I don’t want to paint this differently than how it happened. I think that’s the reason that I’ve been so hesitant to get it written down, because somehow putting it into words can have the ability to completely transform the experience into something beyond how I intended it to be perceived, which I don’t want. I don’t want to exaggerate but I don’t want to downplay it, either. I feel like I don’t even have the correct vocabulary to sufficiently describe what happened; words are so different from actual events and actions, but I’ll try my best.
Some three months ago I went to a mixer that my sorority had with a fraternity here at JMU. Calling out the exact fraternity isn’t what I want to do here, because I know that one person’s actions cannot define those of 100+ other people. I’m a senior this year, so you can imagine that sorority mixers are just about the last thing on my mind, but my little and G-little are younger and still super into the frat scene, so I figured, why not? I remember exactly what I was wearing, and I remember thinking that I looked good. I didn’t necessarily have high hopes for the night, but I was also kind of excited to act like a freshman all over again and get shitfaced at a dirty frat house while listening to stupid music and dancing with my friends.
I remember exactly what you were wearing. I remember you being dressed head to toe in red white and blue gear — probably the most to-the-theme dressed person at the party. I remember starting to feel buzzed and noticing my little flirting and dancing with a guy she thought was cute and my G-little being across the floor dancing with girls in her pledge class. I remember looking around like a lost puppy for someone to talk to and share in my drunkenness, and hell, maybe even dance with. Somehow we started talking, and I remember us sharing that we were both seniors and laughing at how ridiculous the night all seemed and how old we were compared to everyone else; you weren’t my type at all, and I knew that, but in my tipsy state you instantly became my compatible, safe, party buddy. I remember the topic of politics somehow being brought up and you mentioning that you intended to vote for Trump. I remember voicing my disapproval and thinking to myself something along the lines of, I don’t like that, but at that point I was pretty drunk and enjoying myself, so I let this little detail of your personal preferences slide; after all, it was just stupid flirting at a mixer that didn’t matter.
I remember my little coming up to me at some point in the night and, after seeing me with you, pulling me to the side and asking if I was okay and if I wanted an out. I told her no, of course not! I’m having fun. I remember her voicing her concerns that she was getting weird vibes, to which I probably responded with a shrug and a smile before returning to you. We never kissed.
Fast forward a bottle of wine and multiple cups of beer and gin and juice later to you leading me down to your room. Here things get fuzzy. I remember you bragging about your private apartment in the basement of the house as if that fact alone made you some big VIP. I remember you promising me pizza and me being excited because, well, I was drunk and at that point in the night when I was becoming extremely hangry. I vaguely remember my little and the guy she was with somehow ending up down there with us for a few minutes. From what I’ve been told, she again looked me straight in the eyes and asked if I was okay. “Do you trust this guy?” she asked. “Yes! He’s ordering us pizza,” she recalls me saying.
What I DON’T remember is vocally or physically agreeing to have sex. What I DON’T remember is how my pants were removed from my body, because I know I had no part in this. What I DON’T remember is how I ended up blacking into being on my stomach, legs being handled by someone else’s hands and being spread apart so that you could have better access to my vagina. What I DON’T remember is if you were wearing a condom, or if you even asked me if I wanted you to wear one. Amidst all of the things that I don’t remember about this experience, one thing that will never leave me is you uttering and repeating the words, “This isn’t right, this isn’t right.” THAT’S what I blacked into, confused and limp as I lay on my stomach, a position that I did not consent to. And do you know what you did after I heard you utter those words? You didn’t stop, put my pants back on, get me a glass of water and find my friend. You kept going. I don’t know if I kicked you off or if suddenly my drunkenness and un-involvement in the situation became clear to you, as if it wasn’t already clear as shown through your self-incriminating words, but I remember that at some point you stopped, and in and out of my dozing-off state, you had the audacity to ask me if you could finish. “No.” You were no longer my compatible, safe, party buddy. You were now someone who had just sexually assaulted me.
At some point, I remember my little banging on your door and you yelling for her to go away, “She’s fine.” I remember you saying I could sleep in your bed. “I won’t touch you.” The banging continued and I guess you let her in because I remember her then appearing back at my side and yelling things at you. She said you then cowered off and completely left the room, pissed off, I suppose. Do you know what she then did? She helped me put my pants on, walked me out of the room, and got me a glass of water. I remember feeling her crying as I lay in her lap on a couch in a different area of the house, still confused and shocked as to what had just happened and wondering why she was the one crying and not me. We never kissed.
So, if you’re reading this: I know you know who you are. And if you claim you don’t? Well, shame on you. My purpose in this isn’t to somehow uncover your identity or even get you in trouble; believe me, I could have done that a long time ago and I even had the connections all lined up. But the truth is that I don’t want to ruin someone’s life; I simply want you to know the impact that you had on me that night, in case you were somehow unaware. I want you to know that just because you’re in a fraternity doesn’t mean that you can do whatever you want and be free from any blame or repercussions for your actions. I want you to know that it’s not okay to “grab her by the pussy” whenever you want, ESPECIALLY if that woman does not consent to it and is not in the physical state to even WANT it. These are things our new president is teaching boys, yes boys, just like you, and which I fear the next four years will only exacerbate.
I’ve seen you out downtown once and on campus another time, and both times there were flames in my chest. You have no idea how badly I wanted to walk up to you and punch you right in your smug, spoiled, baby face. But I didn’t. And I didn’t take any actions against you, either. Until now. Because through this letter, I’m hoping that I can somehow draw back the stigma of sexual assault accusations. What happened to me was sexual assault, and I know that now, but for the longest time I kept running through my head the idea that it wasn’t a big deal simply because I had no physical scars to show from it. You didn’t aggressively pin me down to a bed and force yourself onto me as a I yelled no. You didn’t leave me with bruises and cuts. You didn’t do any of this, but instead took advantage of a drunk girl at a party that wasn’t conscious enough to say no, which I don’t think is any better or less condemnable.
Luckily, I have a great support system of friends that I turned to and whom I got great advice from afterwards. I’ve since moved on, and I honestly don’t think about the event very often in the midst of my busy schedule and figuring out what I’m doing after graduation. Luckily. But this isn’t always the case. To anyone else reading this who doesn’t know who I am and who doesn’t know who the person in question is, it doesn’t matter. In fact, it’s better that way. The point is that this could and DOES happen to women all the time on our campus and elsewhere, but because we’re too afraid or feel like it doesn’t match up to a textbook definition of “rape,” we don’t speak up. That has to end now. JMU has been a safe space for me these past four years, and it still is. But an incident like this can easily shift and taint the entire perspective of JMU as a loving, safe community of like-minded people. For the sake of the place we love, PLEASE speak up. I and any other woman who has ever experienced ANY questionable sexual behavior by another person should not feel like we have to question whether or not it’s “serious” enough to speak up about. If you’re questioning it, it is serious enough. Trust me. And until we realize this and support one another, nothing is going to change.