This post was originally posted on Community on BuzzFeed and is reprinted here with permission from the author.
Dear Hanna Stotland,
It is 7:32 PM on a quiet Tuesday evening. I should be watching the Red Sox game on TV with my grandparents or studying for the LSAT or getting frozen yogurt with my friends. But instead, I am sitting in my room, curled up in my mother’s old fleece blanket, reading and rereading a BuzzFeed article about a woman whose profession is helping students punished by their school for sexual assault transfer to other academic institutions.
I want to be mad. I want to break dishes and scream into my pillow and release my pent up anger in a raging frenzy. I want to be sad. I want to cry in my best friend’s lap—not a pretty cry, mind you—an ugly cry, filled with puffy eyes and snot and hiccups. I want to laugh. I want to fold my hands together and cross my legs, mimicking the seated position the woman takes in her portrait, knowing that I will fight her—this movement will fight her—and we will win.
But instead, I am here, letting these words burn into my mind as I try to process the information before me.
“She does not advocate lying – for one thing, it’s too risky – but her version of ‘honest disclosure’ is a favorable retelling of the truth.”
“‘I am an impassioned feminist,’ Scotland said. ‘But there’s nothing feminist about incompetence.’”
“She doesn’t see anything wrong with turning a profit while the fight over how schools should handle campus sexual assault plays out across the country.”
I know I should have an opinion on this—after all, I’m Abby-freaking-Woodhouse. I am seen as a force of nature. I am determined, strong-willed, and opinionated. I run an organization centered around fighting for the voices of survivors of sexual assault to be heard. I should know what I think about this.
I believe in the strength of truth. I believe in the strength of justice. I believe that there is no excuse whatsoever for sexual assault or violence. But I do not know what I believe about forgiveness.
The man who raped me during my freshman year of college was expelled for violating three counts of the sexual misconduct policy at my college. I had an order of protection filed against him in the state of New York. I cried at the hearing—of joy, of exhaustion, of relief. This man would not be able to harm me again, ever. I did not know what would happen to him, but I knew that it would no longer be any of my concern.
A year or so later, his name popped up on my Facebook feed as a “Person You May Know.” I clicked onto his profile with the intention of blocking him, but wound up discovering that he took a semester off after being expelled before transferring seamlessly into another university that was a mere thirty minute drive from mine. And—here’s the kicker—he was recruited to the wrestling team.
Over the next few weeks, I alternated between sobbing in fetal position on my floor to hiding in my room with the doors locked and shades drawn to trying to mask my pain with humor—”why wasn’t I asked for a letter of recommendation?”
All of those things are what I did to process this new information—the fact that his life got to keep going after he tried to end mine. He did not face any real repercussions. Yes, he hit a bump in the road by being booted from a small liberal arts institution but bounced back to a new school with new friends and a new life. I, on the other hand, was stuck at the same small liberal arts institution with the trauma and pain with which he left me that night to die on the bathroom floor.
I don’t get to just pick up and move on like he does. But then the thoughts started really piling on—what if it was a mistake? Does one horrific act mean that he needs to be banished from society? Does he not deserve a life or a family? What if he’s gotten better? What if he’s sorry? What if he never does it again?
I was weighed down by these thoughts for a long time—the guilt, the what-ifs, the shame and embarrassment. But this article made me realize that it is not my place to feel this. It is up to the way we punish rapists—whether that pertains to the legal system as a whole or individual college misconduct processes.
We need a reform, and we need it now. My rapist is not my responsibility. His future is not determined by my decision to come forward. He is in charge of his own actions, and his educational future was determined by his decision to rape me that night.
Yes, there are individuals who are falsely accused of sexual assault. And yes, there are individuals who are not believed despite telling the absolute truth. But that means that we need a reform of the system—we do not need a woman playing God and making a profit off of covering up horrific acts of sexual assault so that rapists can go to school.
So, going back to my initial conflict—whether to be angry or be sad or fight—I choose all of the above. I’m not sorry for my decision to come forward, not one bit. But thank you, Hanna Stotland, for making me question my integrity and then helping me refuel the fire that burns within me.
Sincerely,
Abby Woodhouse