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
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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