It Happened To Me And I Did Everything Right, Right?

Title IX. The DKE incident. Patrick Witt. Rape culture. Hookup culture. Sex Week versus True Love Week. Just Say No (To Awful Sex). No matter the venue, no matter the cause, we love to talk about Yale’s sexual culture. We repost the articles we love, we criticize the articles we hate. We get offended. We argue. We ruin dinner with our overheated debates. Those who refuse to take part in Yale’s sex culture are often not above passing judgment on those who do, which in turn offends the sexually active, whose activities range from loving and committed to fun and casual (and possibly regretful). Regardless of our level of sexual activity, though, we all generally agree that sex should be between consenting adults who have all manner of control over their own situation (whatever their own definition of that may be). Rape is a terrible, ugly thing, and none of us want that for our fellow friends, loved ones, or classmates.

The issues of consent and proper signaling, however, are often murkier and more heavily debated. Is it rape if she says yes and she’s drunk? Can you truly consent if you feel a certain amount of pressure? Is she exaggerating or was it really that bad? Did her peers/dean/advisors tell her to keep quiet? Is she doing this for attention? I mean, if it really was that bad then of course I support her, 100%, but what’s the real story? (Or, as I can't believe I’ve seen in recent YDN comments, why won’t she just tell us who she is if she has nothing to hide?).

Here’s the thing that's disturbingly hard to pin down, and it’s a thing I’ve struggled to define myself: what is sexual assault? When does it go from joking/too much to drink/mixed signals to a real, honest-to-God threat? How serious should you be when you follow up after an event like this? Are you going to ruin this person’s life? Are you going to ruin your own by overreacting to a situation that really just wasn’t that bad? Can you trust your friends to support you regardless, or are you going to realize this was really not a big deal in the warm light of day? When is it not okay to just go home and let it go?

I didn’t know, when I was in that position myself. I was a little drunk that night, and it was late. A massive crush of mine had just kissed me, and I was feeling invincible. I came home to my college and ran into a guy I’d always seen around but had never had the chance to talk to in any depth. He was cute and flirty, and I was in a great mood. We talked for a few minutes, and everything he said made me feel fantastic. He’d always seen me around but had never had the courage to come talk to me. “You totally should next time!” I protested, giddy from my night and feeling bold. “I will!” He was shy but excited to talk to me, and I was happy to make a new friend. Tired and satisfied with a wonderful night, I bade him goodnight and told him I was ready for bed. With a smile that didn't reach his eyes, he told me “But I’m not done with you yet.” I uncomfortably laughed at what I assumed was just an off-color joke and told him I was just too tired to stay out and talk to him. I walked towards my entryway, my mood a little dampened by the turn the night had taken, and tried to swipe in. It was only after he positioned himself in front of the door, grabbed me with both hands in a way that instantly conveyed how strong and determined he was to pin me, and repeated his words, with an indescribable look in his eye, that I knew.

He wasn’t letting me go anywhere.

I wish I could tell you that I was brave. That I kicked him in the balls and made him cry. I wish I could tell you I was angry, and that I threw a clever Buffy-style one liner his way as I took him down. I wish I could tell you that I did something that would make you proud of me. I wish I could tell you that I was anything other than what I was, which was completely, overwhelmingly, life-blurringly terrified. He was bigger and so much stronger than I was, and he was angry that I was leaving him, that I was saying no, and that anger made him even stronger. After he put his hands on me I swear to God I had no idea how I was going to fight him off, but I knew that I had to do the absolute best I could, because he wasn’t letting go. There aren’t too many people around Entryway B around 1 AM on a Saturday night, at least not on my Saturday night. Somehow I yanked free, ducked under him, swiped in, and ran up my stairs, all too aware that he knew where I lived, and worse yet, had access to my entryway. He yelled “BITCH!” up my entryway as I ran frantically up four flights, to the relative safety of the floor above me where a few of my friends lived.

Luckily, my friends were home and I didn't have to turn around and face my pursuer. I tried to relay what had just happened the best I could, but I was shaken to my core. In the midst of my hysterical explanations, the door to the suite was flung open, and somehow I just knew. The whole room froze. He didn’t come in, but a friend who had seen the door open gently asked me what my assailant looked like, and confirmed it was him. He was looking for me, following his prey, stalking me, and it was only a matter of time before he found my suite and my unsuspecting suitemates below. There was a party in my common room that night, so when he came in it didn’t seem that odd. It was only after he’d gone through the every bedroom in search of mine that my friends knew something was wrong. After the cops came to remove him, they told me he’d just stood there, at the corner of the party, patiently waiting for me to come back. He wasn't done with me yet.

I followed all the proper channels to report him. The police filed a report, I talked to my dean, and I talked to my family. The decision not to press charges was entirely my own. My dean made it very clear to me that the entire situation was in my hands, and that this young man was getting every ounce of punishment I deemed worthy. I asked that he receive counseling, and I let it go. Earlier this year, I told my boyfriend about the whole thing and he said, “What if he hurt someone else because you didn’t do anything more serious?” I guess I’ll never know. I suppose I was hoping he’d had an off night. I suppose when he first touched me I didn’t scream because I didn’t want to wake anyone. I suppose I was hoping he’d followed me to my bedroom to apologize. I suppose I was hoping I’d done the right thing instead of copping out and being a coward. I suppose all I’ll ever be able to do in this situation is just that: suppose.

The point of this story is to point out what isn’t being said. Sometimes you get all the support you could ever desire. Sometimes you’re a little drunk and unsure going into the situation, and you don’t know where the line is. Sometimes you’re afraid to start screaming or throwing punches because you honestly aren’t sure if you’re overreacting. Sometimes you don’t press charges because you don’t want to ruin anyone’s day, or worse, their life. That night was terrifying, overwhelming, emotional, and confusing, and I honestly have no idea what the right answer was. Maybe I found it, and he got the help he needed. Then again, maybe not. Either way, ideas surrounding “sexual misconduct” and the cloudy waters of a sex culture gave me no clear answers, either that night or in the sleepless ones to follow. It is not always rape or no rape, his fault or her exaggeration. Sometimes what’s most torturous lies in the uncertainty. His behavior that night was unacceptable, and I will never forget how terrified I was in the weeks that followed as I saw him around my college. Honestly, I never really felt totally safe until he graduated, even though he never approached me again. Maybe he’s got a stable job and a girlfriend he loves. Maybe he’s going to have a family one day and be a great dad. Maybe his future actions are going to be something darker, something that's going to make me regret not taking full advantage of the options so plainly offered to me. I have no idea. I hope I did the right thing, but either way I know for sure: I did what I could with what I thought was right, and that’s the most confusing position I hope I never have to defend.

Regardless of what becomes of him, what matters to me is what becomes of us. That we, as strong and intelligent Yale men and women, make sure no woman has to wonder if her terror is an overreaction, or if her feelings of violation are unjustified. Sexual assault is not always rape. Hell, rape is not always rape, as we see it in simple, black and white terms. The violation and the indignity lies in the feeling of fear and helplessness, and that is never something we should feel afraid to fight. The minute that man blocked my path and made me afraid, I was violated. That is a pure and simple truth that no debate over level of severity or semantics should overshadow. I hope, should the issue ever come up surrounding someone you know or love, that you do not do as the friends in the recent anonymous YDN articles did and allow your confusion or disbelief keep you from continuing to love and respect them as who they are: someone who was afraid, who felt hunted, trapped, helpless. At best, talking it out and thinking about the situation in retrospect will yield a helpful solution, and if not, your support just might be the only thing that seems right in the most confusing and frightening situation that person may ever face. That certainly was the case for me, and I couldn't be more grateful.