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.  

Down with the Crown

Crowning Disappointment 

I spent my Sunday night begrudgingly watching Miss USA for a project I've been working on. I will try to separate my feeling about pageants from this post but to a small degree the two do go hand in hand. If you want to talk to women about foreign policy, why do 50 of them need to strut around in bikinis and evening gowns six times before finally giving 10 of them a chance to prove they have a brain? 

I digress...

After several struts, smiles and costume changes, it came time for the interview. Up to bat, Miss Iowa. The question: "A recent New York Times story suggested "narcissism is an epidemic" and America's youth are turning into a "hyper-entitled self absorbed generation." Agree or disagree?"

The answer: "I actually do agree with that. I think social media and technology has allowed the youth to post pictures and videos of themselves. That to me seems kind of narcissistic."

Though I do love irony, I'll refrain from posting a link to her Facebook fan page.

Anyways, after a few more crown hopefuls came through we eventually got to Miss Nevada. This is where things got interesting. Her question, asked by Rumer Willis, comes after an alarming statistic about date rape on college campuses. Willis: "Why do you think this crime has been swept under the rug and what can colleges do to combat it?"

Miss Nevada: " I believe that some colleges may be potentially afraid of having a bad reputation and that would be a reason it would be swept under the rug- because they don't want that to come out into the public." 

Yeah, I would agree with that. It does pose unique marketing challenges...

She continues: "But, I think awareness is very important so women can learn to protect themselves. Myself, a fourth-degree black belt, I learned from a young age that you need to be confident and be able to defend yourself. And I think that's something that we should start to really implement for a lot of women."

Ugh. What started strong ended with a nose dive into victim blaming. Shifting the responsibility right off the rapist to not rape, and directly on the victim to keep from being victimized. Lovely. 

And let me just state for the record, It's not that I'm against self defense,pepper spray, or locking doors. I've taken self defense, at times have carried mace, and double check to make sure my doors are locked every night before  bed. There is nothing wrong with taking extra precautions. But, the problem with her answer is that most women aren't fourth degree black belts, and confidence has nothing to do with becoming a victim of rape. 

From the moment Rumer muttered the question, I knew this was coming. I was immediately flooded with a rush of emotions. On one hand, I was so glad this subject was even broached. Every year, the Miss America Pageant captures the attention of young women across the country, for better or worse. But I can't help but wonder if it would have been better for the cause had the question not been asked. Awareness is only helpful when it sends the right message. While I'm sure Miss Nevada never intended her message to be harmful, it is in turn saying, "I'm a black belt and I'm confident. I am fulfilling my responsibility to keep from being raped." It perpetuates that notion that if you didn't fight hard enough, or even at all- you allowed it. but in reality, very few people would use black belt karate moves on a friend, boyfriend or date. And those are the mass majority of people who commit rape. Nearly 90 percent of the time it's someone known to the victim. And, news flash: it's really hard to be an effective black belt when you're blackout drunk. Many victims are incapacitated or not in a position to give consent. Further more according to the National Report on Self Esteem, 98% of girls feel there is an immense pressure from external sources to look a certain way. By that measure, only 2% of girls feel confident in how they look. Thank GOD incidents of rape do not correlate with victims' confidence. 

A recent UN study revealed 70% of men who admitted to committing rape did so because they felt entitled. Entitlement is a dangerous trait. But entitlement can likely be lessened through education. All the self defense in the world will not combat an attitude of entitlement. And as long as we continue to perpetuate the stereotype of rapists being masked criminals lurking in dark alleys, society will unsurprisingly continue to look to self defense as the answer.

Watching Miss USA didn't open my eyes to anything new in the world of pageants. I didn't expect it to. And even though the question took a turn I hoped it wouldn't, it being asked is an indicator of progress. There's a  societal shift taking place. People are finally beginning to recognizing an epidemic that's existed for decades. But as Miss Nevada's answer proves, we've still got a long way to go.  

Even If...

Rape and the blame game. Sadly, the two go hand in hand and it comes from every angle. From self- defense classes that, while helpful in some situations, also perpetuate an idea that women are responsible for keeping themselves from being raped. It comes from friends who dismiss your assault as, "boys will be boys." It comes from rape supportive attitudes, "she's been with everyone, now she just regrets it." It comes from attorneys who put the character of the victim on the stand, when 15 out of 16 rapists will never spend a day in jail.

Worst of all, the blame game also comes from victims them self.

Well... ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. For every victim who has ever felt ashamed or to blame for their assault, this post is for you. Rape is NEVER your fault. Ever.

I'm starting a list called "Even if..."

We are going to add every possible scenario that could happen and make a victim feel guilty. Add to it and lets see how many we can get! You can tweet them to me at @BergenNBaucom with #EvenIf or you can add them to the comments section of this blog.

I'll start...

Even if... you were swinging naked from the rafters.
Even if... you said yes then midway through changed your mind.
Even if... you "led him on."
Even if... you told him you would.
Even if... you had been with 15 people already that night. If you didn't say yes to 16.... that's rape.
Even if you had been with 15 people at THE SAME TIME. (Curious how you did that logistically) but still... non means no and yes means yes.
Even if... you straddled him... both naked parts touching. No is no. Yes is yes.
Even if... you were on drugs.
Even if... you were drunk.
Even if... you are a prostitute.
Even if... you are a porn star.
Even if... you are a wanna be porn star.
Even if... you are a virgin.
Even if... you've been with so many people you lost count.
Even if... you talked dirty.
Even if... you watched porn together.
Even if... You've had sex with him before.
Even if... he's your boyfriend.
Even if... he's your husband.
Even if... he's your ex.
Even if... he was your first.
Even if... he said he loved you. Sex without consent is not love... or sex. It's rape and it's wrong.
Even if... he pressured you.
Even if... you had planned this big elaborate "sexacpade" for months... in detail with great excitement. But then, it comes time to act on it, and oops! You changed your mind. No is no. Yes is yes.
Even if... he's so turned on he says "he can't stop." That's a lie. And that's rape.
Even if... he took you on a helicopter ride around the city, then had an airplane write your name in the sky while you ate caviar on the beaches of Italy. Cool date, but not rape worthy. Oh wait,  NOTHING IS WORTHY OF SEX WITHOUT YOUR CONSENT. Moving on...
Even if... he gave you ride to class and did your homework.
Even if... "you owe him one."
Even if... other people call you a slut. Know your own worth. Don't let others make you feel inferior. There is nothing wrong with owning and claiming your sexuality.
Even if... other people call you a prude. Again... Know your own worth. Don't let others make you feel inferior. There is nothing wrong with owning and claiming your sexuality.

Date Rape Prevention Straws

This is a copy of an email I got from a dear friend. I liked it so much I couldn't keep it to myself. Enjoy!

"subject: warning...​this is me ranting a little!

It's not much info on it but I thought it could spark some good conversation possibly around the idea of date rape.

http://inventors.about.com/b/2011/08/18/anti-date-rape-straw.htm

"hopefully this invention will help keep women safe" !?!?  A straw doesn't keep women safe, people not drugging women is what keeps women safe. Why is it that our society can make money creating/selling a "date rape straw" that tests for date rape substances in drinks...when the real problem is the fact that people in our society commit date rape. Just further proves the point that we need to treat the roots of the problem, not the symptoms. Get rid of date rap by changing attitudes toward rape, then you don't have to sell a stupid straw.

ok I'm off my soapbox."
                                                                    ###

My friend hits the nail on the head. I do believe Mr. Patolsky was well intended in his invention. But, this further illustrates the underlying message ingrained in our culture: "Hey girls, before you go out tonight- when you toss your lip gloss and ID into your clutch, make sure you've saved enough room for your whistle, pepper spray and date rape prevention straw. That is of course, if you don't want to be raped."

I just have to wonder at what point rape became viewed as such a seemingly inevitable part of a woman's life? Has our society really gotten to the point that we've started advocating women bring a science fair project with them to the bar? Again, I understand it's well intended. But the concept translates into a form of acceptance when what we should be doing is taking a stand against rape. We continue to "up the ante" for women with a number of safety precautions (translated into safety expectations) while inadvertently fostering a, "well it happens" attitude. It's just as my friend said above, "Get rid of date rap by changing attitudes toward rape,

But, one last question before I go... Do the straws come in XL for us ladies who prefer long neck bottle? Just food, err, beer for though. Cheers!

A Letter to My Movers

Wow, where to begin? It's been a whirl wind few months for me, so let's start from the top. In December I graduated from the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga... it feels like just yesterday! I traveled a bit, but mostly looked for jobs. Finally one clicked and in April I accepted a reporting position with the NBC affiliate out of Panama City Beach, Fl. That's when time really began to fly! I made a quick move out of Chattanooga and the job took off like a rocket. I'm not actually a journalism major, I majored in Political Science. So needless to say, I've been getting a lot of "on the job training" ha! I absolutely love what I'm doing, though it can be pretty stressful at times! It's been a lot of adjusting, moving to a new town and learning a new job, but I'm finally starting to develop a routine and get back to the things I love and care about (cough cough MMOM).

I look back over the past five years, and particularly the past nine months and am in total awe. Don't get me wrong, I would never want to relive the hell I went through March 7, 2007. Try as I might, it's a day I'll unfortunately never forget. But, it's also a day that no longer has ownership of my life- I own that night. Despite all of its terror, that awful situation managed reshaped my life for the better. So as I said, I'll never be glad it happened, but plucking it from history isn't going to happen. I believe we have to do with it what we can with what we've been dealt and for me, that day changed my entire world.

I would have never moved to Chattanooga where, among making life long friendships, I met a documentary film professor (and dear friend) Dr. Elizabeth Gailey, who introduced me to my true passion in life. She gave me the knowledge, confidence and support I needed to peruse making the film. Had Sarah Waugh (who could not have been a more wonderful film partner) and I not made Miniskirts, Mace and Other Misconceptions, I would have never realized I wanted to be a journalist. That realization led me to the most enriching internship with the ABC affiliate in Chattanooga. I would never be a reporter today without that experience. I feel beyond blessed to say my life took a detour, but I'm living out my dreams. My Political Science background and the support from multiple professors as well as the university, helped me combine my passion and purpose and I am grateful to see it coming to fruition.

Last month I covered a story that really opened my eyes to the way God's plan is working in my life. A police chief was put on temporary leave by the Florida Department of Law Enforcement for mishandling the investigation of a sexual molestation case. He was accused of trying to cover up the situation because the alleged perpetrator was a city employee. The FDLE temporarily suspended his license and the Chief is appealing the case. The alleged victim's grandfather filed the suit with the FDLE and had been battling the case for several years in court. The man accused of the act was found not guilty. I spoke with the city manager about the status of the case in lieu of the Chief, who was out of town. From there, I went to interview the grandfather.  When I arrived, he tearfully told me they'd never been asked for their side of the story. This would be his first on camera interview. What hit close to home for me was this man's desire to be heard. Before I go any further, I want to note that I did presented both sides of this story in their entirety and take pride in that. It was definitely an emotional, and difficult story for me to cover. He was very emotional and his pain was very visible. But, I'm a journalist, not a judge or jury. It's not my job to make a ruling and I cannot give an opinion of what happened. But, I can give both sides a microphone and let their stories be told. Having the opportunity to share this family's side for the first time was liberating for all of us. I knew what it felt like to want to be heard. I also knew the pain of losing in court. Not too long ago, I got a nasty message from a person in response to my film, who referred me being raped as "alleged". It cut deep. What hurt the most is that in the eye's of the law, that's the accurate term. It's a jagged pill to swallow. Every time the pseudo name "Steve" rolls off my tongue it tastes bitter in my mouth- that's not my attackers name. It sucks that I can't say it. But on the other side of all of this, I know the power that comes from a microphone. The opportunity to say, "this is what happened, take it or leave it". There will be some who believe it and some who dont. I can live with that. But I can't live with silence. Giving the grandfather a platform and air time felt like a victory in the fight against silence.


Driving away that day, I realized I'm doing exactly what I'm meant to do. I have a job (which is a blessing in itself) but not only that- I love it! I found my passion and everyday is a new adventure. But most of all, through my job, I have an opportunity to give others a voice. Whether it's stories like the one I shared, or happy stories like yesterday's- what life's like growing up on a watermelon farm (and yes, I did eat some straight off the vine!). I'm a professional storyteller which is both rewarding and a cool adventure for me. But beyond that, I'm working hard to grow my career so that I may become a face and voice for victims of sexual violence, and women everywhere. I want to be a radical for change in the fight against the victimization, societal pressures and the oppression women face everyday around the world. 


Five years ago I didn't think I would ever dream again. I didn't think life would be rewarding again, and I sure didn't think it could ever be better than it was from April 14, 1988 to March 6, 2007. March 7th was a death day in my eyes. I thought the event would just sit there cumbersomely in my life with no way to move it, no way around it, and no way to work with it.  But I was wrong. I do have dreams- bigger than before. My life is rewarding- more enriching than it's ever been. And most of all, Im happy- happier than ever. 


My point to all of this is not to boast or preach, but simply say this: It does get better. There is joy to be found in a world that may have let you down. Your heart will heal, your mind will mend and your soul will shine again. I quote Maya Angelou often but it's true; "you can trod me through the very dirt but still like dust I rise." Just when you think nothing good can ever be restored, it will be. Life is a journey so hang on and hold tight. The glow at the end of the tunnel may be faint now. But when you get there you just may find, that glow is from the bright lights of a party... celebrating the beginning of the rest of your life.  


I love you movers,
BB