VICTORY DAY

*Trigger Warning

This morning was chaotic. Life is chaotic. It’s messy and unpredictable, serendipitous and surprising. This morning was no exception. At 8:22 I was halfway down the stairs, tripping over the dog and dashing to my car.  I had 8 minutes to get to my Monday morning staff meeting. I live 12 minutes away. I flung open the door to our garage and did that awkward side maneuver you have to do when you need to be the barrier between your dog and freedom-- while simultaneously not dropping your yogurt, spoon and LaCroix all over the floor. I pulled the door behind me with my foot, breakfast in hand, dog in house. Success. I pressed the garage door opener with my elbow and made my way to the car. As the garage door lifted I saw a van pulling down the driveway. The gutter guys were coming to the tune of a $350 roof repair. Crap. I forgot that was today. Drake and Eugene introduced themselves as I fumbled through the car for my checkbook. I pulled two lip liners and an unsharpened pencil out of my purse before a pen surfaced from the bottom. “What’s the date” I asked, halfway listening, distractedly wondering if I’d be able to get over the Veterans’ Bridge without hitting traffic. Six minutes to get to work.  “It’s the 7^th,” Eugene said. “March 7^th.”

If you had told me nine years ago there would come a day I didn’t wake up and dread March 7^th, I’d have looked you in the eyes and called you a liar. If you had told me nine years ago that on this day in 2016 I’d be happily married to the love of my life, caring for two adorable and unruly dogs, enjoying a rewarding career, and worrying about gutter guys on a hectic Monday morning, I’d have looked you in the eyes and called you a liar. If you had told me nine years ago I’d live to see March 7^th, 2016, I would have hoped you were a liar.

Nine years ago, on this very day my soul was trampled, my sanity wrecked and my virginity stolen. The room was spinning. It smelled like stale beer and my mouth tasted like cheap whiskey. It happened so fast. It lasted forever. I fought. He fought harder. I covered myself. He pried my hands apart. I crossed my legs. He flipped me over. I asked him to stop. He laughed in my face. I watched from the ceiling as my cold, naked body struggled to fend off a beast. On March 7, 2007 in a dimly lit cinder block room in the basement of a fraternity house, I lost the battle.

On every single March 7^th since, I’ve won the war.

The control you stole from me that night was fleeting. I took it back, and then some. Out from under your wrath, I took you to court. For one year I fought tooth and nail to get you behind bars. You deserve to be there today. But you, like 97% of all rapists, are going on about your life, free of every felony you committed against me. But you will never be free of what you did. You belong to a small group of people who commit heinous acts. For years I feared I’d forever belong to a large group of helpless victims. I was wrong. I belong to an empowered group of determined survivors. You on the other hand, will always be a rapist. You are a lifetime, card carrying member of humanity’s most despicable association.  

But today, it’s March 7, 2016 and I’m busy. I have a meeting in 30 minutes, the launch of a major marketing campaign to oversee and what seems like a 1000 emails to sift through before my Junior League meeting after work. My phone is buzzing and beeping with texts from friends and loved ones. “I love you and I am so proud of you.” Thinking of you on your Victory Day.” I’ll cap the day off at a dinner date with my husband.  We’ll flirt like the newlyweds we are. We’ll laugh because we do- a lot! I’ll tell him about my busy day and hear all about his. We’ll have a perfectly wonderful evening because today belongs to me.

You see, this is my Victory Day. I’ve spent enough time surviving and overcoming. I’ve slayed that dragon. I don’t have time to dwell on monsters. I’m too busy trying to stop them. 

TAKE BACK THE NIGHT 2015

It's not often victims of sexual or domestic violence flood the streets. In fact, it's far more common for victims' stories remain much like their faces: anonymous. But not last night. It's called, "Take Back the Night." Tonight, survivors of unspeakable acts- rape, assault, incest and abuse- joined friends, family, activists and students. They band together to pay tribute to victims, honor lives lost, find strength in numbers, and most importantly, reclaim the power they were robbed of. Hundreds of people met at the Oak Street Amphitheater at UTC. After music and mingling, the crowd filled into a line and marched throughout the entire campus chanting, "Take back the night, take back the night!” By the looks of it, many of them did. Those who could walk in the rally did, and those who we’re unable to shouted from the golf cart that led the parade. People with intellectual or physical disabilities are 4 to 10 times more likely to be abused.* Some people cried, overwhelmed by the sea of white light from a candle vigil. Others, you could tell, couldn't believe they we're there. How had they become a member of such a atrocious club? Rape happens to "other people" until it happens to you. Until your catapulted into a hell that brings you to your knees. A hell that makes you an unofficial expert. The hell that, after crawling through the darkness for days, months, even years- you find yourself- holding a candle and taking back the night. It's a funeral for the self that was once lost, and a birthday party for the Phoenix that arose. It's knowing for the first time you're not alone. It's the affirmation some women needed that not all men will hurt them. It's the gut wrenching reality that rape and domestic violence doesn't just effect women. It's a shout, it's a whisper. It's leading the parade. It's privately watching from your car on East 5th street as the parade passed by, because you're not quite ready to join the masses. Above all, it's overwhelmingly powerful in every way it should be.

*ARC.org

UNLEASHING MY MIND: THOUGHTS ON HUNTING GROUND

For years I’ve known there was nothing particularly unique about my sexual assault. As a freshman in college, I was raped in a fraternity house after a St. Patrick’s Day party. It’s a story that’s become so common, it’s almost sickly cliché. The grief, depression and PTSD I battled for several years after the attack are the common side effects of surviving such a barbaric act. I knew I was not alone in that either. With love, support and therapy, I scratched and crawled my way out of victimhood and joined a survivor status. It took time. It was not a “club” I particularly wanted to be a part of, but it beats being a victim. I was no longer a statistic in a war against women, but an empowered member of unfortunate fighters. In many ways, knowing I was not alone, knowing my story was common, was something of a relief. Sexual assault can be so isolating, humiliating and private.  But I always thought there was one aspect that was different about my story compared to others; the element of injustice.

I reported my assault in 2008, well within my statute of limitations. My attacker had three charges against him: rape, sexual assault and sodomy. He was from Tuscaloosa, where the assault happened, and his father was a lawyer. I always thought that was the reason my “case” if you could call it that, was brushed under the rug. My investigator quit, my DA didn’t show up for grand jury, and I ended up being represented by a girl my attacker went to high school with. In case you’ve never been, Tuscaloosa is a small town. Needless to say, my case never made it past the grand jury. When I tried to file for lesser chargers, my case was “lost”, only to magically reappear after my statute of limitations had expired. For me, the second assault was becoming a victim of the justice system. And this—this is what I had hoped and prayed was unique about my story. It’s not.

I went to UTC last night to watch Hunting Ground. “It’s heavy” they said. “There are counselors here if you need to talk. This may be a triggering.” I disregarded every warning as I normally do. After eight years, I’m not easily, if ever, “triggered”. I’ve told my story thousands of times, locally and internationally. I’ve heard countless, explicit stories from friends and strangers who have been assaulted. It physically breaks my heart, but it doesn’t “trigger” symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or many times even tears. I’m thankful for that. It would be very difficult to do the work I’m so passionate about doing if every victim’s story emotionally brought me to my knees.  It’s been five years since I can remember crying over thoughts of my assault. Until last night.

My husband and I left the theater and I, never short on words, was silent.  He filled the cool October air with words like, “I love you” and “I’m proud of the woman you are-- the woman you’ve become.” It was hard for him too. I shook my head to thank him, and affirm I was proud of myself. Where I’ve been and where I am today, and I am.  But last night, I was numb and raw all at once. My head swirled. Tears rolled.

The film opens with unedited videos of high school seniors the moment they find out they’ve been accepted to the college of their choice. The uninhibited excitement as they opened envelopes and emails while holding their breath. The release and flood of tears as they dance around the kitchen with their moms and dads. I was taken back to how excited I was to be accepted to the University of Alabama. An only child, my parents and I put a sticker on the back window of my small SUV. I danced, and even accidentally rear-ended my friend’s car once when “Sweet Home Alabama” came on the radio. I hadn’t grown up an Alabama fan, but I was excited to become one. Watching as these soon-to-be college freshman rejoiced over the adventure they were embarking on hit me like a ton of bricks. I remember being just like them- oblivious to the fact one in four of us would be sexually assaulted.

As someone highlighted in the film last night, ‘parents would never send their kids to college if universities told them one in four students would be the victim of a drive by shooting.’ Who would go? And that poignant truth has long been at the heart of my personal mission to raise awareness about date rape. Not knowing I was in danger prevented me from knowing what to do about it. I took self-defense classes. I didn’t walk alone at night. I thought I was safe. I didn’t know a rapist would most likely first become a “friend.” After it happened, I didn’t know I needed to go to the hospital to get a rape kit. I had no injuries- at least not visible ones. What was a rape kit? What was rape? The lack of education and awareness still angers me, but it’s not what left me in tears last night.  

What put my stomach in knots is that, unlike me, these women and men didknow what to do- and they made the bold, terrifying decisions to do it. They filed the police reports, got the forensic examinations, collected evidence, had written and verbal admissions of guilt by their attacker- yet still saw no justice. Statistics flashed across the screen as major, respected universities revealed the hundreds of students they had suspended for breaking the “honor code”, but not ONE student suspended after being found guilty of sexual assault. I watched as Erica Kinsman cried recalling the countless death threats she received from students and strangers claiming she was trying to “ruin Florida State football”. I sat crying, wrestling with the overwhelming realization that justice doesn’t come easy for many rape survivors.

I didn’t sleep much last night and woke up a little groggy. I took the dogs out, got dressed, grabbed a power bar and was off to work. It was Wednesday as usual. But while driving in today, what had just hours ago been overpowering emotions of anger, sadness and bitterness, began to be replaced by feelings of empowerment, motivation and hope. I remembered where I was going, the Partnership, and what I would have to drive past to get there, UTC. What an honor it is to be a member of the team working to change sexual violence in our community. That we have the ability to partner with schools like UTC who are striving to set a precedent in the community, state and country for how to handle sexual assault accusations and crimes on campus. How, together we can stop allowing victims to be easily dismissed. I thought about the Partnership’s SART (Sexual Assault Response Team) program- a team of District Attorneys, investigators, victim’s advocates and rape crisis nurses who work around the clock to not let cases fall through the cracks. I think about how the Partnership is the only rape crisis center in our area. These women give their all to every victim who comes through their door; broken and at their weakest. They’re met with compassion, counseling, strength, and the safety that comes from knowing they are finally out of harm’s way.  And so, while films like Hunting Ground remind me of just how much work is left to be done, organizations like Partnership affirm to me that our community is busy doing it.

As an employee, advocate and survivor, I want to thank you. Thank you for spending countless hours volunteering your time. For generously donating old belongings and cash to help support our mission. But most of all, thank you for allowing us to serve the victims of sexual abuse in our community, and for believing in our collective capability to change the world we share.