My Children Will Not Become Brock Turner
As I read the reports of the Stanford swimmer who raped a young woman in the dirt behind a dumpster, the words of his father, the victim’s powerful statement, and the backlash from his resulting slap-on-the-wrist punishment it makes my stomach turn. There are so many reasons why I can taste the churning acid in my throat every time I read his name, but the main one is because I was “her”.
I was raped the summer after my freshman year of college. This is the first time I have said those words, and to some extent I have a hard time believing them to be true. The brain has a way of distorting facts and situations in a manner that helps align them with the reality we want, instead of the reality that is. I would say the specifics of the situation are unimportant, but that isn’t true because young men need to understand that behavior that they may deem innocuous is actually rape.
I was back in my hometown and newly single. I hadn’t had the opportunity to date as much as I would have liked to in high school, and I was excited at the prospect of seeing and flirting with some of my old crushes. It was Memorial weekend and I went with a group of girlfriends to a party where we knew some of these “crushes” may be. I drank, danced, laughed, and flirted with several guys, but nothing went beyond that. I was staying at a friend’s house that night (with no adult supervision) so my group of girlfriends and I decided to call it a night and head back. We invited the group of guys we had been flirting with back to her house. They said they were going to hang out at the party for a bit longer, but that they may come by later. Full disclosure: I kissed my soon-to-be-rapist as I left and told him that I hoped to see him later. The alcohol took its hold pretty quickly once we left and I proceeded to pass out in my friend’s sister’s room once we got back to her house. The next thing I remember is waking up naked next to the guy who I had invited back. There was a used condom on the floor next to my underwear and I had flash memories of him kissing me, and then being on top of me. I never consented. I was not promiscuous and had only been with two long-term boyfriends prior to this night. Thankfully, that is really all I ever remembered of this event.
My friends knew that I was passed out, but they thought he would see that and either pass out too, or leave. He didn’t. They nervously laughed and joked about being able to hear the activity coming out of the bedroom, but never thought to intercede. In my humiliation over the events, I played it off like I had gotten exactly what I had wanted. My rapist was so conceited that he asked me out again. I am ashamed to say that I said yes. I guess it was a defense mechanism to the real trauma that was brewing under the surface. It would be years before I could become intimate with another guy without being intoxicated. If a guy came near me when I hadn’t been drinking my body would start to tremble and almost convulse to the point that I drank all the time. No one noticed because that is what college students do.
I don’t know if I will ever have the courage to speak these truths to my children. I don’t necessarily think that my life needs to become a cautionary tale, and to be honest my life doesn’t look like the negative consequence that I want people to associate with my rapist’s atrocious actions. I do know that I will teach my children to have respect for others, men and women alike. I will counsel them against underage drinking and binge drinking because that is often when bad decisions are made. I will make it clear to them that unless someone, male or female, makes the conscious and unequivocal choice to have sex, the answer is NO. And that there will also be times when even if the answer seems to be yes, they should use their good judgment to walk away if the circumstances warrant it. I will tell them how the damaging effects of these actions will not only devastate the victim, but also the offender and their respective families. I will make sure they know that momentary lapses can have devastating consequences that may last a lifetime. Most importantly, I will teach them that only they can control their actions, and that they will be held accountable for them.
I only wish that I would have made my rapist accountable for his actions. I hope in my heart that he didn’t inflict himself on any other individuals, but I fear as I write this that he likely did. He probably wouldn’t even recognize that this story is about him if he read it. His parents raised a rapist, I will not.
