“It’s my fault.”
As the words left her mouth, I stared at this beautiful, intelligent 18-year-old girl, tears streaming down her face, and wondered what in life could have prepared me for this.
You can call yourself a feminist, participate in marches, wear ribbons for awareness, and stand up for women in every way possible. Yet you can’t understand the gravity of sexual assault until a survivor is sitting in front of you, waiting for an answer. Waiting for you to tell her she can forgive herself. Waiting for your reaction, if any, which may well tell her everything she needs to know. And even then, you can only fathom a fraction of the suffering.
I met this young woman over the summer while working for a nonprofit, nonpartisan organization that trains young women to run for office. She participated in a leadership program for young women, a major event that took place during my internship, which introduces high school girls to political leadership. The girls engage in various exercises, listen to speakers who teach them how to run a campaign, and, at one point, take a trip to Capitol Hill to converse with their own congresspeople.
For the venture to Capitol Hill, all the high school girls were split into groups that were managed by an intern. This girl was in my group for the day, and I remember my first impression of her. When I walked up to the table, she was upset that another group was going to meet Elizabeth Warren and told me I had to find a way for us to meet her. At first, I was hesitant about how the rest of the day would go — this girl might be a handful. And by the end of the day, I knew two things. I was right; she was a handful. She was also going to change the world.
When she met her congressman, she looked him in the eyes and shook his hand. She carried herself so well that you could have mistaken her for just another employee on the Hill. She told her representative about the nonprofit and its mission, and then asked him what he would do to bring more women into politics. The representative seemed taken aback himself, not seeming to expect much from a high school girl.
To her, the Hill wasn’t like a museum or a zoo. Once she stepped foot into the building, she didn’t want to just sit back, watch, and point fingers. She wanted to put her hands in the dirt and get to work.
After listening to politicians, famous speakers, and chaperones, the girls themselves had the chance to tell their own stories on the night of their talent show. Most of the talent show had been emotional. Girls read poems about their skin color, their weight, their experiences with gender discrimination and prejudice. Some girls sang their own songs, which could move you to tears just by the sound of their voice.
After the last act of the show, all the other girls came on stage and started singing karaoke, while dancing and yelling in unison. As I looked around the room, I saw her sitting by herself, looking ahead with an emotionless stare. The room was loud. I walked through cartwheels and flailing arms and sat in the empty seat next to her. To me, she was always the most confident girl in the room. Something didn’t seem right.
I asked her what was wrong and she said she was fine. I told her we could talk outside — and we did.
It seemed the courage of the other girls, during the show, excavated things that she had buried deep within her. Suddenly she was onstage, and I was her audience.
Her boyfriend drugged her and sexually assaulted her. Repeatedly. He got her pregnant and she had an abortion.
She clutched the medal of St. Ignatius around her neck tightly as she spoke.
“I’m a baby killer.”
Within her Catholic household, no one spoke about it after it happened. The intelligent, beautiful girl became a sinner; she became a secret. The young girl who spoke her mind, who raised her hand for every question, who was ready to take on anything. Suddenly she had reduced herself to nothing. In her mind, it was her fault. The guilt rested on her shoulders. These are the things survivors carry.
While these men boast about their conquests and erupt in “uproarious laughter”, the women keep quiet. While these men are not required to remember what they did years ago, the women must have all the facts. These men have the luxury to forget. Women can’t forget, even if they wish they could. The fear is sewn into their skin.
The part of our conversation that stays with me still is the way she looked at me, as if she expected judgement, when she told me that she had been assaulted and that she was a “baby killer.” As if she expected me to agree with her own repentance, the way her parents had.
In her letter to Brock Turner, his victim explains how “[his] damage was concrete; [he was] stripped of titles, degrees, enrollment. My damage was internal, unseen...” Women don’t say anything because they are hurting and grieving the loss of their identities. The truth cannot be measured by time. And when they are ready to finally speak aloud, their words are drowned out by their own abusers.
“I never want to experience being in a position where it will have a negative impact on my life … I’ve lost two jobs solely based on the reporting of my case.” - Brock Turner
“My family and my name have been totally and permanently destroyed.” - Brett Kavanaugh
"It is a very scary time for young men in America, when you can be guilty of something you may not be guilty of.” - Donald Trump
I wonder what in life could have prepared her for this.
Winnie Brandfield-Harvey is a junior Woodrow Wilson concentrator from Houston, TX. She can be reached at wab2@princeton.edu.
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