The Brock Turner Gong Show
Herein lies a revision of a revision of a revision. Each time I sit down to write, I struggle. I began yesterday morning, and it's been a series of stops and starts.
The problem is that I have so many thoughts. So many opinions. So many feelings. So much jumbled up in my head that I can't seem to get it out into something more than rambling. I want something polished and well written and engaging enough to make people want to read it through, but this is raw for me, and it'll probably come out that way no matter how much I try otherwise.
Two days ago I read the stories about the slap-on-the-wrist sentence Brock Turner received for raping an unconscious woman. Yesterday I read the poignant letter written by the victim that was as haunting as it was powerful. And today, I read the letter penned by Dan Turner, the rapists father, who felt that 6 months in prison was a ridiculous sentence - except to his mind, it's for the exact opposite reason that (most of) the rest of us find it outrageous.
As an aside, here's the version of Dan Turner's letter that a Twitter user helpfully fixed for him, since it was clearly lacking a certain something I like to call "reality". Alexandra from Twitter, please visit me for a complimentary high five and probably a free cake.
So, as I said, this will be a bit raw. It'll be a bit personal. Because my experience is tied into my opinion on this matter, inextricably, and in this instance I don't think that's a bad thing.
I was once the victim in not one, but 3 separate sexual assault cases. I spent countless hours talking to professionals, verifying my story, giving details, reliving events that I didn't ever want to relive. It was, for me, nearly as traumatic as the events themselves, but I did it because I wanted to spare others from the living the same nightmare I was living.
I was lucky that I didn't have to go to court, to be ripped to shreds by lawyers. Why? Because I was 9 years old. I'm not sure whether the decisions were made to spare me, or because they felt I wouldn't be a reliable witness, or felt they didn't need me there to make their case. To this day I don't know the reason, and I don't care. I was relieved. I was terrified at the prospect of going to court. Of reliving everything yet again. Of having to face my abusers. I wasn't strong enough.
The real icing on the cake is when I found out, years later, that one of the police officers who'd taken my statement had then gone on to tell my mother that he felt I was "provocative". As if I brought it on myself. A little girl. Provocative. This is the world we live in, folks, I still don't know whether to laughsnort or cry about it.
And you know what? An unconscious 21-year-old woman could consent about as well as I could, as an 8-year-old girl.
Except she was dragged through court. She did get ripped to shreds. She had to relive it all, for the who-knows-how-many'th time, and feel blamed for it. She had to be strong, even though she probably felt like the furthest thing from it. My heart aches for her, not just because of the attack, not just because of the court case, but because of the culmination of it all into a woefully inadequate sentence, and too much care given to damage control for the benefit of a criminal.
In my cases, the offenders got even less time than Brock Turner will serve. I was slapped in the face with the knowledge that all that talking, all that remembering, all that scrutiny was, quite nearly, for nothing. That their careers, their families, their livelihoods were more important to the court than my pain, my trauma, my shattered life. That I would serve a longer sentence than they would, and I did, and I sometimes continue to. The time I spent in therapy alone dwarfs the sentences they received, and though I've come to terms with it, though it's been over 25 years, I can't help feeling angry even still.
Nothing will change the crushing realization that you are seen as less. No victim really wants to go through a court process in first place, let alone do it again for an appeal. I'm not sure who is strong enough, determined enough, and ultimately masochistic enough to do that. Nothing takes back the feeling that having done nothing wrong, your suffering matters less than that of the person who hurt you and stole so much from you.
A therapist once told me that sexual assault survivors are virtually the only victims who often feel more guilt than the offenders. We are the ones who question what we could've done differently. We're the ones who feel like damaged goods. We're the ones who will never forget, and while we move on, we "learn to walk with a limp", so to speak. We cope, we grow, but we are never the same. It touches every part of our lives, it seeps into our families, our friendships, our relationships. It claws at our self worth, our feeling of well-being, our feeling of security. It changes how we see the world, and it aches sometimes more than anything physical could.
Dan Turner wants sympathy for his son for his lost swimming career, for his withdrawal from Stanford, for his lifelong registry as a sex offender. He puts his argument forth as if his son is the victim in this case. He manipulates language to make Brock's involvement appear passive, as if this is all something that is happening to him, rather than something he has done to himself. To his victim. To her family and friends. Her sentence is longer than his, and I see very little evidence that anyone wants to acknowledge that.
One of the earliest lessons we try to teach our children is that wanting something doesn't entitle you to it. Yours is yours, mine is mine. You can want it, you can ask for it, but if it's mine you can't have it unless I say so. It's wrong for you to take my toy, my food, my money, my body. What's mine is mine, and you can go ahead and want it, but that's all you're entitled to do. It's the simplest concept, that has everything to do with ownership - and to deny that is to deny that women have a right to own their own bodies, no matter how their body looks, no matter how their body is clothed, no matter what they put into their bodies - their bodies still do not belong to anyone but them. Full. Stop.
The issue that Brock Turner avoids facing at all costs isn't one of college drinking, of promiscuity, of scholarships or athleticism, it's not about an "oops", a minor mistake or a youthful indiscretion. It's about rape. Plain and simple, rape.
Please, lets not forget that.
PS - In case the consent issue still isn't 100% clear, this handy video explains it very well:
The problem is that I have so many thoughts. So many opinions. So many feelings. So much jumbled up in my head that I can't seem to get it out into something more than rambling. I want something polished and well written and engaging enough to make people want to read it through, but this is raw for me, and it'll probably come out that way no matter how much I try otherwise.
Two days ago I read the stories about the slap-on-the-wrist sentence Brock Turner received for raping an unconscious woman. Yesterday I read the poignant letter written by the victim that was as haunting as it was powerful. And today, I read the letter penned by Dan Turner, the rapists father, who felt that 6 months in prison was a ridiculous sentence - except to his mind, it's for the exact opposite reason that (most of) the rest of us find it outrageous.
 |
| This is the answer to rape culture. Is it really a difficult concept? |
As an aside, here's the version of Dan Turner's letter that a Twitter user helpfully fixed for him, since it was clearly lacking a certain something I like to call "reality". Alexandra from Twitter, please visit me for a complimentary high five and probably a free cake.
Edit: the circus is still happening and the clowns keep coming: click here
This one wants to redefine the definition of "rapist"...
This one wants to redefine the definition of "rapist"...
So, as I said, this will be a bit raw. It'll be a bit personal. Because my experience is tied into my opinion on this matter, inextricably, and in this instance I don't think that's a bad thing.
I was once the victim in not one, but 3 separate sexual assault cases. I spent countless hours talking to professionals, verifying my story, giving details, reliving events that I didn't ever want to relive. It was, for me, nearly as traumatic as the events themselves, but I did it because I wanted to spare others from the living the same nightmare I was living.
I was lucky that I didn't have to go to court, to be ripped to shreds by lawyers. Why? Because I was 9 years old. I'm not sure whether the decisions were made to spare me, or because they felt I wouldn't be a reliable witness, or felt they didn't need me there to make their case. To this day I don't know the reason, and I don't care. I was relieved. I was terrified at the prospect of going to court. Of reliving everything yet again. Of having to face my abusers. I wasn't strong enough.
The real icing on the cake is when I found out, years later, that one of the police officers who'd taken my statement had then gone on to tell my mother that he felt I was "provocative". As if I brought it on myself. A little girl. Provocative. This is the world we live in, folks, I still don't know whether to laughsnort or cry about it.
And you know what? An unconscious 21-year-old woman could consent about as well as I could, as an 8-year-old girl.
Except she was dragged through court. She did get ripped to shreds. She had to relive it all, for the who-knows-how-many'th time, and feel blamed for it. She had to be strong, even though she probably felt like the furthest thing from it. My heart aches for her, not just because of the attack, not just because of the court case, but because of the culmination of it all into a woefully inadequate sentence, and too much care given to damage control for the benefit of a criminal.
In my cases, the offenders got even less time than Brock Turner will serve. I was slapped in the face with the knowledge that all that talking, all that remembering, all that scrutiny was, quite nearly, for nothing. That their careers, their families, their livelihoods were more important to the court than my pain, my trauma, my shattered life. That I would serve a longer sentence than they would, and I did, and I sometimes continue to. The time I spent in therapy alone dwarfs the sentences they received, and though I've come to terms with it, though it's been over 25 years, I can't help feeling angry even still.
Nothing will change the crushing realization that you are seen as less. No victim really wants to go through a court process in first place, let alone do it again for an appeal. I'm not sure who is strong enough, determined enough, and ultimately masochistic enough to do that. Nothing takes back the feeling that having done nothing wrong, your suffering matters less than that of the person who hurt you and stole so much from you.
A therapist once told me that sexual assault survivors are virtually the only victims who often feel more guilt than the offenders. We are the ones who question what we could've done differently. We're the ones who feel like damaged goods. We're the ones who will never forget, and while we move on, we "learn to walk with a limp", so to speak. We cope, we grow, but we are never the same. It touches every part of our lives, it seeps into our families, our friendships, our relationships. It claws at our self worth, our feeling of well-being, our feeling of security. It changes how we see the world, and it aches sometimes more than anything physical could.
Dan Turner wants sympathy for his son for his lost swimming career, for his withdrawal from Stanford, for his lifelong registry as a sex offender. He puts his argument forth as if his son is the victim in this case. He manipulates language to make Brock's involvement appear passive, as if this is all something that is happening to him, rather than something he has done to himself. To his victim. To her family and friends. Her sentence is longer than his, and I see very little evidence that anyone wants to acknowledge that.
One of the earliest lessons we try to teach our children is that wanting something doesn't entitle you to it. Yours is yours, mine is mine. You can want it, you can ask for it, but if it's mine you can't have it unless I say so. It's wrong for you to take my toy, my food, my money, my body. What's mine is mine, and you can go ahead and want it, but that's all you're entitled to do. It's the simplest concept, that has everything to do with ownership - and to deny that is to deny that women have a right to own their own bodies, no matter how their body looks, no matter how their body is clothed, no matter what they put into their bodies - their bodies still do not belong to anyone but them. Full. Stop.
The issue that Brock Turner avoids facing at all costs isn't one of college drinking, of promiscuity, of scholarships or athleticism, it's not about an "oops", a minor mistake or a youthful indiscretion. It's about rape. Plain and simple, rape.
PS - In case the consent issue still isn't 100% clear, this handy video explains it very well:
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