With the ongoing discussions surrounding the Women’s March, I’ve found myself increasingly unsettled by the skepticism directed at women fighting for equal rights. The questions often raised—“What’s the big deal about inequality?” or “Can you explain how you lack equal rights?”—are not genuine inquiries. Instead, they serve as statements that dismiss the existence of inequality, or at the very least, minimize it. There’s an underlying implication that women are merely overreacting, as if to say, “This isn’t a developing nation where women face severe oppression!” Some argue that equality has been largely achieved and believe we have no reason to voice complaints. I’ve seen comments urging women to stop their “whining” and simply be quiet. The reality, however, is that inequality persists, even if it’s not something everyone has experienced firsthand. Yes, we’ve made strides, but there’s still much work to be done.
Let’s have a serious conversation about sexual violence.
This narrative is deeply personal for me, and it’s my first time sharing it beyond my closest circle. It reflects just one of the many injustices women face, not only in America but around the world. I take pride in being a survivor, not a victim. Recent events have forced me to revisit this experience and reaffirm my strength.
I recognize that this story may make some uncomfortable; it certainly did for my husband, who asked me to speak quietly while I shared it with him, so our child wouldn’t overhear. It’s a dark secret, but it’s one that needs to be told.
When I was about 14 years old, my family relocated to Pennsylvania from Michigan. As a teenager, I struggled with the transition and felt an overwhelming need for companionship amidst the changes that come with adolescence. I felt isolated while trying to maintain connections with friends from my old life, and I desperately sought to find my place in this new environment. This vulnerability made me an easy target.
When a boy my age began showing interest in me, I clung to his attention like it was a lifeline. We hadn’t spent time together outside of school, but he pressured me to make that happen, making me feel that I would lose his interest if I didn’t comply.
One evening, when my parents were out, he came over. What was meant to be a brief visit turned into a nightmare when he brought along a bottle of cheap wine. I wasn’t accustomed to drinking, but I thought, “What harm could one drink do?” That single drink led to more, and soon I found myself nauseous and needing to lie down. He followed me to the couch and began making unwanted advances. Despite my pleas for him to stop, he wouldn’t listen. He dragged me upstairs into my bedroom, ignoring my screams of “No!” and then he raped me.
I felt utterly powerless and, strangely enough, guilty for allowing him into my home. Society often teaches us that we are responsible for our own safety, and in my case, I believed that I had failed. After the assault, I passed out and awoke to find him escaping through my window just as my parents returned home.
My mother was furious when she discovered what had occurred, but her anger quickly dissipated when I explained that I had repeatedly told him no. We went to the hospital for a rape kit. It was an excruciating experience, and I was alone while a stranger examined me. I received some counseling, where I was told it wasn’t my fault and urged to be strong. I was given the morning-after pill, while my assault was dismissed as if my consent didn’t matter.
A week later, the police came to my house. I anticipated guidance on how to proceed legally, but instead, they treated me with a disturbing awkwardness, standing over me as if I were contagious. They asked if I wanted to press charges, and I was taken aback. I looked to them for advice, but their words cut deep. They suggested I consider the ramifications of ruining his life. After all, I had invited him over and we had been drinking. Their advice was to get a restraining order.
Reluctant to harm anyone’s future, I took their suggestion, along with the shame that followed me to school. I faced constant bullying, called derogatory names, and swiftly lost the few friends I had. I sat alone in the cafeteria while he was surrounded by his peers, who laughed at my expense. The emotional pain of being blamed for what happened to me was far worse than the physical assault itself.
This is not equality. This is an injustice. While my story is not recent, the issues remain. One in six American women has experienced a completed or attempted rape, with over 321,500 victims reported each year. Alarmingly, only 344 out of every 1,000 sexual assaults are reported to the police. The statistics speak volumes about the fear and stigma surrounding this issue.
There have been many high-profile cases where perpetrators received minimal consequences, highlighting the systemic issues surrounding sexual violence in our society. Examples like David Becker and Brock Turner illustrate how rape is often not treated as a serious crime, and women are acutely aware of this reality. Many choose not to report assaults due to fear of retaliation or the belief that their experiences are not significant enough to warrant action.
This is why the critics of the Women’s March are mistaken. Women have valid reasons to protest; we still face many inequities. To say otherwise is to overlook the struggles faced by countless individuals like myself. We must continue to raise our voices, advocating for our rights and those of others who encounter discrimination in the United States and globally.
For more insights on related topics, you can check out this related blog post, which discusses various issues surrounding women’s health and rights.
In summary, my story and the stories of many others illustrate the ongoing battle for equality. The fight is far from over, and it is essential that we keep pushing for change.