Know My Name

by Chanel Miller

  On September 2, 2016, I opened the news on my phone, watched Brock walk out of the glass doors of county jail in a button-down shirt, lit up with bulb flashes and budding microphones, before he was neatly tucked into an SUV. I knew it was coming. But that summer I felt I’d blinked, and he was out again. Online I found people posting lists of things that were longer than his sentence. Average life span of a sea monkey. The time the Macarena stayed in the Top 100 (Odyssey). My leg hair in the winter (HerCampus). The amount of time I wait for a text back (conniethegoat). Moms conversation when she runs into her friends (amy).

  I clicked on another video of him checking into a hotel with his parents, cameramen swarming him, Do you have anything to say to the victim? For a second I held my breath, listening. He stood in front of an elevator, wearing sunglasses, looking down at his feet, his lips a thin line, his parents scoffing. I don’t know what I was still expecting.

  I had to get out of my house. I jogged to a diner. A man sitting at the counter smiled and said, Are you from Colorado? I realized I was wearing my Colorado sweatshirt. Beautiful state, like you. I’m from a little town north of— I walked away into the back patio. I ordered blueberry pancakes, six of them. When I came back in and passed the man, I stared at him, grabbed powdered sugar, maple syrup, returned to my table in the corner. I’d learned by now how to tie myself back to reality, filtering my world down to a set number of immovable, tactile facts: I am eating delicious pancakes. The sun is out. I am warm. I see pink begonias.

  Brock was out and life kept moving and I was entering some kind of negotiation with Stanford. I was tempted to turn down the money entirely, my pride too big. Mostly I feared the guilt and shame and stigma that arrives when any victim receives any sum of money. But if my sister wanted therapy I wanted her to have that option. If I turned down the money and she came to me for help, what would I say? Go to Dad? Make him work longer hours? I wanted to be able to take care of them, to give them something good for once. If I accepted, would I be leaving all the other victims on campus behind?

  After a year and a half of court proceedings, I’d never received a penny from the criminal justice system. Now that all was said and done, I was supposed to file for restitution, submit my hospital and therapy bills, which Brock was court ordered to pay. But since he was unemployed they said a payment plan would have to be set up, he’d pay it back little by little over the years. I wanted all ties to him cut. Plus he already viewed himself as the victim, and if he received an invoice in the mail, I worried his appeal attorney would be motivated to antagonize me further.

  Michele had introduced me to a lawyer who laid out our options, all of which boiled down to two or three more years in court. As he explained how a deposition works, how my statute of limitations was almost expired, the logistics turned to murky water in my head. I knew I did not have it in me. Stanford was offering $150,000 total, which would cover therapy for my sister and me for a handful of years. Victims receive heat when given any sum. Few acknowledge that healing is costly. That we should be allocating more funds for victims, for therapy, extra security, potential moving costs, getting back on their feet, buying something as simple as court clothes. As Michele pointed out, Preventing assault is so much cheaper than trying to address it after the fact.

  I requested there be a case manager, someone who exists exclusively to serve the needs of the victim, keeping them informed, ensuring adequate support. The lack of support I’d experienced would not happen again. I needed them to review the policies they had in place around contacting victims after rape. I wanted training for the Department of Public Safety on campus so they could better inform victims of the court process and their options, especially when it came to pressing charges. Also please add lighting to the dark back area of the fraternity.

  Michele requested additional well-lit areas and video surveillance in outdoor and high-risk areas. She advocated for even more systemic remedies, assessing cultures of sexual violence within athletic programs, reviewing practices in the fraternity system, working on data transparency, making it more inclusive and expansive.

  The meeting took place on September 6, 2016, four days after Brock was released from jail. I was aiming for tempered rage, strong conviction. Go in, make demands! I went in, shook hands. How quickly my face crumpled. I said a few lines before forgetting what I’d come in to say. I did not intimidate anyone or assert anything. It was as if my chest had one tiny pocket of air, as I whispered about how I wish someone had helped me. Michele confronted her, lambasting Stanford for failing to reach out in the aftermath of the assault. They had my number and name, they knew how to find me. Appleseed apologized.

  Appleseed said that at the time they did not have a clear practice on how to connect nonstudents to resources. She said they wanted to respect my agency and anonymity. She said they’d tried to help me, had a note that they’d offered me mental health resources, but I never came in.

  My mind dug through old memories, when, when did they do this? Was it that late night, sitting in my locked car in the Ikea parking lot? I’d sifted through my workbag, found the number for the Stanford hotline. I told the lady to just sit with me, I needed to know I was not alone. When I finally calmed, the lady on the phone told me she didn’t know the policy for nonstudents, but I could come in, could show up at the office the next day, just tell them who you are. When the call ended, the faceless woman was swallowed back into the void and I was left with questions. If I went in, who would I be seeing, would I have to come out to a person at the front desk? Would I be randomly assigned a therapist? I could not call the hotline back, I would have been linked to a new responder. Part of not seeking help was the self-consciousness about where I fit in, the hesitation I heard in the woman’s voice, we don’t usually do this, but . . .

  I thought the hotline had been confidential. I was suddenly embarrassed, realizing this whole time it had been my fault, I didn’t come in. Plus I was not even a student, there was no protocol, what were they supposed to have done with me? The paper was printed, signed while it was still warm. Appleseed was late for something, and when the door closed I understood that was it, I’d signed away what she needed. Michele was optimistic, this would be an ongoing conversation, but I worried the promises around the money had been fluff.

  I returned home that night, turned it over in my mind. The night I’d called I’d already hit a dangerous low and reached out in desperation. She had missed the point; responding to a hotline call is different than taking initiative, extending resources to the victim earlier, stepping in before she unravels. I tried, I should have said back. That was me, not you. I called you. I should have pushed back. Hadn’t I already felt echoes of this in the court system? Chanel not seeing that. The subtle gaslighting, the shifting of blame and burden back onto the victim.

  I had gone into the meeting seeking an open, personal conversation about making amends, reasonable requests, discussing solutions. I should have realized that from a legal perspective, they were not incentivized to admit to dropping the ball. Appleseed was also under pressure, speaking on behalf of stakeholders and lawyers, acting as a spokesperson for the university.

  That night I felt sick, went to sleep early. At two in the morning I woke up vomiting into our new wicker basket, congealed liquid dripping through the cracks of woven wood. I took off my clothes and laid in fetal position on the bathroom mat, crawled between toilet and shower, my cheek pressed to the drain. It felt like someone was cutting up the insides of my stomach. The whole bathroom smelled sour. I laid there for nine hours.

  I couldn’t believe how I’d gotten food poisoning. It was odd because in China I’d eat meat cooked in unfamiliar oil, ate where men waded barefoot into the water to catch fish, gutting them on wooden stumps, stewing them before me. I wrote a list on a pink Post-it note: Thursday, pesto pasta. Friday, chicken. The cramping continued. My parents visited a week later, saw I had stopped eating, and told me to go to t
he doctor.

  What brings you here today? I sat on that crinkly paper and presented my pink Post-it note: Thursday, pesto pasta. Friday, chicken, on and on until the doctor stated, You must have gotten a bug. The doctor advised me to take Pepto-Bismol. I shook my head. I already finished all of mine, it just turns my vomit pink. The doctor said I should try the chewable tablets, not liquid, and wait for the bug to pass. It hit me then. I had created the wrong list. Thursday, talks with Stanford. Friday, rapist out of jail. A panic attack, a failed meeting, guilt from money, the politics of negotiating, all repressed in my gut. I didn’t know how to say any of this. I’ve also been experiencing anxiety. The doctor asked, Have you tried therapy? I nodded. Okay, well maybe that’s something we can explore next time, but anxiety is common, so let’s give it a few months and . . . I stared at the floor.

  After my statement was released and the outpouring of support came in, I believed I was in the smooth sailing days. The worst is behind me days. I felt I had power. I’d been so excited, some had said I’d moved the needle. If I could move it I could surely redirect it entirely, could change the world overnight. I went into that meeting naive, thinking I was going to end sexual violence on campus over the course of an hour.

  But Michele understood how long things take. She’d been battling Stanford for over a decade. Social change is a marathon, she’d said. Not a sprint. You do all you can in the time that you have. By time she meant lifetime, that over the span of our lives we may not see everything we want corrected, but still we fight. I was awakening to the excruciatingly long process of substantive change, how huge and imbedded systems are, how impossible they are to dismantle, how tiny I was.

  A week later, I apologized to the lawyer, sorry I had not done enough. I hoped we could still work together to bring change to Stanford. He said, We both hope this is a really positive step forward for you . . . we admire your tremendous strength. . . . You have a light that shines and that is something that Turner couldn’t touch.

  His legal partner said, I hope anxiety about not doing enough quickly vanishes, you’ve done so much. But the shame rang through my head, stupid, small, selfish, canceling out their encouraging voices.

  A check arrived in the mail. I drove to a new bank, opened an account, and gave my dad the password to use for any family emergencies. I put money into my sister’s retirement account.

  One night I overheard my parents talking about financial strain and my face filled with heat. I wanted the money to solve everything, everyone should be happy now. No more suffering, no more struggle. I ended our sadness. I did this one thing.

  Since the location would soon be converted to a garden, Michele took me to see it in the daylight for the first time since the assault. The stomach cramping returned.

  What struck me was how uninspiring, how underwhelming all of it was, this patchwork dirt lawn, saggy-limbed trees, a slope of dead pine needles, shit and beer cans, plastic spoons and broken glass, a ketchup packet and two black dumpsters. This? This is it? This is where my whole life was defined, the place that led to sacrificed relationships, unemployment, loss of identity, everything reduced and stolen by this pathetic shitty fraternity yard. How had the years passed with me still not free of this place, negotiating with Stanford over something as simple as a fucking light. A light! All my life and all my pain, standing there, felt like a joke, I wanted to laugh, to dig my fists into the ground, rip out clumps of the earth, to smash the glass patio doors with the wooden chairs I remember dancing on. Instead I said nothing, stood blinking in the sun, and after a few minutes, turned and walked back to Michele’s car.

  Half a year passed. Appleseed sent a message, passed through my lawyer to me. I hope that you are thriving. There would be a case manager, lighting added. She informed me that information about my assault should have come from my DA’s office, it had never been their responsibility. They wouldn’t say it, would never say, We were supposed to protect you, and we failed. We should have followed up, and we did not. We should have come to you sooner, we will next time.

  I attended the art therapy program for survivors of sexual assault and relationship violence on campus. One evening I drove the hour from San Francisco to a small room tucked behind a dining hall. The workshop was led by two women; one who was a confidential support person and one who was not. When I told them I’d be coming, I was paranoid they’d mark that I was there, a note passed on to Appleseed, so if I ever said Stanford should have done more they’d say, We have a note here that Chanel benefited greatly from the pipe cleaners and markers. I told myself I would simply observe.

  A metal pitcher of water and gummies sat in the corner. It was pouring rain. The workshop did not include discussion, so we worked in silence, shaping clay. There were little cards we could flip over on our desks if we wanted to talk. If you flipped it, the confidential woman would come talk to you in a whisper. Sitting in the company of other survivors brought me peace. There was no pressure to speak or feign cheer. A part of me ached, found myself secretly willing healing into those quietly working around me, and in turn I began directing some of that well-wishing toward myself. I wondered what it meant, that these students, who must have had plenty of homework, still showed up for two hours to make tiny sculptures. What was that longing, what brought them here, what needed nourishing. And where were the perpetrators who put us here? Why were we the ones gathered in silence on a rainy night, touching clay, while they carried on with their lives?

  I tried to come back when I could. There was a session called Unmasking Anger. We would be making cardboard masks that personified rage; a mask would be a way to identify the presence of the emotion, but create enough distance not to be fully consumed by it. I planned to make a big ass mask. When I showed up I was the only one there, me and the two women and a scattering of empty stools. The confidential lady asked if I wanted to stay and talk and I said yes, so the nonconfidential lady left so I could speak freely. Maybe this was my chance to say what I was never able to say to Appleseed. But again I cried, revisiting the feelings of abandonment, diluted apology, the emotional bruising, the refusal to acknowledge lack of care. How pathetic it was to keep waiting for someone to restore my faith in this place I so valued since childhood.

  You belong here, she said. And anger is allowed to be embodied. Rage for the perpetrator, bystanders, society, was a healthy and normal response. Some direct anger inward toward themselves, feeling that this is the only safe way to be angry. This could result in negative self-talk, blaming ourselves for the trauma, struggling to reconcile prior beliefs about justice, systems of meaning.

  The question came back to me, Who is Stanford? If she is Stanford, then Stanford is kind and validating. Who is Stanford? A boy outside was playing “Feliz Navidad” on the tuba. Is he Stanford? Is Appleseed Stanford? I spent the next two hours cutting out a large, flat cardboard mask, with wiggly horns and a snout. I drove one hour home exhausted, leaned the mask against the wall, watching it slide down to the floor.

  When I share with people that Stanford was more intent on self-preservation than caring about one person, people say in the gentlest way possible, No shit. But why? Why no shit? Why do we expect so little from universities? Why is it rare to hear the occasional story in which the university responded correctly and worked with the victim to improve campus safety? The few of us in the art therapy room were just a sampling, for there are rooms full of survivors across the country, seeking help in any form they can find.

  Often victims are the ones who drop out of school or transfer. She soundlessly exits while the school keeps moving along, undeterred. I am not naive to expect better, I am not delusional to want more. I’ve learned the ways transparency heals. Accountability heals. Appleseed said, That such quiet violence could have been perpetrated on our bucolic campus . . . is never far from my mind. In that line I hear the disbelief, how could such a thing have happened here? She speaks as if this was a dark stain on an o
therwise spotless campus. But we know the statistics, all those glaring red bodies, her and her and her. It is commonplace, omnipresent to those who live it.

  I returned to art therapy. The woman began by talking about evolution, can we think of anything that evolves? When we were quiet, she suggested a frog, talked us through its stages. I thought for a minute, looking around again at the young students. Are they here because they hope to one day become frogs? By definition, wouldn’t I be a frog? I had gone through the legal system, grew my legs, confronted my attacker, stated my truths. But I felt no different from them.

  No matter how formidable or self-assured I might become, I will always be a tadpole. I believe that’s what being a victim is, living with that little finicky, darting thing inside you. Most people say development is linear, but for survivors it is cyclic. People grow up, victims grow around; we strengthen around that place of hurt, become older and fuller, but the vulnerable core is never gone. More than becoming a frog, I believe surviving means learning to live forever with this trembling tadpole.

  Appleseed asked for a quote to be placed on a raised bronze plaque in the garden. I provided the lines from my statement about relearning my worth, which began: You made me a victim. . . . I had to force myself to relearn my real name, my identity. To relearn that this is not all that I am. . . . I am a human being who has been irreversibly hurt, my life was put on hold for over a year, waiting to figure out if I was worth something. Appleseed rejected the quote. My lawyer pushed back: A pretty garden with a softer message that no one notices is actually less useful than the dumpster that preceded it. Appleseed succumbed and agreed to have a mock-up made. For months I received numerous updates about the intricate site plans for the garden; stone veneer seating wall, dark-colored river pebbles, topsoil, wood bench without armrest, stone color: Hillsborough and Willow Creek (50 percent of each color), flagstone mortar joint color to be determined, Swirl Fountain by Stone Forest, exact location of bench to be determined, batter exterior side of wall only, samples to be reviewed by landscape architect. But there was still no Title IX investigation, no policy review. Still no plaque.