Today, United States President Donald Trump, in response to a sexual assault allegation against his Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh, said: “If the attack on Dr. Ford was as bad as she says, charges would have been immediately filed with local Law Enforcement Authorities…”
And since I’ve heard this, I cannot stop shaking with anger — at him, at people who think like him, and at the entire situation.
It’s about to get really unabashedly, disgustingly real. So be warned, and please, anyone who has been assaulted, understand that there may be triggers in this post.
When I was 15-years old (coincidentally the age of Dr. Ford), I was sexually assaulted. I have never and will never refer to it as rape — even though, by all accounts and every definition, it was. I don’t know if I refuse to acknowledge what truly happened to me because I cannot remember the attack, or I don’t want to give my attacker the satisfaction of being my “rapist.” Or perhaps because I was brainwashed from the very moment I awoke from my unconsciousness by the doctors and the police.
When I regained consciousness, surrounded by my parents, friends, and family members in an Emergency Room bed, I was met with distraught, angry faces. Faces that showed disapproval, as well as relief that I was alive. As I tried to sit up, I was tangled in my IV, and felt as if my entire body had been crushed by a house. I looked over to my right, and saw the outfit I had been wearing torn and cut up in the trashcan next to me. It was at that point that a police officer noticed my gaze and began to speak to me.
He asked me what I remembered of that night. I told him very little. The last thing I remembered was being in my friend’s kitchen, and some dude I didn’t know was making me drinks.
Then the real questions started:
Why was I drinking?
Why was I at a party?
Why was I talking to a stranger?
Why was I wearing a leopard print push-up bra?
Why was my skirt so short?
Had I had sex before?
I couldn’t believe what I was being asked, and frankly, I didn’t even know what would lead to such questions.
The officers had to back up and tell me that I had been “assaulted” — that my friend had found me passed out on a couch with a stranger on top of me.
They told me that my friend had to pull this boy off (and out) of me.
When I learned this, I became angry. Why were the officers talking to me? Why were they asking me questions? Why weren’t they speaking to the boy who had drugged me and used my body without my consent?
They informed me that, unfortunately, cases like this hardly ever go anywhere — there are very few arrests, and even fewer convictions — that it boils down to a “he said/she said” case.
A “he said/she said” case? Are you fucking kidding me?
A boy — in the eyes of the law, an 18-year old man — drugs me, and then decides to take my body, my innocence, and my virginity away from me while I am unconscious — and somehow this is a “he said/she said” case? I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. There were witnesses, lab results, rape kits, etc.
I couldn’t believe what I was being told. And to make matters worse, I continued to get grilled about my sex life, my outfit choice, my drinking habits — as if any of that had anything to do with what happened to me.
As the days went on, my life went on, and I assume my attacker’s life also went on as normal. My pale, white skin began to show evidence of a violent struggle, I was covered in bruises, and it hurt to swallow and breathe. I stayed home from school for a few days, surrounded by friends and family who showered me with love and support — and lots of junk food.
As I returned to school, life was pretty normal. Most people had heard about what happened, but it wasn’t much of a big deal. People knew I was a party girl, and I guess it didn’t shock them that something like this would happen to me.
Up until that point, every decision about my body had been made by me, and I vowed to myself that from then on, every decision would continue to be made by me. I wouldn’t let this man take away my life, my light, my trust in people.
I was strong enough to realize that no matter how many boys I had kissed, or how far I had gone before, or what I wore made a fucking difference on that night. I had done nothing to deserve what was done to me, regardless of how innocent or experienced I was.
And no matter what happened to me, I knew that the police didn’t care. The doctors didn’t really care, either. I found out at a relatively young age that girls wouldn’t be believed, and if they were, they were also at fault. I learned that “boys will be boys” had no age limit. I learned that girls would always be held responsible for what happens to them. That a girl’s life was less than a boy’s life. That what a girl goes through doesn’t matter — that the future of the boy is more important and his past doesn’t matter.
So when people ask why a 15-year old girl didn’t contact police when she was assaulted, my story is one of millions of answers to that question. The police knew what happened to me. But I was drunk at a party, with a push-up bra on — what did I expect would happen???
This is why we must not — we cannot — quickly dismiss these accusations and rush forward. Kavanaugh is pursuing a Supreme Court Justice seat, where integrity and ethics should be valued to the highest degree possible. There are no excuses about age here. A thorough investigation absolutely must take place, and if there are any question marks at all, that should disqualify the man from sitting at the highest court in the land.
If not, then what was the point of the whole “me too” movement? Just to tear down liberal Hollywood? I’d wager most Americans care more about the character of their Supreme Court Justices than they do an actor in some Netflix series. But under any circumstances, these things need to be taken seriously — nobody deserves to go through it. And it’s horrifying to imagine her having to watch her abuser arise to power where he will literally and legally judge the entire country…including her.