From such a young age, women are taught how to protect themselves.
We’ve learned to travel in packs, and if we don’t, a message is always sent when we leave and arrive at places. We’ve learned to cover ourselves because you never know who’s watching. We’ve learned to never start the fight, but to always be the one who comes out on top.
But through all the effort of keeping ourselves safe, “boys will still be boys.”
Because they can’t help themselves, can they? I mean that’s what they tell us.
You see it everywhere. Sly comments about our bodies, awkward encounters that we’re expected to laugh off, warnings about what to wear, where to go, and who to trust. We are taught to treat our own safety as a responsibility, as though the right combination of clothes, precautions, and awareness could prevent someone else from crossing a line.
And yet, no matter how many rules women are given for protecting ourselves, sexual violence continues to happen and devastatingly most likely always will. Because the precautions we are told to hold onto our whole lives will never be enough.
Society tells us to do all these things, but even when we do, they still find ways to blame us for what happens.
“What were you wearing?”
“How much were you drinking?”
“Why didn’t you just stay home?”
All these questions hold the underlying message: women are responsible for taking care of themselves.
Denim Day exists because of that very idea. What women wear should never be treated as evidence of consent. Yet for years, clothing has been used to question whether a woman was “asking for it,” as though the responsibility for someone else’s actions can be stitched into the clothes she chose that morning.
And wearing denim jeans, apparently, is a sign that we said yes. At least that’s according to the 1998 Italian Supreme Court that overturned a rape conviction because the victim wore tight jeans. And to them that implied this 18-year-old girl gave her 45-year-old rapist consent.
And this isn’t some foreign issue that only exists somewhere else. It is sitting beside us in classrooms, residence halls, dining halls, and campus organizations. We all know the stats, 1 in 5 women in the United States experienced completed or attempted rape (nsvrc.org/statistics/). And of those women, 1 in 3 of them experienced it for the first time between ages 11 and 17 (nsvrc.org/statistics/).
And yet, every woman you talk to seems to have a story to tell.
Just think about it for a second. Take a look around your classroom. Look around your friend group. The statistic stops being a number when you realize the people represented by it could be sitting right next to you. Â
We travel with our groups. We text our friends our locations. We keep our drinks with us. We watch all our surroundings. And still, the statistics remain.
The reason they remain is not because women haven’t been careful enough. It is because being careful cannot guarantee safety. And when something does happen, society too often fails us a second time: by failing to believe us, failing to protect us, and failing to hold perpetrators accountable.
Cornell failed Jane Doe.
In the case of the Cornell 7, seven men are being accused of sexually assaulting a fellow student. Yet the punishment they receive? To write an essay. Yes, an Ivy League institution and Law School gave these boys the simple assignment of writing an essay. Something I choose to do for fun. An essay. For an act that could permanently change another person’s life, the consequence was an assignment that could be completed, submitted, and forgotten.
But Cornell wasn’t the only one to fail her. There were 57 men put into a group chat who knew about the events happening. This group chat shows just how easily conversations about women are normalized amongst men. It shows how dozens of people can be willing participants or observers and still say nothing.
Fifty-seven people.
Think about how many people that is. Fifty-seven people who had the opportunity to recognize that something extremely wrong was occurring. Fifty-seven people who could have questioned what was happening. Fifty-seven people who could have decided that there needed to be an end to this.
This is where “boys will be boys” becomes more than an excuse for an inappropriate comment. It becomes a way of making harmful behavior seem normal. When enough people laugh, participate, or stay silent, the behavior becomes easier to dismiss.
These are the people that also sit behind us in class. They live in our residence halls. They are in our friend groups.
And we may never know which ones they are.
That’s the scary part. Not knowing. Thinking your name may be one of the ones behind the statistics, if it’s not already. Because every statistic has a name. Even if they don’t want theirs to be known.
Jane Doe.
That’s the name behind every number.
Jane Doe isn’t a name because there is only one Jane Doe. Jane Doe is a name because there are so many.
And if we are being honest with ourselves, we know who she is.
She’s the woman sitting behind us in class. She’s our roommate. She’s our friend. She’s our sister. She is us.
I am Jane Doe.