By Amelia Elizalde, Staff Writer, Emerson College
I’ve been sexually assaulted twice. The first time was by strangers the summer before my freshman year of high school, and the second time was by someone I was dating towards the end of my sophomore year. For the sake of my sanity, I’m going to spare the unnecessary details. The first time, I waited a few days before I told my parents, who contacted the police. They did a routine investigation, but nothing ever came of it. I wanted to forget and move on, and I tried my damnedest. The second time, I kept it to myself for over a year and then told only my closest friends. Again, I wanted to forget and move on--not because I wasn’t really fucking angry or completely terrified or debilitatingly sad, because I was all of those things and more--but because I’ve learned that when something like sexual assault happens, you cease being a complex and layered individual and become either a Statistic, a Survivor, or a Slut.
I’m not claiming to have any deep psychological or even cultural knowledge of sexual assault. I can write only from a personal perspective and I have no desire to speak on anyone’s behalf. That said, the nature of the ‘confessions’ on the Emerson Confessional Facebook account have started a dialogue about these issues, which is encouraging, but needs to be handled with a great deal of care and caution. These confessions are different than hearing a report on the local news or a rumor in a high school hallway. These stories are those of your roommate, the guy sitting behind you in class, the girl down the hall, or the person on your commute. Bringing an international issue down to such a personal level, especially at Emerson--where , for better or for worse, we love a good open dialogue--is going to make waves, and we have to be aware of how this will affect those that chose to share their story as well as those that remain silent.
I’ve been sexually assaulted twice. The first time was by strangers the summer before my freshman year of high school, and the second time was by someone I was dating towards the end of my sophomore year. For the sake of my sanity, I’m going to spare the unnecessary details. The first time, I waited a few days before I told my parents, who contacted the police. They did a routine investigation, but nothing ever came of it. I wanted to forget and move on, and I tried my damnedest. The second time, I kept it to myself for over a year and then told only my closest friends. Again, I wanted to forget and move on--not because I wasn’t really fucking angry or completely terrified or debilitatingly sad, because I was all of those things and more--but because I’ve learned that when something like sexual assault happens, you cease being a complex and layered individual and become either a Statistic, a Survivor, or a Slut.
I’m not claiming to have any deep psychological or even cultural knowledge of sexual assault. I can write only from a personal perspective and I have no desire to speak on anyone’s behalf. That said, the nature of the ‘confessions’ on the Emerson Confessional Facebook account have started a dialogue about these issues, which is encouraging, but needs to be handled with a great deal of care and caution. These confessions are different than hearing a report on the local news or a rumor in a high school hallway. These stories are those of your roommate, the guy sitting behind you in class, the girl down the hall, or the person on your commute. Bringing an international issue down to such a personal level, especially at Emerson--where , for better or for worse, we love a good open dialogue--is going to make waves, and we have to be aware of how this will affect those that chose to share their story as well as those that remain silent.