facing the audience in solidarity. The audience was sparse, but the smattering of bodies was enough to make me anxious, wondering who they were and why they were here. I noticed Detective Kim next to Alaleh, a familiar face, a small relief.

  In my periphery on my left, Brock was just a mass. I rested my eyes on Alaleh’s face, letting everything around her melt away. She was smiling at me from behind her podium, the way I’ve seen mothers smile encouragingly at their toddlers, beckoning to take their first step, and I smiled as best I could in return.

  If you could tell us your first name and please spell it for us.

  Chanel, I replied, C-H-A-N-E-L, I said. It felt like cutting off a large portion of hair all at once. A loss swift, irreversible. My name no longer mine, a secret I’d now have to trust everyone in the room to keep. There was no time to dwell, we went on to my age, education, area of residency. I spoke about Arastradero Preserve at sunset, Tiffany and Julia, the taqueria, my open-faced chicken taco, drinking water because it was spicy, going home, my dad’s dinner. Other than the stir-fry and broccoli and the taco did you have anything else to eat that day? No, I responded, then paused. Well, that day, that day I don’t remember anymore. I must have had lunch that day ten months ago, but what could it have been?

  She asked why I was going to Stanford, I said I was going to the fraternity party to meet up with Julia; And, apparently, that’s what was going on that night. But if they had said let’s go get frozen yogurt downtown, I would—it’s a different party at Stanford by the International club, I would have gone to that. I had no incentive to go to a fraternity party. A man’s voice appeared to my left. Your honor, I’m going to move to strike the last, approximately two-thirds or three-quarters of the answer. The question was answered at the very beginning.

  I looked over. The defense attorney sat cube faced, white haired, black suited, hunched over his notes, speaking as if I weren’t there. The judge replied, All right. I will strike the last two sentences of the answer as nonresponsive to the question. I watched my words fall like birds shot out of the air. I was unaware he had the power to erase my testimony without moving a finger. The most disconcerting part was that he’d objected against a line about froyo. What would happen when we got to what mattered?

  Alaleh continued questioning me about the decision to go to a frat, and again and again he sliced off my sentences. All right. So stricken. I was a dog with an electric collar around my neck, the remote in the defense’s hand. Every time I spoke I felt the shock, turned around confused. I became wary of overstepping my bounds, wanting to avoid being cut off. He was teaching me to be afraid of speaking freely.

  Alaleh broke down the questions so I could flesh out my answer. Did you want to go to a fraternity party? No, I said, nervous to say any more. Why not? A chance to elaborate. Because why would I want to go to a fraternity party? My irritation surprised me. I had no incentive to go to a fraternity party and meet anybody in a frat. How hard it was to get a single point across. Eventually we fell into a nice rhythm, tapping words back and forth. Soon every inch of the evening was coming to life. The courtroom dissolved, as I began to see the worn linoleum floor of my kitchen, the black-rimmed clock, the thinly striped blue-and-yellow wallpaper. When asked what I had to drink, I could see the auburn liquid in its glass bottle, mugs on the wooden countertop. When asked what kind of whiskey, I squinted as if I could focus the memory to read the label. Down the stairs, stacks of red cups, wide wooden tables, spilled juice, basement filling with heads, bodies flooding out the sliding glass doors to the back, squatting beneath the trees, trying not to sprinkle on my shoes, returning to the soft din of the cement patio, play by play by play.

  It stunned me how seriously all of these questions were being asked, as if it were normal to recall every trifling detail, to divide the murkiness of casually drinking into a chronology of consumption, marking minutes between sips. Time was dissected down to the minute, length down to the yard, liquid down to fluid ounces. How long did it take to drive there (7 minutes), when did we arrive (11:15), who I was with, where were we dropped off, if we’d gone to any other parties, how many people were there (60 people, 20 minutes later there were 100), how far outside I’d walked to go to the bathroom (15 yards). My assurance felt almost comical, how could anyone be so sure? I was so consumed by the staccato rhythm of her questioning, the humming contemplation in my mind, that I didn’t notice us edging closer to my final memory. I saw myself, beer in hand, smiling, shoulders loosely swaying. Tiffany was there, a friend or two of hers floating around. I had been watching them, thinking about how I missed college, but didn’t really, how even if I could return, it would never be the same. I saw Tiffany now, running around in the sweet wildness of it, happy for one night that I could be part of it.

  What was the next thing that happened?

  The little movie in my head stopped, the music fell away, the crowd in the glow of the porch light disappeared. Black, just black. I looked at her; a silent panic, a blinking, I have no answer. She had held me by the belly, letting me paddle around the water, and now she released her grip, watching me slip beneath. I woke up in the hospital. As the words left me, my head dropped forward, my thoughts scattered. She asked something, but I did not respond; in the transcript, the court reporter had only typed (shakes head).

  I heard a sound, a long wail, a high cooing, that sailed and fell. It was growing louder, I could not stop. I wanted someone to hold my shoulders, but I realized nobody wa
s coming. A room of strangers, sitting unmoved, as I cried into nothing. I had kept loved ones outside these doors, had made a grave mistake. I put two hands over my face, clenched my eyes. If I couldn’t see anyone they could no longer see me.

  JUDGE: Would you like to recess?

  DA: Yes.

  JUDGE: We’re going to take a brief recess. So I will step off the bench. Thank you.

  DA: Oh, here’s a cup.

  I heard everyone scuffle out of the stillness, as if to say, Shut it down, we’ve lost her. I imagined all the gazes on me broken, snipped like threads. I heard the judge stepping off his bench. I could hear the click of my DA’s heels toward me, pouring water into a Styrofoam cup on my stand. I stayed covering my face, the blue wiener dog squished against my cheek. Bree got me to stand up, led me out the courtroom doors, down the halls to the bathroom.

  The door swung closed. Finally quiet. This is hard, I said. My voice was tiny, dim. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was embarrassed by who I was to everyone in that room, the one who drank herself to limpness, and now made wet gasping sounds into the microphone.

  Alaleh had touched some soft center, pulsing and nebulous, the portion of lost memory between that night and morning. She would have to play the game of stepping around that center, knowing when and how to enter, for if she entered abruptly, she’d lose me, again and again, I was sure. I imagined her growing frustrated, We got a weak one. My confidence was waning.