S

exual assault happens, 
and that’s what matters, 
not 
when, 
where 
or 

how. 
The 
sobriety 
of 
the 

victim 
doesn’t 
matter, 
nor 

does his or her race, gender or 
socioeconomic class.

All that matters is that it 

happens. 

Two years ago, it happened 

to me.

I was pushed up against a 

wall, choked and raped for 
the first time when I was 16 
years old. For over a year, I 
didn’t tell a soul, because there 
was always the chance my 
perpetrator would fulfill his 
threats and harm my family. 
The fear that stemmed from 
those threats, coupled with the 
fervent denial I experienced 
after the fact, influenced me 
to numbly trudge forward in 
life, desperately seeking any 
distraction that could allow me 
to forget it ever happened.

For a long time, that was all I 

wanted: to forget, and to pretend 
like it never happened at all.

For 
months 
afterward, 
I 

thought 
that 
strength 
and 

resilience 
were 
manifested 

in the ability to nonchalantly 
“brush off” tragedy, like flicking 
away a piece of lint. I became 
consumed with the notion that 
to be strong meant to “suck it 
up,” and to get on with life. I 
desperately wanted to move 
forward and to “get over it” 
as soon as possible, because I 
wanted to stop suffering from 
the fear, guilt, anger, confusion 
and pain. I wanted so badly for 
my life could go back to the way 
it used to be. 

Unsurprisingly, my life did 

not go back to the way it was 
before I was raped. And, like 
almost all things in life, brushing 
off the pain and sucking it up are 
all insurmountably easier said 
than done.

I tried, though. I would wake 

up in the morning with my face 
wet with tears, clean myself up 
and fake a smile. I would then 
proceed through school hiding 
behind a veil of superficial 
euphoria and fake even more 
smiles to friends and teachers. 
I had to do so, because I didn’t 
want them to suspect that 
anything was wrong — because 
I wanted to be “normal.”

Only when I went home, 

utterly exhausted, would I shut 
myself in my room, allow a 
day’s worth of suppressed pain 

to rip my chest open and cry. 
Not until I quietly wept myself 
senseless could I finally begin 
my homework.

When night came, I would 

turn off the light and go to bed, 
only to wake up from vivid 
nightmares of being touched 
where I don’t want to be. My 
bedroom would be dark, and I 
would feel his presence in my 
room, hiding in the darkness, 
waiting to pounce. To fall back 
asleep, I would have to turn 
on my bedside lamp and allow 
my entire room to be basked in 
light. I would then frantically 
look around to make sure I was, 
indeed, safe, and there was 
nobody else in my room, only to 
wake up the next morning with 
my face wet with tears yet again.

Ever since, I haven’t been able 

to sleep alone in a room without 
the light on.

It took me a long time to 

finally stop convincing myself 
that I could live as though it 
never happened. Not until after 
I suffered numerous crippling 
panic attacks did I finally 
stop running away from my 
memories. As months of pent-
up pain and anger gradually 
overcame me, seeping through 
every cell in my body until I 
was completely consumed by 
them, I sometimes became 
uncontrollably angry. I would 
be angry at him, but I was 
mostly furious at myself for 
still being so affected by the 
aftermath and for still feeling 
so helpless and broken.

Slowly, my anger morphed 

into envy. I would see all of 
these strong, beautiful survivors 
who were so open about their 
assaults, and who were not only 
supportive of fellow survivors 
but also of themselves. I would 

see 
Instagram 
photos 
of 

survivors looking strong, happy 
and whole at “saPAC the Diag” 
while holding “I love consent” 
and “yes means yes” signs. All I 
could selfishly think about was 
how I wish I could be whole like 
them. Those incredible people 
had all dug themselves out of 
their dark holes, but I was still 
stuck deep inside of mine, when 
all I wanted was to be free.

I deeply regret allowing my 

envy to drive me to become 
verbally violent. I’m ashamed 
to have often been blinded by 
the jealousy and anger coursing 
through my veins, to have 
verbally attacked the people 
who were just trying to support 
me and help me through the 
pain. You know who you are, 
and I need you to know how 
unbelievably sorry I am.

I 
realize 
now 
that 
the 

aforementioned 
incredible 

people hadn’t dug themselves 
out of their dark holes after 
all, but rather they had found 
caring and supportive people 
to help pull them out. The 
endless love and support that 
my friends and family provide 
are the reasons why I am no 
longer stuck in that dark place. 
I’ve learned that hurdling over 
painful events without a second 
glance isn’t possible, because 
the pain will inevitably sneak 
back up once more to haunt 
you. I’ve also learned that 
strength and courage don’t 
stem from the ability to forget 
and brush off pain. Strength 
comes, instead, from those 
willing to share the pain so it’s 
no longer completely on your 
shoulders. It comes from those 
who love and support you.

While opening up has been 

a brutal, scary and exhausting 
process, I’m relieved to finally 
be whole enough to do so, 
thanks to the loved ones who 
have patiently helped me piece 
myself back together. I’m a 
survivor, but because of the 
support system that I’ve been 
so fortunate to find, I am no 
longer simply surviving.

I’m living.
And that’s what matters.

Opinion
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
4A — Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Strength in sharing

 
Let’s not talk about politics

CLARISSA DONNELLY-DEROVEN | COLUMN

W

hen 
I 
studied 

abroad 
in 
Buenos 

Aires, 
Argentina 

last winter, the weirdest thing 
I was asked the most about was 
not why did we carve former 
presidents’ faces into a mountain, 
which I’m still wondering about 
myself, 
but 
rather 

why 
was 
a 
piece 

of 
orange 
human 

garbage 
winning 

the 
Republican 

presidential 
nomination: 
“¿¡Por 

qué todos los yankees 
les gusta a Donald 
Trump?!”

One night, before 

Bernie Sanders had 
officially 
lost 
the 

primary, I was out 
at a bar with two of 
my friends and my 
friend’s sister who was visiting. 
A group of guys kept asking us 
to join our table and though 
we ignored them for a while, 
we eventually obliged. I can’t 
remember why, probably because 
in terms of loud men who harass 
women until we talk to them, 
they seemed pretty mild.

One guy asked us who we 

were voting for, we all said 
Bernie Sanders, and then the 
guy hugged us all and assured 
us he, too, would vote for Bernie 
Sanders if given the choice. 
He pointed at himself, “Yo, yo 
apoyo a Bernie Sanders, pero él,” 
he pointed at his friend, “¡Este 
hombre apoyo a Donald Trump!” 
Aside from our President Macri-
loving host moms and the one 
anti-refugee German my friend 
went on a date with, most of 
us only knew porteños more 

Marxist than us, so we cried out, 
“¿¡POR QUE?!”

This 
boy 
explained 
how 

he was sick of Peruvians and 
Bolivians 
— 
aka 
indigenous 

people — coming into Argentina 
and using their public health 
care and universities, both of 

which are legally free 
for Argentines and 
foreigners. My friend 
Abby turned to the 
Bernie-supporting 
friend and asked what 
seemed like a logical 
question: “How are 
you guys friends? Do 
you ever fight? Like … 
pelear? Luchar?” He 
laughed at our violent 
Yankee 
naïveté, 

“¡Jajaja! 
¿¡Pelear?! 

¿¡Luchar?! ¡No!” Then 
he said the Spanish 

equivalent of “We talk, we argue 
and then we get drunk.”

The two main things I learned 

on my first day in Buenos Aires 
were: 1. All porteños go to 
therapy, and 2. Talking about 
politics isn’t off limits. I think 
these two things are related, 
but I don’t know that I’ll get to 
that analysis. What I will say is: 
Try talking about politics in the 
United States and you’ll quickly 
be hushed and met with whines 
of “can’t we talk about something 
more pleasant?” I don’t know 
how 
or 
why 
this 
cultural 

difference sprouted, perhaps it 
has something to do with living 
under various dictatorships that 
makes people realize that politics 
can’t be separated from everyday 
life, or perhaps it’s something 
else. Regardless, my issue is that 
in the United States we think we 

cannot talk about politics, but I 
argue: That’s impossible.

In the United States, we have 

a weird definition of politics. 
When we talk about “politics,” 
we talk about politicians, what’s 
happening 
in 
Washington, 

etc. We don’t actually talk 
about policies. And that’s not 
our fault: The image that’s 
been constructed for us of 
what “politics” is also doesn’t 
discuss 
policies. 
Example: 

the presidential debate. The 
debates are not about substance, 
they’re about creating personas 
of Donald and Hillary: our 
symbols of “politics.” Thus, 
when we talk about “politics,” 
we’re not actually talking about 
anything substantive — we’re 
talking about a performance, a 
false and constructed image of a 
thing, a spectacle.

When we talk about “politics” 

only as it relates to Donald 
and 
Hillary, 
our 
political 

consciousness 
neither 
exists 

nor has opinions of its own: It’s 
entirely created by and wrapped 
up in the being of our politicians’ 
personas and the language of 
their campaigns. When people 
say “make America great again,” 
they don’t mean anything. When 
people say “stronger together,” 
they don’t mean anything. Our 
political campaigns don’t mean 
anything. They are marketing 
campaigns. 
They 
make 
up 

slogans.

LAURA SCHINAGLE

Managing Editor

420 Maynard St. 

Ann Arbor, MI 48109

 tothedaily@michigandaily.com

Edited and managed by students at the University of Michigan since 1890.

SHOHAM GEVA

Editor in Chief

CLAIRE BRYAN 

and REGAN DETWILER 

Editorial Page Editors

Unsigned editorials reflect the official position of the Daily’s Editorial Board. 

All other signed articles and illustrations represent solely the views of their authors.

Carolyn Ayaub
Claire Bryan

Regan Detwiler
Caitlin Heenan
Jeremy Kaplan

Ben Keller

Minsoo Kim

Payton Luokkala

Kit Maher

Madeline Nowicki
Anna Polumbo-Levy 

Jason Rowland

Lauren Schandevel

Kevin Sweitzer

Rebecca Tarnopol

Ashley Tjhung

Stephanie Trierweiler

EDITORIAL BOARD MEMBERS

T

wo weeks ago, as I 
stood in the press pen 
of the Trump rally held 

in Novi, Mich., I listened to 
the delegation of nationalist 
chauvinists adorned in “Make 
America 
Great 

Again” memorabilia 
scream out factually 
inept rhetoric. I saw 
people 
who 
were 

there to see their 
interpretation of the 
savior for the “real” 
America 
deliver 

his 
all-too-familiar 

stump 
speech 
on 

the 
failures 
of 

Democrats 
and 

the evils of Hillary Clinton. 
At one point, I glanced off to 
my left and spotted a young 
boy sitting on the fence that 
divided the press from the 
general crowd. His father held 
him securely, balancing him 
on the fence — and from the 
look on the boy’s face, he was 
having an incredible time. I 
was drawn to his look of pure 
enjoyment and curiosity of the 
dramatic political rally he was 
at. Everyone around him was 
excited, smiling, cheering and 
extremely energized — until he 
looked at me.

And as soon as my brain 

registered the fact that he was 
smiling at me, something took 
over. I was instantly upset 
over seeing a child at a Trump 
rally attempting to share his 
happy experience with me in a 
friendly manner. So, I decided 
— in all my pessimistic glory — 

to use every muscle in my face 
to deliver one of the darkest 
and most disgusted looks ever 
given from one fellow human 
being to another. And as my 
brow dramatically furrowed 

and my eyes shaded 
over in a blind rage, 
the smile on his lips 
slowly disappeared. 
And then he cried. 
He 
cried 
because 

he 
was 
visibly 

disturbed 
at 
the 

fact that someone 
could look so upset 
at what he thought 
was a happy event. 
A look that was able 

to penetrate the most innocent 
and undisturbed regions of 
his psyche that had yet to be 
corrupted from the outside. So 
he cried and then I felt like shit.

Naturally 
the 
immediate 

aftershock 
of 
my 
horribly 

inappropriate 
and 
cruel 

action hit me and led me to 
believe that maybe having the 
pettiness and immaturity to 
suddenly desire to ruin a little 
boy’s day just because I did not 
like the fact that he was happy 
was probably a testament to 
some 
grander 
underlying, 

psychological problems that 
I have. But that’s not how 
I’m deciding to interpret this 
event. Because I believe that 
the moment I decided to make 
a 5-year-old cry was the tipping 
point of the compounded level 
of disgust and disdain I have 
had for this moment within 
American politics.

For nearly a year and a half, I 

have vehemently condemned the 
Trump campaign for bringing 
such deplorable rhetoric to the 
national level. And in addition, I 
have condemned the GOP for not 
only creating the environment 
for this rogue campaign, but also 
for then continuing to endorse it 
through all of the all the racism, 
xenophobia and other disturbing 
content. I have followed this 
campaign through its entirety 
and have been disgusted with 
the 
factually 
inept 
policy 

planning, the blatantly illegal 
and unconstitutional proposals, 
the lack of decency and empathy. 
I had hoped that the GOP could 
kill this cancer that has infected 
their 162-year-old party. Yet, 
I placed too much faith in a 
political institution that would 
place party ahead of politics.

All of these feelings and 

opinions that had culminated 
within me came pouring out 
when I saw the innocent face 
of this boy who was so easily 
being impressed upon by the 
rally occurring around him. I 
became unbelievably upset due 
to the fact that this 5-year-old’s 
father decided that a political 
rally for a candidate who mocks 
reporters with disabilities and 
brags about sexually assaulting 
women would be an appropriate 
place to bring his child. And 
those compounded emotions 
and opinions that were all 
being restrained during my 
hour within the press pen came 
pouring out in an invisible 
stream of abomination directed 

toward the soul of an innocent 
5-year-old boy who was just 
being friendly.

Of course I feel terrible for 

doing this. Honestly, I saw a 
little bit of myself in that boy. 
Not only did he physically 
resemble a younger me, but I 
remember the blind degree of 
optimism and positive curiosity 
I once had toward the world. 
But I am oddly proud I did this. 
Even though I may have aged 
his little soul by about five or 
six years, I hopefully imprinted 
a relevant memory of sadness 
and confusion on him that I 
believe is beneficial.

Hopefully, when he recalls 

smiling at me, he’ll understand 
that I was unhappy because I 
knew something he didn’t. I 
knew something his invincible 
dad did not teach him. I knew 
why he shouldn’t have been 
smiling, let alone been at such a 
political event. And I hope that 
one day, years from now, when 
he opens a history book — after 
a successful eight years of the 
Hillary Clinton administration 
— he will read a chapter on the 
2016 election. In it he will read 
about the ridiculous candidacy 
of Trump and the even more 
ridiculous political party that 
lacked the character to stand 
up to him. And then he will 
understand why the hell I made 
him cry. You’re welcome, kid.

I hate Donald Trump with a burning passion

EMILY WOLFE | CONTACT EMILY AT ELWOLFE@UMICH.EDU

Readers are encouraged to submit 

letters to the editor and op-eds. 
Letters should be fewer than 300 
words while op-eds should be 550 
to 850 words. Send the writer’s full 
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CONTRIBUTE TO THE CONVERSATION

This is the second piece in the 
Survivors Speak series, which 

seeks to share the varied, 

first-person experiences of survivors 

of sexual assault. If you are a 

survivor and would like to submit 

to the series, please visit 

michigandaily.com/section/opinion 

for more information.

 Strength comes, 

instead, from 
those willing to 
share the pain so 
it’s no longer on 
your shoulders. It 
comes from those 

who love and 
support you. 

MONICA BIAN

MICAHEL MORDARSKI | COLUMN

Michael Mordarski can be reached 

at mmordars@umich.edu

MICHAEL

MORDARSKI

CLARISSA
DONNELLY-

DEROVEN

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Clarissa Donnelly-DeRoven can be 

reached at cedon@umich.edu

