I fall victim to Netflix binges often—usually after a day full of work and with a heart that yearns for some downtime. This past week, I opted to work my way through a documentary between bouts of coursework and co-curricular writing.
That documentary, Audrie and Daisy, pulled at my heartstrings more so than just about anything I’ve seen before. In reality, that pull was driven by the fact that the documentary—unlike most others—didn’t hold a bias. It provided a well-rounded outlook on the matters discussed and, in turn, was impactful in how hurtful the raw, transparent realities of its subjects were.
The film’s about sexual violence. And the most heinous of its kind.
Focused on the troubled experiences of three very real characters—Audrie, Daisy and Paige–the hour and a half-long documentary highlights the crimes committed against the three, underage girls and the injustice the two surviving victims felt.
Audrie Pott, age 15, was invited to a party on Sept. 2, 2012, where around 10 others were in attendance. Pott was encouraged to binge drink, fell barely concious and was drawn on by her male counterparts—ones she referred to as “friends.” Half her face shrouded in permanent marker and vulgarities written all over her stripped-down, nude body, at least three boys sexually assaulted her. Photos of the assault were taken, only to be deleted upon law enforcement’s intervention and after they’d been shown around the school—initiating immense slut-shamming on Audrie’s part.
Pott took her own life by the end of the school week, following the party and painful bullying it gave way to.
Pott’s abuser faced punishments, too, only after aggressive legal action on the part of Pott’s parents—looking for some sort of justice.
Their punishment, nothing near the hurt felt by the Potts, was reached in a civil trail legal settlement—springing from a juvenile court case which only called for a 30-day, weekend sentencing for two of the boys and a 45-consecutive day sentencing for another.
The following settlement: Two of the boys were required to verbally apologize in open court—admitting to the crimes committed and their role in Pott’s death. They also agreed to participate in the documentary, pay a combined $950,000, support a petition for Pott’s honorary high school diploma and to give 10 presentations on the dangers of sexual assault and sexting.
These young boy’s reputation was besmirched and, now, they can work past that. For Pott, the besmirching of her reputation was deadly. Ironically, their identities were still protected in the documentary, too.
Daisy Coleman and her friend Paige, both originally from Albany, Miss., snuck out of Coleman’s Maryville, MO, house during a sleepover. The two were invited to a friend’s home for a get-together of sorts. Once inside, the two were met by five boys, two of which separately assaulted Coleman and Paige. Coleman, at age 14, was assaulted by a 17-year-old while nearly unconscious on a bed. In the documentary, Coleman tells that she’d had at least 12 shots at the time of the assault. Sadly, those boys were friends with Coleman’s older brother, too.
The boys dropped Daisy and her friend off back at Coleman’s home, leaving Coleman outside to freeze—almost to death—on her front lawn.
Matthew Barnett, Coleman’s attacker, was arrested for the sexual assault, alongside Jordan Zech, also 17 and a senior at Maryville High School. Zech recorded Barnett’s assault of Coleman, a felony, only to delete the video upon law enforcement intervention.
The case against the two claimed major, national headlines, as Barnett, the grandson of former state representative Rex Barnett, had all felony charges against him dropped; it’s something we too often chalk up to a coincidence but, really, just speaks to the abuse of power and the magnitude of connections.
Thankfully, Coleman didn’t take her life—successfully. And, through therapy and the strength of her impacted family, she’s joined a force of other survivors—focused on speaking up for those suppressed by the sexist notion that “women just seek attention,” which one of the officers in the case claimed during the film.
But, really, Coleman’s more than a strong-willed woman, choosing to share her unfair experiences. She’s an advocate for change, using her upset to help prevent other’s. She’s a talented artist, too.
Honestly, Coleman’s my mother, sister and friends—and, clearly, not in the literal sense; her experiences represent the threats facing the women in all of our lives. And, while I pray my loved ones never face such injustice, I’m thankful for brave activists such as Coleman–who realize that falling victim to injustice doesn’t define their truths; rather, when channeled efficiently, they can help one find truths.
Equality isn’t limited to protection under the law. It extends into the way we treat those around us and educate our youth to treat those around them.
To Coleman, and other survivors of injustice, thank you for being bold enough to share your stories — the kind that question where we allocate power and the voices we prioritize.