Honoring Survivors: Reframing the Post-Kavanaugh Conversation
/CW: sexual assault
In the wake of Dr. Ford’s testimony and the confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh to the US Supreme Court, a lot of women are still reeling. Shock, hurt, and anger over the decision have impacted many of the women in my life and I’m sure in yours, too. It’s difficult to feel that this decision is anything but a blatant hit to women everywhere, and it makes sense that we, as women, feel a certain sense of shared anger and frustration.
But I think that some of us forget that the Kavanaugh hearings were a particularly intense time for survivors of sexual violence perhaps even more than it was for women in general. The way I’ve heard so many people, women notably, discuss the issue has been, for lack of another word, surprising. Over the past few months, I’ve engaged in many conversations about Kavanaugh and Ford and have heard comments like:
“I’ve never personally been assaulted but…”
“I know you’ve never been assaulted.”
“You’re a strong, independent woman who would never put herself in that situation.”
Or the blatant:
“Have you been assaulted?”
Hearing these statements over and over again in my conversations, I’ve come to find that there are lots of folks who don’t understand the commonplace situations that many women (and people) face that result in sexual abuse or violence. And I’ve realized that perhaps we are not as well-versed in supporting survivors of sexual violence as we may think.
Notably, for many, college is a time of sexual, social, and alcohol exploration, where misinformation and issues of consent and abuse abound. During my college experience, I had gay friends asking if they’re supposed to be using condoms like heterosexual couples since no one ever told them that protection is meant for ANY type of person, no matter their identity. I knew girlfriends giving oral sex because they said it’s “safer” than “actual sex.” Parties often had guys lurking around the edges watching women as they danced. The “hookup culture” meant that everyone was having sex with everyone else, regardless of whether they were in a relationship or not, and I was passing out information on birth control like it was candy.
With limited or nonexistent sexuality education growing up, it makes sense that many young people don’t know about safety, protection, or consent. On many (most?) college campuses, it’s not hard to be in spaces where consent isn’t recognized—how can it be if no one’s been taught?
Even if you have been taught, there are still myriad gray spaces that manifest the entrenched norms of masculine dominance and unconsensual behavior. Reading about Aziz Ansari’s case from earlier this year pointed to a lot of these gray areas: the fact that nonverbal language is often completely ignored by men in sexual situations, that it doesn’t take a blatant “no” for it to be wrong, that often women feel pressured to do certain acts due to power imbalances or the simple fear of disappointing. Girls dreaming of fairy tale romances growing into women bowing to guys’ wishes no matter what because they feel lucky to be desired. Young women “consenting” to certain activities, then ending up feeling uncomfortable, sad, and angry when they realize that their needs and wants weren’t prioritized. The fact that countless women don’t think they can have an orgasm. (which is so untrue I couldn’t help but say something).
Gender inequality still permeates our culture, manifested in these gray moments. Where consent isn’t clear. Where male desire often trumps women’s needs. Where women’s voices aren’t honored equally.
These gray spaces, not even mentioning the countless times random women get touched or catcalled by random men on the street, all point to the fact that many women have been sexually harassed, if not abused or raped. I don’t point this out to be pessimistic or cynical but to argue that the assumption that “strong, independent women” have never experienced assault is harmful and probably untrue. And to gently remind that sharing these experiences is a personal choice, one entirely owned by the survivor herself.
To be clear, no one should ever ask “Have you been sexually assaulted?” unless you’re a trained trauma worker. Framing the post-Kavanaugh conversation around personal experiences of assault fails to respect the right of survivors to share their stories if and when and how they want. Assuming that strong, independent women can’t be assaulted ignores the gray spaces that many young people (and others) face on a regular basis. How can we, as women, begin to fight for our voices to be heard when even among each other, we still fail to respect and support each other?
This is my call to everyone that we should respect and honor survivors to raise their voices if and when and how they want. We shouldn’t frame our post-Kavanaugh conversations in terms of who’s been assaulted and who hasn’t; instead we should focus on listening to and supporting each other.
Want to learn more how you can support a survivor of sexual assault? Visit RAINN for resources.
