Know My Name: we are her, she is us
In January 2015, Chanel Miller was sexually assaulted by Brock Turner, a Stanford swimmer. The crux of the issue was not the “effects of alcohol and the promiscuity that comes with it”. This was a problematic, intentional, serious, and agonizing case of sexual violence.
Chanel hid behind the name ‘Emily Doe’ and fought and fought. It is exhausting to fight when she is already wounded, to display battle scars so openly and to suffer through the injuries once more. Her victim impact statement, which the presiding judge for her case did not fully recognize, was published anonymously by BuzzFeed, and then her letter became viral overnight, garnering tens of millions of views.
My damage was internal, unseen, I carry it with me. You took away my worth, my privacy, my energy, my time, my safety, my intimacy, my confidence, my own voice, until today.
Everyone’s story is different. Some women suffer in the dark, without ever becoming an internet sensation, or even letting close family knowing. Some women are not found by the dumpster, with two Swedish cyclists shouting to stop the rapist. It’s just so fucked up that this is a silent problem, and how many women experience assault but are only able to swallow, get out of bed, and continue. And no, nobody deserves to go through their trauma for someone else, as if filmed on loop, deja vu after deja vu.
I hate that women need to fight this uphill battle. I hate that the world presents the victim a tilted stage, and Chanel carries her trauma with her, sleeping only when the sun rises, her body refusing to fall asleep, even with all the lights on at night. Watch your back, watch your step, watch your weight, watch your words too, because when the victim’s naked body is pictured as evidence on-screen, it somehow is the victim’s shameful story; she surely must have been an oddball.
I hate that in order to find closure, she needs to present her truth in direct competition with a story told by her assaulter. Whose “truth” do you accept? The truth does not mean anything. Only the world’s sympathy means something. Only judgment.
Chanel did not exclusively suffer for the 20-minute duration of the assault, digital penetration with the intent of rape. Suffering and trauma do not just go away. It stays. It hurt her so much that she loses trust in herself, in strangers, and this incident changes her centre of gravity. Do you know what it is like to look at your own body, and feel stuck, foreign, out of control, and lost, for years and years? Do you know what it feels like to feel intimidated by every man who flashes a smile at you as they pass by, expecting only malice?
Chanel suffered through assault, suffered through seeking her own closure, and suffered again in court, where she was asked to recall her trauma in every single detail, down to the ounces of alcohol she drank, which route she took, and the chicken and broccoli (with rice? or with quinoa?) that she had, a year ago before the incident. Was she sexually active with her boyfriend? Why was this even relevant, to begin with, if she was in a relationship? The way the court questioned her and pushed the blame onto her while the media framed Brock as an all-star athlete is… repulsive.
When I was little, I thought of the world was perfect. I thought my parents were the absolute best people to exist on the face of the earth, and they were people who knew the answers to all of the problems in the world, and I could drift asleep in their arms knowing that everything would be okay, as long as they were around. But the more people I met and the more stories I listened to, the more I realized that the world is not neatly organized into rows and columns, the way I pictured it to be, where the bad guys would always get caught, where fairness exists, and nobody is above the law. It’s like driving. Long before I’ve ever driven a car, I thought traffic rules were these invisible guidelines running the order of the street, these strings steering puppets, and I’d walk in front of a parked car not even mentally registering there is potential for collision, save a skirt of a quick glance. Once I laid my foot on the gas pedal, I realized how tactile it was. How sensitive. I just had an entire gradual realization of how easy it is to hit someone.
As human beings, we have so many complicated intentions and we all hold the power to hurt people. We are capable of it. The world is very complicated, and there are gradients and systems and structures that can legitimately drag people down, while gaslighting, to make the process look like it’s pretty functional for any other ordinary onlooker.
All evidence is up to interpretation. All evidence. Evidence does not speak. Evidence cannot speak. Evidence can only be interpreted and applied.
Chanel harboured her truth, and she knew her truth and spoke her truth, but somehow, that wasn’t enough. In the court, little twists and turns in language mean that she has to review her stack of files and practice her case, and the natural blunders in her speech are exploited, and ripped apart, where she stands the test of being misled and manipulated by her own words.
hffffffff… What am I trying to say here? Bear with me. I’m trying to convey that my worldview, my understanding of the world, grew in a sense through realizing that there is no perfect system. We fawn over democratic ideals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and blindly believe that somehow, democracy is supreme, and language is uncorrupted. We like to think that the justice system is fair, and people who serve jail time deserve sentences identically proportional to the weight of their crimes, and emerge out of incarceration, as people who are blank slates ready for second chances. But that is all so perfect, too perfect. There are little teeny tiny fractures everywhere I turn my head, and some of them, as difficult as it already is, we just need to come to terms with, because everything is a compromise, and as human beings, we have too many interests, too complex of intentions, and too, too, too much that we want, to make everything work at the same time.
Does that make sense? I’m not sure.
Reading Chanel’s book dimmed the lights of the world, made me feel a little bit tighter, and become a tinge more of a prudent pessimistic realist. But there are still lights. The lights aren’t extinguished, only dimmed.
To anyone voicing their hurt, we are her, she is us. We believe you.
And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought everyday for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you. As the author Anne Lamott once wrote, “Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.” Although I can’t save every boat, I hope that by speaking today, you absorbed a small amount of light, a small knowing that you can’t be silenced, a small satisfaction that justice was served, a small assurance that we are getting somewhere, and a big, big knowing that you are important, unquestionably, you are untouchable, you are beautiful, you are to be valued, respected, undeniably, every minute of every day, you are powerful and nobody can take that away from you. To girls everywhere, I am with you. Thank you.
