If you have not read the letter written by the Stanford University rape victim of Brock Allen Turner you should:
Your Honor, if it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.
On
January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made
some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was
visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching
my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and
read, while she went to a party with her friends. Then, I decided it was
my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s
a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance like a fool,
and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that
undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a
beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself “big
mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I made silly faces,
let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my
tolerance had significantly lowered since college.
The next thing I
remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages
on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and
was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my
sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained
calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this
party. When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down
the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear,
and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my
skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin
piece of fabric, the only thing between my vagina and anything else,
was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have
words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the
policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.
Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started
pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen
from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not
collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.
I
shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine
needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in.
I was asked to sign papers that said “Rape Victim” and I thought
something has really happened. My clothes were confiscated and I stood
naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and
photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out
of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said
it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs
inserted into my vagina and anus, needles for shots, pills, had a Nikon
pointed right into my spread legs. I had long, pointed beaks inside me
and had my vagina smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.
After
a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my
body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body
anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn’t know what had been in it, if it
had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body
like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.
On
that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a
dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get
retested for HIV because results don’t always show up immediately. But
for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine
stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me
huge hugs and I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing
the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only
allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.
My sister picked me up,
face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and
immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her
to look at me, I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right
here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo,
calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and
sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat
something. She did not know that beneath my sweatsuit, I had scratches
and bandages on my skin, my vagina was sore and had become a strange,
dark color from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt
too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also
devastated. That day we drove home and for hours in silence my younger
sister held me.
My boyfriend did not know what happened, but
called that day and said, “I was really worried about you last night,
you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I
learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an
incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I
was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me
to go find [my sister]. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night?
Did you make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.
I was
not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been
raped behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I
told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply
by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real.
I
tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn’t talk, I
didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone. After work, I
would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat,
I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone, and I became isolated
from the ones I loved most. For over a week after the incident, I didn’t
get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The
only symbol that proved that it hadn’t just been a bad dream, was the
sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.
One day, I was at work,
scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In
it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found
unconscious, with my hair disheveled, long necklace wrapped around my
neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and
pulled up above my waist, that I was butt naked all the way down to my
boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by
someone I did not recognize. This was how I learned what happened to
me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened
to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to
me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn’t
fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been
inside of me. I don’t even know this person. I still don’t know this
person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me, this
can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I
could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept
reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never
forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I
do not have words for these feelings.
It’s like if you were to read an article where a car was hit, and
found dented, in a ditch. But maybe the car enjoyed being hit. Maybe the
other car didn’t mean to hit it, just bump it up a little bit. Cars get
in accidents all the time, people aren’t always paying attention, can
we really say who’s at fault.
And then, at the bottom of the
article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual
assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing,
unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach
curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming.
Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking,
put that in there, I think the end is where you list your
extracurriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve
happened.
The night the news came out I sat my parents down and
told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because
it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay.
But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could
no longer stand up.
The night after it happened, he said he didn’t
know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a lineup,
didn’t mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and
kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling
dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded
room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against
each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back
to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up
behind the dumpster, he said he didn’t know. He admitted to kissing
other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him
away.
He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded
antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable
to fend for myself, and he chose me. Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t
gone, then this never would’ve happened. But then I realized, it would
have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years
of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you
started off on, then it is right you did not continue. The night after
it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A
back rub.
Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us
even speaking, a back rub. One more time, in public news, I learned that
my ass and vagina were completely exposed outside, my breasts had been
groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and
debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind
a dumpster, while an erect freshman was humping my half naked,
unconscious body. But I don’t remember, so how do I prove I didn’t like
it.
I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were
witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going
to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was
told he hired a powerful attorney, expert witnesses, private
investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal
life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and
my sister, in order to show that this sexual assault was in fact a
misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the
world he had simply been confused.
I was not only told that I was
assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I technically
could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me,
almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was
assaulted and nearly raped, blatantly out in the open, but we don’t know
if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make
it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.
When I was told to be prepared in case we didn’t win, I said, I can’t
prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk
me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he
now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script. He
can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I
had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against
me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe
that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. His attorney constantly
reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she
doesn’t remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.
Instead of
taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in
excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney’s questions
that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course,
to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my
answers. Instead of his attorney saying, Did you notice any abrasions?
He said, You didn’t notice any abrasions, right? This was a game of
strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The sexual
assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial,
answering questions like:
How old are you? How much do you
weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who
made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did
you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of?
Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you
off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you
wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’ d you do when you got
there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What
does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where
did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside? Was your phone on
silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really
because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to
ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How
many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious
with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you
start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating?
What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember
what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What color was
your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, well,
we’ll let Brock fill it in.
I was pummeled with narrowed,
pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life,
family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and
find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering
to ask for my name. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with
questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up,
she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably
wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk,
whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take
it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he’s having a really hard
time right now.
And then it came time for him to testify and I
learned what it meant to be revictimized. I want to remind you, the
night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his
dorm. He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to
leave because he wasn’t feeling well when he was suddenly chased and
attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.
So one year later,
as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story,
almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and
dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most
importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year
after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said
yes, to everything, so.
He said he had asked if I wanted to
dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I
said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys
don’t ask, can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of
things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted
full permission. He’s in the clear. Even in his story, I only said a
total of three words, yes yes yes, before he had me half naked on the
ground. Future reference, if you are confused about whether a girl can
consent, see if she can speak an entire sentence. You couldn’t even do
that. Just one coherent string of words. Where was the confusion? This
is common sense, human decency.
According to him, the only reason
we were on the ground was because I fell down. Note; if a girl falls
down help her get back up. If she is too drunk to even walk and falls
down, do not mount her, hump her, take off her underwear, and insert
your hand inside her vagina. If a girl falls down help her up. If she is
wearing a cardigan over her dress don’t take it off so that you can
touch her breasts. Maybe she is cold, maybe that’s why she wore the
cardigan.
Next in the story, two Swedes on bicycles approached you
and you ran. When they tackled you why didn’t say, “Stop! Everything’s
okay, go ask her, she’s right over there, she’ll tell you.” I mean you
had just asked for my consent, right? I was awake, right? When the
policeman arrived and interviewed the evil Swede who tackled you, he was
crying so hard he couldn’t speak because of what he’d seen.
Your
attorney has repeatedly pointed out, well we don’t know exactly when she
became unconscious. And you’re right, maybe I was still fluttering my
eyes and wasn’t completely limp yet. That was never the point. I was too
drunk to speak English, too drunk to consent way before I was on the
ground. I should have never been touched in the first place. Brock
stated, “At no time did I see that she was not responding. If at any
time I thought she was not responding, I would have stopped
immediately.” Here’s the thing; if your plan was to stop only when I
became unresponsive, then you still do not understand. You didn’t even
stop when I was unconscious anyway! Someone else stopped you. Two guys
on bikes noticed I wasn’t moving in the dark and had to tackle you. How
did you not notice while on top of me?
You said, you would have
stopped and gotten help. You say that, but I want you to explain how you
would’ve helped me, step by step, walk me through this. I want to know,
if those evil Swedes had not found me, how the night would have played
out. I am asking you; Would you have pulled my underwear back on over my
boots? Untangled the necklace wrapped around my neck? Closed my legs,
covered me? Pick the pine needles from my hair? Asked if the abrasions
on my neck and bottom hurt? Would you then go find a friend and say,
Will you help me get her somewhere warm and soft? I don’t sleep when I
think about the way it could have gone if the two guys had never come.
What would have happened to me? That’s what you’ll never have a good
answer for, that’s what you can’t explain even after a year.
On
top of all this, he claimed that I orgasmed after one minute of digital
penetration. The nurse said there had been abrasions, lacerations, and
dirt in my genitalia. Was that before or after I came?
To sit
under oath and inform all of us, that yes I wanted it, yes I permitted
it, and that you are the true victim attacked by Swedes for reasons
unknown to you is appalling, is demented, is selfish, is damaging. It is
enough to be suffering. It is another thing to have someone ruthlessly
working to diminish the gravity of validity of this suffering.
My
family had to see pictures of my head strapped to a gurney full of pine
needles, of my body in the dirt with my eyes closed, hair messed up,
limbs bent, and dress hiked up. And even after that, my family had to
listen to your attorney say the pictures were after the fact, we can
dismiss them. To say, yes her nurse confirmed there was redness and
abrasions inside her, significant trauma to her genitalia, but that’s
what happens when you finger someone, and he’s already admitted to that.
To listen to your attorney attempt to paint a picture of me, the face
of girls gone wild, as if somehow that would make it so that I had this
coming for me. To listen to him say I sounded drunk on the phone because
I’m silly and that’s my goofy way of speaking. To point out that in the
voicemail, I said I would reward my boyfriend and we all know what I
was thinking. I assure you my rewards program is non transferable,
especially to any nameless man that approaches me.
You are
guilty. Twelve jurors convicted you guilty of three felony counts beyond
reasonable doubt, that’s twelve votes per count, thirty six yeses
confirming guilt, that’s one hundred percent, unanimous guilt. And I
thought finally it is over, finally he will own up to what he did, truly
apologize, we will both move on and get better. Then I read your
statement.
If you are hoping that one of my organs will implode
from anger and I will die, I’m almost there. You are very close. This is
not a story of another drunk college hookup with poor decision making.
Assault is not an accident. Somehow, you still don’t get it. Somehow,
you still sound confused. I will now read portions of the defendant’s
statement and respond to them.
You said, Being drunk I just couldn’t make the best decisions and neither could she.
Alcohol
is not an excuse. Is it a factor? Yes. But alcohol was not the one who
stripped me, fingered me, had my head dragging against the ground, with
me almost fully naked. Having too much to drink was an amateur mistake
that I admit to, but it is not criminal. Everyone in this room has had a
night where they have regretted drinking too much, or knows someone
close to them who has had a night where they have regretted drinking too
much. Regretting drinking is not the same as regretting sexual assault.
We were both drunk, the difference is I did not take off your pants and
underwear, touch you inappropriately, and run away. That’s the
difference.
You said, If I wanted to get to know her, I should have asked for her number, rather than asking her to go back to my room.
I’m
not mad because you didn’t ask for my number. Even if you did know me, I
would not want to be in this situation. My own boyfriend knows me, but
if he asked to finger me behind a dumpster, I would slap him. No girl
wants to be in this situation. Nobody. I don’t care if you know their
phone number or not.
You said, I stupidly thought it was okay for me to do what everyone around me was doing, which was drinking. I was wrong.
Again,
you were not wrong for drinking. Everyone around you was not sexually
assaulting me. You were wrong for doing what nobody else was doing,
which was pushing your erect dick in your pants against my naked,
defenseless body concealed in a dark area, where partygoers could no
longer see or protect me, and my own sister could not find me. Sipping
fireball is not your crime. Peeling off and discarding my underwear like
a candy wrapper to insert your finger into my body, is where you went
wrong. Why am I still explaining this.
You said, During the trial I didn’t want to victimize her at all. That was just my attorney and his way of approaching the case.
Your
attorney is not your scapegoat, he represents you. Did your attorney
say some incredulously infuriating, degrading things? Absolutely. He
said you had an erection, because it was cold.
You said, you
are in the process of establishing a program for high school and college
students in which you speak about your experience to “speak out against
the college campus drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that
goes along with that.”
Campus drinking culture. That’s what
we’re speaking out against? You think that’s what I’ve spent the past
year fighting for? Not awareness about campus sexual assault, or rape,
or learning to recognize consent. Campus drinking culture. Down with
Jack Daniels. Down with Skyy Vodka. If you want talk to people about
drinking go to an AA meeting. You realize, having a drinking problem is
different than drinking and then forcefully trying to have sex with
someone? Show men how to respect women, not how to drink less.
Drinking
culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Goes
along with that, like a side effect, like fries on the side of your
order. Where does promiscuity even come into play? I don’t see headlines
that read,
Brock Turner, Guilty of drinking too much and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that.
Campus Sexual Assault. There’s your first powerpoint slide. Rest
assured, if you fail to fix the topic of your talk, I will follow you to
every school you go to and give a follow up presentation.
Lastly you said, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin a life.
A
life, one life, yours, you forgot about mine. Let me rephrase for you, I
want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin two lives. You
and me. You are the cause, I am the effect. You have dragged me through
this hell with you, dipped me back into that night again and again. You
knocked down both our towers, I collapsed at the same time you did. If
you think I was spared, came out unscathed, that today I ride off into
sunset, while you suffer the greatest blow, you are mistaken. Nobody
wins. We have all been devastated, we have all been trying to find some
meaning in all of this suffering. Your damage was concrete; stripped of
titles, degrees, enrollment. 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.
See
one thing we have in common is that we were both unable to get up in
the morning. I am no stranger to suffering. You made me a victim. In
newspapers my name was “unconscious intoxicated woman”, ten syllables,
and nothing more than that. For a while, I believed that that was all I
was. I had to force myself to relearn my real name, my identity. To
relearn that this is not all that I am. That I am not just a drunk
victim at a frat party found behind a dumpster, while you are the All
American swimmer at a top university, innocent until proven guilty, with
so much at stake. I am a human being who has been irreversibly hurt, my
life was put on hold for over a year, waiting to figure out if I was
worth something.
My independence, natural joy, gentleness, and
steady lifestyle I had been enjoying became distorted beyond
recognition. I became closed off, angry, self deprecating, tired,
irritable, empty. The isolation at times was unbearable. You cannot give
me back the life I had before that night either. While you worry about
your shattered reputation, I refrigerated spoons every night so when I
woke up, and my eyes were puffy from crying, I would hold the spoons to
my eyes to lessen the swelling so that I could see. I showed up an hour
late to work every morning, excused myself to cry in the stairwells, I
can tell you all the best places in that building to cry where no one
can hear you. The pain became so bad that I had to explain the private
details to my boss to let her know why I was leaving. I needed time
because continuing day to day was not possible. I used my savings to go
as far away as I could possibly be. I did not return to work full time
as I knew I’d have to take weeks off in the future for the hearing and
trial, that were constantly being rescheduled. My life was put on hold
for over a year, my structure had collapsed.
I can’t sleep alone
at night without having a light on, like a five year old, because I have
nightmares of being touched where I cannot wake up, I did this thing
where I waited until the sun came up and I felt safe enough to sleep.
For three months, I went to bed at six o’clock in the morning.
I
used to pride myself on my independence, now I am afraid to go on walks
in the evening, to attend social events with drinking among friends
where I should be comfortable being. I have become a little barnacle
always needing to be at someone’s side, to have my boyfriend standing
next to me, sleeping beside me, protecting me. It is embarrassing how
feeble I feel, how timidly I move through life, always guarded, ready to
defend myself, ready to be angry.
You have no idea how hard I
have worked to rebuild parts of me that are still weak. It took me eight
months to even talk about what happened. I could no longer connect with
friends, with everyone around me. I would scream at my boyfriend, my
own family whenever they brought this up. You never let me forget what
happened to me. At the of end of the hearing, the trial, I was too tired
to speak. I would leave drained, silent. I would go home turn off my
phone and for days I would not speak. You bought me a ticket to a planet
where I lived by myself. Every time a new article come out, I lived
with the paranoia that my entire hometown would find out and know me as
the girl who got assaulted. I didn’t want anyone’s pity and am still
learning to accept victim as part of my identity. You made my own
hometown an uncomfortable place to be.
You cannot give me back my
sleepless nights. The way I have broken down sobbing uncontrollably if
I’m watching a movie and a woman is harmed, to say it lightly, this
experience has expanded my empathy for other victims. I have lost weight
from stress, when people would comment I told them I’ve been running a
lot lately. There are times I did not want to be touched. I have to
relearn that I am not fragile, I am capable, I am wholesome, not just
livid and weak.
When I see my younger sister hurting, when she is
unable to keep up in school, when she is deprived of joy, when she is
not sleeping, when she is crying so hard on the phone she is barely
breathing, telling me over and over again she is sorry for leaving me
alone that night, sorry sorry sorry, when she feels more guilt than you,
then I do not forgive you. That night I had called her to try and find
her, but you found me first. Your attorney’s closing statement began,
“[Her sister] said she was fine and who knows her better than her
sister.” You tried to use my own sister against me? Your points of
attack were so weak, so low, it was almost embarrassing. You do not
touch her.
You should have never done this to me. Secondly, you
should have never made me fight so long to tell you, you should have
never done this to me. But here we are. The damage is done, no one can
undo it. And now we both have a choice. We can let this destroy us, I
can remain angry and hurt and you can be in denial, or we can face it
head on, I accept the pain, you accept the punishment, and we move on.
Your
life is not over, you have decades of years ahead to rewrite your
story. The world is huge, it is so much bigger than Palo Alto and
Stanford, and you will make a space for yourself in it where you can be
useful and happy. But right now, you do not get to shrug your shoulders
and be confused anymore. You do not get to pretend that there were no
red flags. You have been convicted of violating me, intentionally,
forcibly, sexually, with malicious intent, and all you can admit to is
consuming alcohol. Do not talk about the sad way your life was upturned
because alcohol made you do bad things. Figure out how to take
responsibility for your own conduct.
Now to address the
sentencing. When I read the probation officer’s report, I was in
disbelief, consumed by anger which eventually quieted down to profound
sadness. My statements have been slimmed down to distortion and taken
out of context. I fought hard during this trial and will not have the
outcome minimized by a probation officer who attempted to evaluate my
current state and my wishes in a fifteen minute conversation, the
majority of which was spent answering questions I had about the legal
system. The context is also important. Brock had yet to issue a
statement, and I had not read his remarks.
My life has been on
hold for over a year, a year of anger, anguish and uncertainty, until a
jury of my peers rendered a judgment that validated the injustices I had
endured. Had Brock admitted guilt and remorse and offered to settle
early on, I would have considered a lighter sentence, respecting his
honesty, grateful to be able to move our lives forward. Instead he took
the risk of going to trial, added insult to injury and forced me to
relive the hurt as details about my personal life and sexual assault
were brutally dissected before the public. He pushed me and my family
through a year of inexplicable, unnecessary suffering, and should face
the consequences of challenging his crime, of putting my pain into
question, of making us wait so long for justice.
I told the
probation officer I do not want Brock to rot away in prison. I did not
say he does not deserve to be behind bars. The probation officer’s
recommendation of a year or less in county jail is a soft timeout, a
mockery of the seriousness of his assaults, an insult to me and all
women. It gives the message that a stranger can be inside you without
proper consent and he will receive less than what has been defined as
the minimum sentence. Probation should be denied. I also told the
probation officer that what I truly wanted was for Brock to get it, to
understand and admit to his wrongdoing.
Unfortunately, after
reading the defendant’s report, I am severely disappointed and feel that
he has failed to exhibit sincere remorse or responsibility for his
conduct. I fully respected his right to a trial, but even after twelve
jurors unanimously convicted him guilty of three felonies, all he has
admitted to doing is ingesting alcohol. Someone who cannot take full
accountability for his actions does not deserve a mitigating sentence.
It is deeply offensive that he would try and dilute rape with a
suggestion of “promiscuity.” By definition rape is the absence of
promiscuity, rape is the absence of consent, and it perturbs me deeply
that he can’t even see that distinction.
The probation officer
factored in that the defendant is youthful and has no prior convictions.
In my opinion, he is old enough to know what he did was wrong. When you
are eighteen in this country you can go to war. When you are nineteen,
you are old enough to pay the consequences for attempting to rape
someone. He is young, but he is old enough to know better.
As this
is a first offense I can see where leniency would beckon. On the other
hand, as a society, we cannot forgive everyone’s first sexual assault or
digital rape. It doesn’t make sense. The seriousness of rape has to be
communicated clearly, we should not create a culture that suggests we
learn that rape is wrong through trial and error. The consequences of
sexual assault needs to be severe enough that people feel enough fear to
exercise good judgment even if they are drunk, severe enough to be
preventative.
The probation officer weighed the fact that he has
surrendered a hard earned swimming scholarship. How fast Brock swims
does not lessen the severity of what happened to me, and should not
lessen the severity of his punishment. If a first time offender from an
underprivileged background was accused of three felonies and displayed
no accountability for his actions other than drinking, what would his
sentence be? The fact that Brock was an athlete at a private university
should not be seen as an entitlement to leniency, but as an opportunity
to send a message that sexual assault is against the law regardless of
social class.
The Probation Officer has stated that this case,
when compared to other crimes of similar nature, may be considered less
serious due to the defendant’s level of intoxication. It felt serious.
That’s all I’m going to say.
What has he done to demonstrate that
he deserves a break? He has only apologized for drinking and has yet to
define what he did to me as sexual assault, he has revictimized me
continually, relentlessly. He has been found guilty of three serious
felonies and it is time for him to accept the consequences of his
actions. He will not be quietly excused.
He is a lifetime sex
registrant. That doesn’t expire. Just like what he did to me doesn’t
expire, doesn’t just go away after a set number of years. It stays with
me, it’s part of my identity, it has forever changed the way I carry
myself, the way I live the rest of my life.
To conclude, I want to
say thank you. To everyone from the intern who made me oatmeal when I
woke up at the hospital that morning, to the deputy who waited beside
me, to the nurses who calmed me, to the detective who listened to me and
never judged me, to my advocates who stood unwaveringly beside me, to
my therapist who taught me to find courage in vulnerability, to my boss
for being kind and understanding, to my incredible parents who teach me
how to turn pain into strength, to my grandma who snuck chocolate into
the courtroom throughout this to give to me, my friends who remind me
how to be happy, to my boyfriend who is patient and loving, to my
unconquerable sister who is the other half of my heart, to Alaleh, my
idol, who fought tirelessly and never doubted me. Thank you to everyone
involved in the trial for their time and attention. Thank you to girls
across the nation that wrote cards to my DA to give to me, so many
strangers who cared for me.
Most importantly, thank you to the two
men who saved me, who I have yet to meet. I sleep with two bicycles
that I drew taped above my bed to remind myself there are heroes in this
story. That we are looking out for one another. To have known all of
these people, to have felt their protection and love, is something I
will never forget.
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.
