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Laurie Halse Anderson is an American author known for her young adult novels that tackle challenging and relevant issues facing teenagers. One of her most famous works is Speak, which tells the story of a teenage girl named Melinda who stops speaking after being raped. The novel received a lot of attention for how it portrayed trauma and how it affected the main character's life. Anderson wrote Speak in 1999, at a time when discussions around sexual assault and its impact were gaining more attention in public. Anderson has a personal connection to her piece Speak, saying, “I was raped the summer before 9th grade, and I didn't tell anyone about it for 25 years. SPEAK is based a little on what happened to me. The heart of Melinda's story is me, but the book is 90% fiction. I wrote it to help myself make sense of what had happened to me.” Anderson wanted to create a narrative that not only shed light on assault but also explained the hardships of trauma and the struggle for expression in its aftermath.

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Author of Wintergirls, Chains, and Twisted

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In "Speak" by Laurie Halse Anderson, the narrative is in the period of the late 1990s. The story takes place in a suburban town in Syracuse, New York, primarily within the walls of Merryweather High School. The novel is about Melinda Sordino's freshman year, which explores the social dynamics and personal challenges she faces after a traumatic event at a summer party before the school year begins.

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Jeanette Leblanc's poem, "Believe Her," emphasizes the importance of believing sexual assault survivors. The poem portrays the victim and the recipient, stressing the need for validation and reassurance. It addresses common assumptions and uses real-world questions to show why victims are not always okay. An example of this is when she says, “No matter the drinks or the outfit or the degree to which she knew or didn’t know her violator," Addressing this was important because many victims are judged for what happened because of what they were wearing or doing prior. Leblanc uses real experiences and emotions to explain the aftermath of sexual assault and suggests actions to take when around someone who has experienced it. She does an amazing job of showing how important reassurance is when helping a victim. An example of this from her poem is, "When she says, "It was my fault..." tell her no. When she asks, "Was this okay...?" Say no now. "Not ever." This section of the poem is important because it shows proper reassurance and validation of why it is never a victim's fault and that what happened to them will never be okay. If every person who has had someone confide in them about sexual assault responded like this, survivors would be less afraid to express their stories. When it comes to supporting a victim, something as simple as saying you believe they can help their situation. Victims go through so much; having someone there to reassure them and remind them that they are okay and what happened to them is not their fault is so helpful. It allows them to open up and feel safer talking about their situation.

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This is a poem for the women violated, and for those who stand in support and love and solidarity.
For partners, for lovers, for friends.
For all those women harmed, and for all those who held and loved them in the aftermath.
Maybe not perfectly, maybe not with unfailing grace, but loved and held them in fullness.
For all those who said in some way - I believe you.
For all those not yet believed.
For #metoo and #whyididntreport and every story that will never find a trendy hashtag.
No single human can live up to the lines of this poem in isolation, but together - if we truly try - we just might have a chance to make a difference, to the woman in front of us. To the girl or woman inside of us. And to the collective trauma held in the bodies and hearts of women everywhere.

This is an offering of love. To all of you. To all of us. To our mothers and our sisters and our daughters. To our world.

________

When a woman tells you she's been violated:
Believe her.
No matter what words she uses to describe the violation.
No matter the drinks or the outfit or the degree to which she knew or didn't know her violator.
No matter the time of day or night or the spaces in memory.
No matter her age now or her age then or how many years it took to speak it.
No matter how many times it's happened or what came before or after.

No matter the questions that arise in your own mind, planted by a culture that has taught you that her-story is the one to be met with disbelief.
Believe her.
Hear her story.
Blanket her shame with your love.
Counter her fear with your faith.
Hold the relentless questions running on loops in her mind between your palms, tenderly.
Believe her.
When she says, "It was my fault..." Tell her no.

When she asks, "Was this okay...?" Say not now. Not ever.

When she wonders, "Did I bring this on myself...?" Remind her that she has only ever called in goodness.

When she worries you'll never look at her the same way...
Do not hesitate or waver.
Tell her that she is wrong.
That she is beautiful.
That you love her.

When she tells you they didn't believe her before...
Remind her that you are different.

When she cannot look you in the eye...
Hold up the brightest mirror you can find, and show her the vast and unchangeable beauty of her being.

When she shows you her bruises...
Swallow hard and don't you dare look away.

When she reaches out in need of kind arms...
Hold her.

When she cannot find her voice to safely speak. When the words stick like swords in her throat. When the sound of her own voice is too much to bear...
Will your love to transmit across miles of silence.
Hold the space without sound.
Fill it with wildflowers and sunshine and infinite softness.

When she needs to tell her story again and again and again...
Listen. As many times as it takes.

When it takes far longer than you expected for her to heal...
Be infinitely patient.

When that healing looks nothing like they told you it would...
Find every dictionary in your house. Cross out the definition they gave you.
Allow her to write in her own.
Make sure to use pencil so she can change it as often as she needs.

When her body feels unsafe on the street or in the coffee shop or at the grocery store...
Walk closely beside her, ask if she would like to hold your hand.
Shield her energy with your own.
Don't let go.

When she's afraid of the dark...
Keep the lights on.

When she's too terrified to sleep alone...
Plan to stay as many nights as she needs.

When her body feels unsafe in your bed...
Stop. Look her in the eyes. Remind her that in this space, always, she is sovereign.

When she asks you to make love to her...
Trust her. Go slow. Be prepared to stop.

When you're not sure how to proceed...
Ask her.

When she answers...
Pay close attention.

When the rules change...
Accept them.

When you can't touch her the same way. When what was beautiful between you is now a reminder of horror. When triggers arise in unexpected and tender spaces...
Don't you dare take it personally.

When her body, her home, and the world transform into fields littered with landmines...
Walk carefully and gently and with great reverence.

When you trip over one of them - and you will...
Go easy on yourself. You too will need infinite kindness to get through this.

When you get it wrong...
Forgive yourself.

When the weight of what is required begins to feel so very heavy. When you fear your bones might crack. When your own heart is tangled and your soul is weary and longing for rest and a place to lay it all down....
Reserve tenderness for yourself.
Make a religion out of the most exquisite self-care.
Remember that you, too, deserve respite, comfort, and safe arms to hold you as you cry.

When you do not live up to the words in this poem. When you hit your limit and your own being is crying out for respite and you feel you are failing the woman you love...
Remember that you can call in reserves, that no single person can do this alone.

When she wakes up at night, sits straight up in bed, a silent scream caught in her throat, her body echoing memory knit into bones...
Sit up with her.
Light a candle and shine it in all the dark corners.
Breathe with her until her breath returns to her body and her heart stops trying to escape from her rib cage

When she can't sleep...
Stay awake.
Invite her to nestle her head against your chest.
Play with her hair. Sing her lullabies. Whisper truths in her ear.
Truths about her beauty.
And her power.
And her absolute right to autonomy of spirit and soul and body.
Her ownership of her sacred yes and her holy no.
Her warrior strength and her ability to survive.
Now and for the rest of her life.

When a woman tells you she was violated....
Believe her.
And say so.

Don't just think it.
Don't just feel it.
Speak the words to her.
Out loud. Right now.

As many times as it takes.
Over and over and over again.

In words
In writing.
With your body.
In the way you look at her.
In public. On social media.
At the hospital.
At the police station.
In court.
At the bar.
On the street corner.
In your outside voice where other people can hear.
In as many different languages as you can memorize.

Because too many women in this world have been violated.
And too many are met with the violence of disbelief.

So, when a woman tells you she was violated.

You stop what you're doing.
Look her in the eyes.
And tell her you fucking believe her.
_____

{image credit: Kat J via Unsplash}

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Believe Her: A poem for survivors (and those who love them) | Jeanette LeBlanc

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This is a poem for the women violated, and for those who stand in support and love and solidarity. For all those not yet believed. #metoo

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The Truth Behind ‘Believe Me: The Abduction of Lisa McVey’ 

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"Believe Me: The Abduction of Lisa McVey'' was released in September 2018 and recounts the true story of Lisa McVey, a 17-year-old girl who survived a terrifying encounter with serial killer Bobby Joe Long in 1984. The film shows Lisa’s troubled home life and how she doesn’t have the best reputation in her town. One night after working a long shift, she is abducted by Bobby Joe Long, a notorious serial killer, and is held captive for a grueling 26 hours. During her captivity, Lisa was raped, abused, and harassed. Despite the trauma, she remained calm and used her intelligence to observe and remember crucial details about her captor and his surroundings. Lisa gained Long's trust by pretending to empathize with him, which ultimately led to her release. After being released, she heads straight home, where she tells her grandmother and father about the horrific situation she just endured, to which she ultimately gets told that she is lying. She then tries to tell the police what happened to her, which results in the same reaction: they don't believe her. But one detective takes an interest in her case, Detective Larry Pinkerton and Lisa can tell him every detail of her abduction, providing very specific and crucial clues that led to the incarceration of Bobby Joe Long. Throughout this movie, we see Lisa's desperation and determination to survive through everything she does. She did everything right and was able to provide evidence and clues to help convict her attacker, but she still wasn’t believed. She begins to feel hopeless and like what she went through was not important. The one detective who believed her made her situation feel important and made her feel important. In the end, it shows how important it is to believe someone and how one person's advocacy led to the incarceration of the infamous serial killer Bobby Joe Long.

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“When you are facing a woman who is talking about a story, you need to put yourself in her shoes and walk the journey with her,” says advocate Audrey D’Mello. The article Why and How You MUST #BelieveSurvivors by Vice emphasizes the significance of believing in survivors of sexual assault and abuse for emotional and psychological healing. Disbelief and skepticism can re-traumatize survivors and prevent them from seeking help. Where support and belief in survivors increase their likelihood of reporting their experiences, which can help hold perpetrators accountable and prevent future abuse. The article also talks about the #MeToo movement and how it has empowered many survivors to share their stories publicly, which has led to increased awareness and significant consequences for abusers. It emphasizes the importance of empathy, comparing false accusations to proven true sexual assault accusations and encouraging readers to put themselves in the victim's shoes. A section of the article titled “Because Statistics Say So” makes a good point about the legality of assault saying, “Statistics point to the fact that false allegations are rarer than we think, but sexual violence is not.” Bringing up these common allegations about sexual assault brings more attention to the topic and gets people talking about it. The article continues to talk about how believed survivors feel seen, heard, and understood, which leads to emotional and psychological healing. The ripple effect of belief can create extensive changes in the handling of assault and abuse cases.

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Illustration: Prianka Jain.

FYI.

This story is over 5 years old.

If you're still debating the limits of the hashtag, we tell you not just 'why' you need to believe the survivors, but also how your belief need not conflict with the idea of justice.

On October 4, 2018, when Ishita Gupta shared her story of an acquaintance sexually assaulting her when she was drunk, and later gaslighting her, she did not expect the barrage of victim-blaming comments that would follow. "From being questioned on why I was drinking, to why I was talking about it on social media, to being asked how it was unreasonable to expect a man to not have an unattractive women next to him and not have sex with her-I got asked all sorts of ridiculous things," the Mumbai-based 23-year-old counselling psychologist told VICE. "One woman DMed to tell me I was a whore and I should stay away from her husband. I was asked why I did not go to lawyers or cops. I did not expect responses that were more about having to explain my actions on all levels rather than questioning the systems that do not allow survivors to speak up."

Every time a woman makes an accusation of abuse or harassment, there is an alarming number of skeptics who immediately question her motives. Why?

Speaking up is not easy. Doing so means allowing people to pick apart how A year after the "perfect" a victim you are. You might be judged in a court of law that has internalised myths about sexual violence, or be sued for defamation. It means having to deal with the fear of retaliation, first allegations against Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein upended the conversations about women and the pervasiveness of harassment and abuse, the groundbreaking #MeToo movement is running at full throttle in urban India. The past few weeks have opened a floodgate of sorts on Twitter, with women sharing their stories of trauma and abuse at the hands of powerful men, encouraged by the hashtag-led movement that gives them a voice while calling upon their perpetrators to account for their actions. Harrowing personal stories on our timeline include actor Tanushree Dutta's which unwittingly stirred the movement, journalist Sandhya Menon who opened a massive can of worms against some of the biggest names in journalism, and senior journalist Priya Ramani who was the first among 20 women to accuse Minister of State and former editor MJ Akbar of sexual misconduct. Countless voices have followed, pulling up those in the fields of media, cinema, literature, academia and beyond. losing a job or opportunities at work, having difficult conversations with those close to you who might not understand why you want to speak up publicly, and if charges are brought against you, having the will and resources to fight them. It means having to stand your ground against a system rooted in patriarchy, and victim-blaming hardwired in our psychology. The naming, the shaming, the character assassination, and ultimately, the possibility that nothing will change-the cost of speaking up is high.

In India, as a precursor to this movement of speaking up, was the crucial Belief, by its very definition, means putting your trust, faith and confidence in something, even in the face of inadequate or no proof. But allow us to dismantle right here the assumption that believing survivors asks you to overlook facts. Even the most vocal or passionate feminists will agree that the hashtag is only asking you to give the benefit of the doubt to the survivor who is often a woman or belonging to a disenfranchised part of the society, rather than automatically giving it to the perpetrator who is often a man. As Tarana Burke, civil rights activist and founder of the #MeToo movements put it in an episode of verdict in 1990 that was passed in favour of musician Alisha Chinai, who had filed sexual harassment charges against heavyweight music composer Anu Malik. But the movement gained impetus in the Indian urbanscape only last year when Raya Sarkar-then a 24-year-old law student at the University of California-released a Mic Dispatch: "'Believe women' or 'believe survivors' is not just like, 'Believe us at all costs, don't investigate,' you know, 'If I say it, it's true.' It is-let's start with a premise that people aren't lying and at least give them the respect of interrogating what they're saying." list of alleged sexual predators on Indian campuses. Since October 4, 2018, the campaign has gained a feverish momentum, where several women have taken the onus of whistleblowing men in powerful positions, calling out "performative wokeness", and speaking out against work cultures that take egalitarian attitudes for granted. In return, organisations have responded almost overnight, leading to statements expressing apologies and redressals, distancing themselves from the perpetrators (alleged and otherwise), setting off investigations, and calling for resignations.

Even as we consider what lies ahead, what's important is to reflect on the sentiment that exists today. If you're still thinking of the 'Why' behind #BelieveSurvivors-that is built on the assumption that most complainants are telling the truth-read on to know exactly why you should believe the stories of survivors of sexual assault and harassment.

Because You Must Consider What the Survivor Has to Gain

"The risk [involved in coming out with their stories] is extremely high for the survivors," says Scherezade Sanchita Siobhan, a Mumbai-based psychologist and therapist who works with survivors of sexual violence, as well as with those accused. "If a bank clerk says that he was robbed, we look at how we can address his situation, and we tend to believe him. But if a victim of sexual harassment or violence speaks up, we question its reality. Even if you believe that they are speaking out of vendetta of any sort, you have to understand that the current legal mechanism is all about helping the perpetrator." On a personal, psychological level, reliving a trauma by talking about it publicly is difficult. When a survivor recounts their story, they are, in a way, re-traumatising themselves. "An instinctive reaction to any kind of trauma would be to lock it up. Very few people want to access that and use language to express it," says Siobhan. So why are so many people talking about it now, after all these years? In part it's because when someone speaks out, it might work as a trigger for others with stories of harassment and abuse too. When we witness what happens to others, we can relive our own experiences, or empathise with the stories of others. That can drive more survivors to share their stories in support.

"Traumatic events destroy the sustaining bonds between individual and community," writes Judith Lewis Herman in her book One in three women has been physically or sexually abused, according to the Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence. "Those who have survived learn that their sense of self, of worth, of humanity, depends upon a feeling of connection with others. The solidarity of a group provides the strongest protection against terror and despair, and the strongest antidote to a traumatic experience. Trauma isolates; the group re-creates a sense of belonging." World Health Organization. So when one woman shares her story of abuse, Siobhan says, she's more than likely to find what psychologists call 'empathic witness', someone who understands what the accuser is going through, because they have gone through the same. "Instead of asking what a woman will get out of filing a false case, the question is what the woman (or survivor) is losing in the process," says Bengaluru-based criminologist Rashi Vidyasagar. "And there is a lot to lose."

Because It's Not Fair for the Burden of Proof to Fall with the Prosecutor

The law demands that making a claim needs justification, and the burden of proof lies with the one making the claim. But the proof often means revisiting details of an incident that your brain has automatically clamped down by switching on its survival mode. "The dialectic of trauma is knotted between a desire to reveal and a desire to bury/repress," says Siobhan. "Talking about trauma through direct verbal language is very hard-your memory feels like a rumour in that case," says Sneha Janaki, counselling psychologist at Reflective Arena. "When trauma impacts the brain, there is a likelihood of some kind of forgetting, not remembering details, and an incoherent story. How do we normally response to an incoherent story? We say it doesn't make sense. How do we then believe in the kind of statements that to us don't make complete sense? That, however, does not mean the harassment or assault didn't occur."

This can mean that the survivor's testimony might sound incoherent, and because sexual harassment often takes place in private, there are few or no other witnesses. It's also important to remember that the legal burden of proof need not-and cannot-be applied outside of a courtroom.

Because You Have to Understand and Respect the Survivor's Choice of Anonymity

At the core of the #BelieveSurvivors campaign is the unflinching support to those who have come out with their stories. But one place where it keeps stumbling is when the survivors are anonymous, preferring to share their experiences through the social media accounts of several women who have opened up their DMs to that end. But anonymous writing is not about hiding behind a pseudonym. It is about passing the microphone to those who can tell their stories without the fear of personal judgment, interruption or bias. "The moment you file an FIR, you stop being a victim in the crime and you become a witness in the crime; you have no role to play except as a witness," says Vidyasagar. "If your role in the entire process is so diminished that you don't have the ability to say what happens next, why would you come out?"

"To come out publicly might mean that your case carries more credibility over an anonymous account only because it's open to being verified, but the cost of speaking out is sometimes too high," says a survivor who gave out her story on sexual assault anonymously, one that led to four other women to come out with their stories on the accused as well. "My husband understands my need to speak up but my in-laws would never get why I could finally speak about something that happened three years ago, and I was worried for my kids as well. Priya Ramani is now fighting a defamation case against Akbar who now has 97 lawyers representing him-I have no idea how I would've dealt with something like that. My main incentive was that others shouldn't go through what I did. I don't know what happens ahead but I am also finally at peace about this incident."

Because to Believe is to Acknowledge a Basic Human Right

In the face of skepticism, in addition to the severe limitations of the legal system and the absence of proof, acknowledging the claims can also be a basic human right. "To be able to hear her out is not a function of your gender," says advocate Audrey D'Mello, programme director of Majlis Legal Centre, a forum for women's rights discourse and legal initiatives. "When you are facing a woman who is talking about a story, you need to put yourself in her shoes and walk the journey with her. The law has enough opportunities to address false cases. False is different from those you are not able to prove. But do not disbelieve her. Whenever we do classes on sexual harassment at workplaces, the primary question is: but what about its misuse? You can't start with the presumption that women are liars and out to rob men of their everything."

Because Listeners are not Judge and Jury and Cannot Demand Proof

One of the loudest and scathing criticisms in the thick of the movement is: what about the natural course of justice? "To an extent, it [the movement] does [subvert the natural course of justice]. In people's mind, the accused is already guilty and that is the power social media has today. No formal action may be taken but there is a reputational damage," says Swarnima, who is a partner at one of India's biggest law firms, Trilegal, and works with POSH (Prevention of Sexual Harassment) cases across sectors. "Having said that, such a wave is necessary because it's leading to a societal shift; we've been in a society where people didn't raise their voice; the solution often offered by well-wishers was to ignore and move on. This is making everyone stop and think about the impact of their actions. I believe things will balance out over a period of time." Indian law allows the perpetrator the right to a reasonable hearing, opportunity to defend charges, right to know the evidence against oneself and the right to present evidence, among other rights. But #MeToo criticism has divided conversations on the movement, especially when it comes to the distinction between trial by social media, and a trial by law.

Let's also consider what we mean by justice. "The most common form of justice we are familiar with is retributive justice," adds Vidyasagar. "This is what we think of as legally right, the idea that you must be punished for what you have done. But what is more evolved as a discussion is that of restorative justice. You look at criminals as not born criminals but through the lens of the society that makes them one. So what you may want to question is the culture where such behaviours are encouraged and silence among victims is common." The choices for the victims, as most see it, are often on either end of the spectrum: either doing something more than they want to and involving themselves in systems that are out of their control or doing nothing at all. The gap lies between the experience of victimisation and the kinds of services that are available. Maybe we need to think of systems that can facilitate healing as also justice-not one at the expense of the other. "When you think about not believing survivors, it's because retributive justice is the only form of justice we are exposed to. Here, it becomes important that guilt is proven beyond reasonable doubt. We want to pit the two stories against each other," says Vidyasagar. "You think of the innocent versus guilty-that you can let a 1,000 accused go scot-free but not allow 1 innocent to be punished. But even if you feel you will come across a woman who isn't saying the truth, you should look at the societal structures around her that would make her say so. Then, your idea of justice has become much broader."

That is not to say, a false allegation will not come up. #MeToo is not perfect, like everything else in life. Human nature, by itself, means false claims will come up. But to talk of false allegations as derailing the movement itself is unfair.

Because the Statistics Say So

Statistics point to the fact that false allegations are rarer than we think, but sexual violence is not. A report published by Trilegal threw up interesting observations with regards to workplaces. "We worked with NASSCOM on this, for which we conducted sessions across six Indian cities, and then carried out a survey in which 120 companies had participated. Out of this, we gathered specific information from 35 companies to compile a toolkit on the best practices for POSH," says Swarnima. "One of the first questions we raised was on the number of malicious complaints that companies have received since 2013 since this is the first question I get asked during POSH trainings." In the data collected, 73% of the respondents reported that they have received 0 malicious complaints since December 2013 while 23% of respondents received only between 1 to 6 malicious complaints. It's not like you will not find false or malicious complaints if you run a search. Women, like men, lie. But consider this:

Because Believing Women Is Just the First Step

Translating the belief in survivors into concrete progress has to do with representation in the workplace, in our government, and in any room where decisions are being made. Believing survivors now has to relate on a structural and policy level, but also means revisiting our education in terms of power, consent, and gender that has been ingrained in us. It's a long road ahead but our conversations are our starting point. We must remember that by believing survivors, we are pushing forward the movement too and helping create safe spaces for them to step up and talk about their stories, and consequently, heal. Conversely, by not believing them, we are discouraging people from talking about their stories, and hence, contributing to creating a toxic atmosphere which aids perpetrators. We, the audience, have nothing to lose by believing and acknowledging, but a survivor has everything to gain by our belief in them. Just hear them out. Follow Dhvani Solani on Instagram, and Pallavi Pundir on Twitter.

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If you're still debating the limits of the hashtag, we tell you not just 'why' you need to believe the survivors, but also how your belief need not conflict with the idea of justice.

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This TED talk came out in November of 2018. It features the founder of the Me Too movement, Tarana Burke, who speaks out against sexual violence. Burke, frustrated with the lack of action toward sexual violence in her community, took out a piece of paper and wrote “Me Too” on top of it, later forming an action plan for a movement based on the empathy of survivors. In this Ted Talk, she focuses on how her movement has shaped the world. While grateful for this movement's success, Burke expresses how she is “numb” over the fact that she has everything to say to a survivor but nothing left to give. Raising awareness of things that should not be normalized is not okay. Burke talks about the power struggle between those of higher power and the power that survivors carry. “Someone with credible accusations of sexual violence against him was confirmed to the Supreme Court of the United States of America,” says Tanana Burke. “The US President, who was caught on tape talking about how he can grab women's body parts wherever he wants, however he wants, can call a survivor a liar at one of his rallies, and the crowds will roar.” She raises awareness of a common issue that our world faces when given information surrounding sexual assault. Proving that the more we let people of power diminish these issues, the more likely they will happen, and survivors will stay silent. "We owe future generations nothing less than a world free of sexual violence," she says. "I believe we can build that world."

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Tarana Burke: Me Too is a movement, not a moment

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In 2006, Tarana Burke was consumed by a desire to do something about the sexual violence she saw in her community. She took out a piece of paper, wrote "Me Too" across the top and laid out an action plan for a movement centered on the power of empathy between survivors.

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This art exhibit was founded by Jen Brockman and Dr. Mary Wyandt-Hiebert in 2013. The first is “What Were You Wearing?” The Survivor Art Installation was displayed at the University of Arkansas from March 31 to April 4th, 2014. It started with student survivors, who voluntarily shared brief explanations about what they were wearing when they were assaulted. These descriptions were used to recreate the outfits worn during the assaults. From there, these outfits were put into an exhibit where the articles of clothing were pinned to a board and the descriptions given of the clothing were displayed next to it. The importance of this artwork is that it addresses one of the most common accusations surrounding sexual assault: “Maybe you shouldn’t have been wearing that, and it probably wouldn't have happened to you.” This exhibit displays all kinds of clothing: children's, female clothing, male clothing, dresses, skirts, pants, and sweatshirts; almost every kind of clothing was displayed. This exhibit shows that it wasn't the clothing worn that caused the rape; it was the rapist. It validates survivors, helping to show that what happened to them isn’t their fault and that they aren't alone.

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"Know My Name" is a memoir by Chanel Miller, detailing her experience of a sexual assault and her journey towards healing and reclaiming her identity. The memoir highlights the importance of believing survivors and the power of naming, confronting the culture of disbelief, and finding strength in the community. Miller's words highlight the fear of not being believed and the impact of victim-blaming, which isolates survivors from seeking help. Through her interactions with other survivors, she finds comfort and strength in shared experiences, reinforcing the importance of believing and supporting survivors. Empathy is also a powerful tool, as it goes beyond personal stories and connects us all as human beings. Miller's story serves as a testament to the importance of standing in harmony and acknowledging the humanity of survivors. Through her courageous storytelling, readers are confronted with the realities of sexual violence and inspired to advocate for change in their own communities.

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I N T R O D U C T I O N

The fact that I spelled subpoena, suhpeena, may suggest I am not qualified to tell this story. But all court transcripts are at the world's disposal, all news articles online. This is not the ultimate truth, but it is mine, told to the best of my ability. If you want it through my eyes and ears, to know what it felt like inside my chest, what it's like to hide in the bathroom during trial, this is what I provide. I give what I can, you take what you need.
In January 2015, I was twenty-two, living and working in my home- town of Palo Alto, California. I attended a party at Stanford. I was sexually assaulted outside on the ground. Two bystanders saw it, stopped him, saved me. My old life left me, and a new one began. I was given a new name to protect my identity: I became Emily Doe.
In this story, I will be calling the defense attorney, the defense. The judge, the judge. They are here to demonstrate the roles they played. This is not a personal indictment, not a clapback, a blacklist, a rehashing. I believe we are all multidimensional beings, and in court, it felt harmful being f lattened, characterized, mislabeled, and vilified, so I will not do the same to them. I will use Brock's name, but the truth is he could be Brad or Brody or Benson, and it doesn't matter. The point is not their individual significance, but their commonality, all the peo- ple enabling a broken system. This is an attempt to transform the hurt inside myself, to confront a past, and find a way to live with and incor- porate these memories. I want to leave them behind so I can move forward. In not naming them, I finally name myself.
My name is Chanel.
I am a victim, I have no qualms with this word, only with the idea that it is all that I am. However, I am not Brock Turner's victim. I am not his anything. I don't belong to him. I am also half Chinese. My Chinese name is Zhang Xiao Xia, which translates to Little Summer. I was named summer because:
I was born in June.
Xia is also China's first dynasty. I am the first child.
"Xia" sounds like "sha." Chanel.
The FBI defines rape as any kind of penetration. But in California, rape is narrowly defined as the act of sexual intercourse. For a long time I refrained from calling him a rapist, afraid of being corrected. Legal definitions are important. So is mine. He filled a cavity in my body with his hands. I believe he is not absolved of the title simply because he ran out of time.
The saddest things about these cases, beyond the crimes themselves, are the degrading things the victim begins to believe about her being. My hope is to undo these beliefs. I say her, but whether you are a man, transgender, gender-nonconforming, however you choose to identify and exist in this world, if your life has been touched by sexual violence, I seek to protect you. And to the ones who lifted me, day by day, out of darkness, I hope to say thank you.

1.

I AM SHY. In elementary school for a play about a safari, everyone else was an animal. I was grass. I've never asked a question in a large lecture hall. You can find me hidden in the corner of any exercise class. I'll apologize if you bump into me. I'll accept every pamphlet you hand out on the street. I've always rolled my shopping cart back to its place of ori- gin. If there's no more half-and-half on the counter at the coffee shop, I'll drink my coffee black. If I sleep over, the blankets will look like they've never been touched.
I've never thrown my own birthday party. I'll put on three sweaters before I ask you to turn on the heat. I'm okay with losing board games. I stuff my coins haphazardly into my purse to avoid holding up the checkout line. When I was little I wanted to grow up and become a mascot, so I'd have the freedom to dance without being seen.
I was the only elementary school student to be elected as a conflict manager two years in a row; my job was to wear a green vest every recess, patrolling the playground. If anyone had an unsolvable dispute, they'd find me and I'd teach them about I-Messages such as I feel
when you . Once a kindergartner approached me, said everyone got ten seconds on the tire swing, but when she swung, kids counted one cat, two cat, three cat, and when the boys swung, they counted one hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, longer turns. I declared from that day forward everyone would count one tiger, two tiger. My whole life I've counted in tigers.
I introduce myself here, because in the story I'm about to tell, I begin with no name or identity. No character traits or behaviors assigned to me. I was found as a half-naked body, alone and unconscious. No wallet, no ID. Policemen were summoned, a Stanford dean was awakened to come see if he could recognize me, witnesses asked around; nobody knew who I belonged to, where I'd come from, who I was.
My memory tells me this: On Saturday, January 17, 2015, I was living at my parents' house in Palo Alto. My younger sister, Tiffany, a junior at Cal Poly, had driven three hours up the coast for the long weekend. She usually spent her time at home with friends, but occasionally she'd give some of that time to me. In the late afternoon, the two of us picked up her friend Julia, a Stanford student, and drove to the Arastradero Preserve to watch the sun spill its yolk over the hills. The sky darkened, we stopped at a taqueria. We had a heated debate about where pigeons sleep, argued about whether more people fold toilet paper into squares (me) or simply crumple it (Tiffany). Tiffany and Julia mentioned a party they were going to that evening at Kappa Alpha on the Stanford campus. I paid little attention, ladling green salsa into a teeny plastic cup.
Later that night, my dad cooked broccoli and quinoa, and we reeled when he presented it as qwee-noah. It's keen-wah, Dad, how do you not know that!! We ate on paper plates to avoid washing dishes. Two more of Tiffany's friends, Colleen and Trea, arrived with a bottle of champagne. The plan was for the three of them to meet Julia at Stanford. They said, You should come. I said, Should I go, would it be funny if I went. I'd be the oldest one there. I rinsed in the shower, singing. Sifted through wads of socks looking for undies, found a worn polka-dotted triangle of fabric in the corner. I pulled on a tight, charcoal-gray dress. A heavy silver necklace with tiny red stones. An oatmeal cardigan with large brown buttons. I sat on my brown carpet, lacing up my coffee-colored combat boots, my hair still wet in a bun.
Our kitchen wallpaper is striped blue and yellow. An old clock and wooden cabinets line the walls, the doorframe marked with our heights over the years (a small shoe symbol drawn if we were measured while wearing them). Opening and closing cabinet doors, we found nothing but whiskey; in the refrigerator the only mixers were soy milk and lime juice. The only shot glasses we had were from family trips, Las Vegas, Maui, back when Tiffany and I collected them as little cups for our stuffed animals. I drank the whiskey straight, unapologetically, freely, the same way you might say, Sure I' ll attend your cousin's bar mitzvah, on the one condition that I'm hammered.
We asked our mom to take the four of us to Stanford, a seven-minute drive down Foothill Expressway. Stanford was my backyard, my community, a breeding ground for cheap tutors my parents hired over the years. I grew up on that campus, attended summer camps in tents on the lawns, snuck out of dining halls with chicken nuggets bulging from my pockets, had dinner with professors who were parents of good friends. My mom dropped us off near the Stanford bookstore, where on rainy days she had brought us for hot cocoa and madeleines.
We walked five minutes, descended the slope of pavement to a large house tucked beneath pine trees. A guy with tiny tally marks of hair on his upper lip let us in. I found a soda and juice dispenser in the fraternity kitchen, began slapping the buttons, concocting a nonalcoholic beverage I advertised as dingleberry juice. Now serving le dinglebooboo drank for the lady! KA, KA all day. People started pouring in. The lights went off.
We stood behind a table by the front door like a welcoming committee, spread our arms and sang, Welcome welcome welcome!!! I watched the way girls entered, heads tucked halfway into their shoulders, smiling timidly, scanning the room for a familiar face to latch on to. I knew that look because I'd felt it. In college, a fraternity was an exclusive kingdom, throbbing with noise and energy, where the young ones heiled and the large males ruled. After college, a fraternity was a sour, yeasty atmosphere, a scattering of f limsy cups, where you could hear the soles of your shoes unpeeling from sticky floors, and punch tasted like paint thinner, and curls of black hair were pasted to toilet rims. We discovered a plastic handle of vodka on the table. I cradled it like I'd discovered water in the desert. Bless me. I poured it into a cup and threw it back straight. Everyone was mashed up against each other on tables, swaying like little penguins. I stood alone on a chair, arms in the air, a drunk piece of seaweed, until my sister escorted me down. We went outside to pee in the bushes. Julia and I began freestyle rapping. I rapped about dry skin, got stuck when I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with Cetaphil.
The basement was full, people spilling out onto the orb of light on the concrete patio. We stood around a few short Caucasian guys who wore their caps backward, careful not to get their necks sunburned, indoors, at night. I sipped a lukewarm beer, said it tasted like pee, and handed it to my sister. I was bored, at ease, drunk, and extremely tired, less than ten minutes away from home. I had outgrown everything around me. And that is where my memory goes black, where the reel cuts off.
I, to this day, believe none of what I did that evening is important, a handful of disposable memories. But these events will be relentlessly raked over, again and again and again. What I did, what I said, will all be sliced, measured, calculated, presented to the public for evaluation. All because, somewhere at this party, is him.

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Know My Name | Penguin Random House Higher Education

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A NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER"Know My Name is a gut-punch, and in the end, somehow, also blessedly hopeful."--Washington Post