When a victim does go for help, she is seen as attacking the assailant. These are separate; seeking aid is her primary motive, his fallout is a secondary effect. But we are taught, if you speak, something bad happens to him. You will be blamed for every job he doesn’t get, every game he doesn’t play. His family, friends, community, team, will unleash hell on you, are you sure you want that? We force her to think hard about what this will mean for his life, even though he never considered what his actions would do to her. Inherently the victim is outnumbered. She is the sole object of his sexual aggression, expected to single-handedly undo all of their staunch beliefs, backed by years of amiable stories. They’ll say, We’ve never seen him behave that way, so you must be lying. This sentiment was echoed in Brock’s sister’s statement: The evidence presented during his trial and the conclusions that were made about his character were only from one night of his life, from strangers that didn’t know him: a fraction of a fraction of his existence. Victims are not fractions; we are whole.
When society questions a victim’s reluctance to report, I will be here to remind you that you ask us to sacrifice our sanity to fight outdated structures that were designed to keep us down. Victims do not have the time for this. Victims are also students, teachers, parents, who can’t give up work or education. The average adult can barely find time to renew their license at the DMV. It is not reasonable to casually demand that victims put aside their lives to spend more time pursuing something they never asked for in the first place. This is not about the victims’ lack of effort. This is about society’s failure to have systems in place in which victims feel there’s a probable chance of achieving safety, justice, and restoration rather than being retraumatized, publicly shamed, psychologically tormented, and verbally mauled. The real question we need to be asking is not, Why didn’t she report, the question is, Why would you?
Brock will always be the swimmer turned rapist. He was great and then he fell. Anything I do in the future will be by the victim who wrote a book. His talent precedes the tragedy. She was supposedly born in it. I did not come into existence when he harmed me. She found her voice! I had a voice, he stripped it, left me groping around blind for a bit, but I always had it. I just used it like I never had to use it before. I do not owe him my success, my becoming, he did not create me. The only credit Brock can take is for assaulting me, and he could never even admit to that.
* * *
• • •
On June 17, 2017, the first Cosby trial ended in a stalemate; six jury members were left scratching their heads, unconvinced, never mind those two pills, yeah but, I’m just, I’m not sure, we need a little more information. You would think Andrea Constand would have worn down, given up after a grueling mistrial. Proof again, you can do anything. But on April 26, 2018, the verdict of the second trial was read aloud, Cosby’s arms latched behind his back. More than fifty women joined her, declaring, no, Cosby, you can’t.
You can’t kiss without asking, can’t grab a pussy, can’t mask what you’re doing, can’t turn off the mic, can’t wave it away, can’t make us forget, because we walk to the tempo of this two-word promise. For so long men could, they really could, get away with it. They got away but what they did never went away, even if our minds wanted to forget; it became a physical memory. Our bodies kept it in storage no matter how many times our brains took it to the trash, no matter how many times we were told to move on, take the blame, grow up, no matter how many years passed, if we built families, had kids, our kids had kids, still our bodies remembered. And while our minds attempted to abandon it entirely, late at night, lying awake alone, our bodies protested, you can’t.
In October 2017, Ashley Judd and Rose McGowan stood at the front lines as Weinstein fell. High-powered men came down one after the other, or rather women came forward, and as a result these men came down. But it was never an eye for an eye, it was an eye for dozens of eyes. These men failed to realize that throughout the years, as they preyed on woman after woman, they’d created multiple witnesses, more than one backer, and thank God, because one, apparently, is never enough. Cosby, 60. Weinstein, 87. Nassar, 169. The news used phrases like avalanche of accusations, tsunami of stories, sea change. The metaphors were correct in that they were catastrophic, devastating. But it was wrong to compare them to natural disasters, for they were not natural at all, solely man-made. Call it a tsunami, but do not lose sight of the fact that each life is a single drop, how many drops it took to make a single wave. The loss is incomprehensible, staggering, maddening—we should have caught it when it was no more than a drip. Instead society is flooded with survivors coming forward, dozens for every man, just so that one day, in his old age, he might feel a taste of what it was like for them all along.
The Me Too movement, started by Tarana Burke, made visible the overwhelming number of situations where assault and harassment happen, the way violence is embedded in our day-to-day lives, pointed out countless conversations and gestures we’d been taught to write off as insignificant. Me Too is a tail-end phrase, meant to be tacked on, in addition to. It is inextricable from a greater mass, immune to isolation. By stating those words, you didn’t have to divulge your full story in graphic detail, you just gave a nod, raised your hand. Speaking up didn’t force you to step into a spotlight, only helped you contribute to a glowing, innumerable whole. The Me Too movement offered the relief of finally being given a chance to set the story down, to see what it felt like to walk around, breathe, shake your arms out a little, without it.
Some called it a witch hunt, said she’s after him. I ask, starting when. Mark the day. Trace it back. I can almost guarantee that after the assault she tried to live her life. Ask her what she did the next day and she’d say, well, I went to work. She didn’t pick up a pitchfork, hire a lawyer. She made her bed, buttoned up her shirt, took shower after shower. She tried to believe she was unchanged, to move on until her legs gave out. Every woman who spoke out did so because she hit a point where she could no longer live another day in the life she tried to build. So she turned, slowly, back around to face it. Society thinks we live to come after him. When in fact, we live to live. That’s it. He upended that life, and we tried to keep going, but couldn’t. Each time a survivor resurfaced, people were quick to say what does she want, why did it take her so long, why now, why not then, why not faster. But damage does not stick to deadlines. If she emerges, why don’t we ask her how it was possible she lived with that hurt for so long, ask who taught her to never uncover it.
Victims are often accused of seeking revenge, but revenge is a tiny engine. I know better than to think my peace arrives when the gavel hits, when the handcuffs click shut. He may sit in a cell, but he will never know what it’s like to be unhomed from his own body. We don’t fight for our own happy endings. We fight to say you can’t. We fight for accountability. We fight to establish precedent. We fight because we pray we’ll be the last ones to feel this kind of pain.
When Hillary Clinton’s book What Happened came out, I learned she’d quoted my final paragraph: On nights when you feel alone, I am with you . . . Then she wrote: Early on the morning of November 9, when it came time to decide on what I’d say in my concession speech, I remembered those words. Inspired by them, I wrote these: “To all the little girls watching this, never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your own dreams.” Wherever she is, I hope Emily Doe knows how much her words and her strength meant to so many.
At a moment of monumental loss, she had consulted the statement for hope. She had returned to my darkest place to light the way forward.
13.
IN JANUARY 2018, over one hundred and sixty young gymnasts traded bare feet on vinyl mats for flats and tile floors, to stand one by one before a podium to read their statements to Larry Nassar, his face covered in stubble as if dipped in soil. When the news appeared, I was chopping carrots and tofu, feedin
g Mogu, the TV on in the background. As the voices of these young women entered the room, I let everything burn, the steam rising as I sat mesmerized, watching them. Their words were made of steel. Even when their voices quivered, their eyes stayed fixed. I thought, if I, as a survivor, am made up of the same fibers as them, if it is true we are built of similar threads, I am unshakable. Something in my chest seared that day, I felt like I could lift a car, climb a mountain, I was proud to belong to what being a survivor meant. The power they exuded. Little girls don’t stay little forever, Kyle Stephens said. They turn into strong women who return to destroy your world.
Maybe Larry thought time had been on his side, mastering his technique as the years went by untroubled. But all that time they were growing stronger, looking for the right temperature to safely emerge. Still the source of their power was not lost on me; only after withstanding unbearable amounts of torment could that tone be achieved.
But something was different. My focus kept drifting to the mother who stood next to her daughter as she read, a somber shadow, face vacant and wordless in the background. The rows of parents in the audience, sunken and solemn. Rarely do we see the second ring of effect, this sharp contrast between the mighty, forceful daughters, and the sadder echo of their loved ones, insides undone. The scene was haunting. The role reversal, adults stepping back to watch their fifteen-year-olds step up and demand repair, while they were reduced to helpless onlookers. Behind every powerful speech, a second layer of thought seemed to play out in the parents’ eyes, a dialogue of guilt, perhaps, dense and heavy. An aching, you were too young to learn this, and still a questioning, what could I have done to prevent this.
When Grandma Ann asked my mom, What was it like when Chanel told you? my mom said four sentences:
I try not to remember.
My knees softened.
I was the one who drove her.
I should’ve turned around, driven my babies home.
Julia says, I was the one who invited you to the party.
Tiffany says, I was the one who left.
Lucas says, I was the one who spoke to you last on the phone.
How many times I have told them, you are the reasons I am still here, not the reasons I am hurt. I can still see it in my parents, the way, when the case is brought up, their faces become grave, like when clouds briefly pass over the sun.
Watching the gymnasts speak was the first time I permitted myself to see the inside of a courtroom on-screen. For the last few years, I had avoided courtroom scenes on TV, shows, movies, even cartoons involving legal proceedings. I saw a baby dressed as a judge on Halloween, the little black cloth, the gavel, and I hated that baby, and I hated the parents who thought it was funny, and I knew I was crazy.
I had deemed the criminal justice system too brutal, too time consuming. My faith was dimming. Where were we supposed to go to? Why is it so hard to hear a story where the victim is cared for, justice properly served? Then came Judge Aquilina. I’d never questioned the short time limit I was given to read my statement, until Judge Aquilina made time for one hundred and sixty-nine statements. She made it clear each one was important. She invited restoration and compassion into a space I had associated only with torture. Leave the guilt here. It doesn’t deserve any more of your family’s time. She shooed off the negative forces. Quit shaming and blaming the parents, she said. Trust me, you would not have known. And you would not have done anything differently. She said to the women, Leave your pain here and go out and do your magnificent things. I didn’t know instructions like this were possible. In court, the judge is the captain of the ship. My captain sunk us. She turned their ship, pointing them toward the horizon. It was my hope that Stanford could be that kind of an institution, willing to be a leader in protecting survivors.
I was born in Stanford hospital and when I was young I believed this automatically made me smart. I’ve biked through the palm and eucalyptus trees, beneath the red-tiled roofs. I still can’t name most of the buildings, but I can provide a tour of my memories, can point to any place on campus and say, This is where . . . This is where I sat at a foldout table selling Girl Scout cookies. In middle school I was self-conscious about my height, so Grandma Ann took me to the Stanford women’s basketball meet and greets to show me what tall women become. I wore my grandpa’s binoculars at every game, lassoed little towels when I cheered, loved the dancing tree mascot that looked like a massive toilet paper roll with googly eyes and floppy leaves. Stanford was where I took Chinese classes by the fountain, and a computer class where I learned how to type and edit videos; I created my first video about a fork that had superpowers (the Fork Master 3000, it could dig holes and comb your pet’s hair). Tiffany and I would find golf balls in the grass by the Stanford golf course, imagining they were special eggs, and take them home to incubate.
Around twenty students from my graduating high school class were admitted. To visit a friend at Stanford was common, attending silent disco parties or playing Apples to Apples over holiday breaks. Stanford was made up of friends, idols, teachers. I may never have been a student, but it was my community before I knew it was a university. It was home.
After I was assaulted, I was left in silence for ten days. A Stanford dean had my name, but nobody contacted me. Nobody said, How are you doing. Did you make it home okay. I figured that since I wasn’t a student, I wasn’t entitled to support. Still I hoped for an extended hand during that crucial period of time. I had not yet learned how to ask for help, but if it had been presented, things might have been different. I may not have spent so much time calling hotlines in my van. What I mean to say is I wish there’d been some display of care, some directing me to resources, some acknowledgment of what happened.
Stanford’s absence became a constant presence as I drove around Palo Alto. The assault harmed me physically, but there were bigger things that got broken. Broken trust in institutions. Broken faith in the place I thought would protect me. Their apathy, their lack of apology I could live with, but what troubled me most was their failure to ask the single most important question: How do we ensure this does not happen again? They had treated my assault like a singular, isolated incident. After Brock voluntarily withdrew, they called me once, to inform me he was not allowed back on campus. Other than that, little seemed to be set in motion. My assault came and went. But nothing is ever that simple.
Brock was not one bad apple, he just threatened to expose the greater, underlying issues of sexual violence on campus. Stanford should have taken the opportunity to conduct a systemic review of procedures and policies. To make sure that when a victim is harmed, there are services in place to take immediate action. To reevaluate safety on campus. To make survivors feel supported. They should have said, It mattered, what happened to you.
A few days after my statement went viral, Stanford came out with a statement of its own: There has been a significant amount of misinformation circulating about Stanford’s role. In this case, Stanford University, its students, its police and its staff members did everything they could. They said when they’d learned my identity, the university reached out confidentially to offer her support. When I read their statement, unapologetic, almost prideful, Stanford takes the issue of sexual assault extremely seriously and has been a national leader in taking concrete steps . . . it was lemon wedges in the wound.
Jennifer J. Freyd, a Stanford alum and psychology professor, wrote an open letter to the administration. She condemned their self-congratulatory and defensive stance. She discussed a term I’d never heard of, institutional betrayal, which can cause victims harm that occurs above and beyond that caused by the sexual violence itself. The irony is that institutional betrayal is not only bad for those dependent upon the institution, but comes to haunt the institution itself.
That summer, Michele was on the news pointing out Stanford’s lack of apology. She said my assault wasn’t unpredictable, wasn’t random, they’d created
a condition for it. She was protected by her tenured position, allowing her to openly criticize their practices. I assumed it was futile.
The news of the statement had swelled and passed, the summer had come and gone. On August 31, 2016, two days before Brock would leave jail, I received a call from Michele, good news. A woman in a position of power informed Michele that Stanford wanted to apologize and pay for my therapy. I will call this woman Appleseed. Eating one apple seed is harmless. But eat enough over time and they can be toxic, subtle and corrosive, impossible to break down. Appleseed said she’d email me the document; all I had to do was sign it to receive the money. I said I refused to receive any money until they agreed to meet with me, to talk about how my assault was handled and understand what they could do better in the future. Michele suggested that we accept the offer before Stanford could change its mind.
It angered me, that this call was taking place two days before Brock’s release. I questioned their motives, incentivized to clear their name and avoid negative publicity before the media swelled around my case again. I went to Lucas, what do I do. He said, If they’re serious about it, the offer will be there in a few days. He also asked what the catch was. So I asked about the catch. We need a commitment from you that you would not bring litigation.
I finally understood I was visible not as a person, but a legal threat, a grave liability.
I wanted to turn my nose up, I don’t need Stanford. Who is Stanford, Michele said. You realize Stanford is a multibillion-dollar corporate trust. You can’t personify a complex organization. It was a brand, an experience they sell you. The same way Mickey Mouse is a grown man, getting paid to mutely stand inside a suffocating, rigid shell, coated in black fur with thick, white gloves. At the same time, she said Stanford was not a monolith, it was made up of different people with different motives. There are people you are allowed to hate, and there are people who are trying to help you. Listen to the ones who are trying to help you. Michele believed in Appleseed, in potential for reform. Michele had an idea to replace the dumpsters with a garden accompanied by a plaque with a quote of my choosing. I thought this would be nice and agreed.
Know My Name Page 30
