T
o this day, I remember the
photos.
I was 12 years old when Robyn
“Rihanna” Fenty, a 20-going-
on-21-year-old pop artist from Barbados,
suddenly canceled her performance for the
51st annual Grammy Awards. Despite the
fact that I was hardly a Rihanna fan at the
time, I found myself intrigued by the news.
I remained concerned as the story unfolded
rapidly, bursting forth like a phoenix from
a fire. But my curiosity quickly changed to
disgust when from these sensationalized
flames emerged a disturbing account of
intimate partner violence.
Suddenly, photos of Rihanna — her face
bruised and contorted at the hands of then-
boyfriend Chris Brown — were blasted across
newspapers, websites and television screens
across the country in what I cannot help
but see as a grotesque invasion of privacy.
Through it all, I could not help but wonder:
How did a “verbal dispute” escalate to the
point that bodies were battered? How could
Brown, a rising musician from a small town
in Virginia with so much “potential” commit
such a horrible act? What man is capable of
procuring so much rage, fury and coldness
that he can, with a flash of his fist, induce so
much suffering in a woman he is supposed to
“love?”
I did not feel any sense of resolution or
justice — and I certainly do not feel these
things when I think of the incident now —
when Chris Brown was sentenced to five
years of probation, one year of domestic
violence counseling and 1,400 hours of
“labor-oriented service.” My disappointment
stemmed from the realization that no amount
of “restorative” measures could compensate
for the wounds Rihanna sustained. As both a
public figure and survivor, her entire personal
life and social network was dissected by the
jaws of an entertainment-thirsty public, most
of whom could only imagine the way the
incident affected her.
But even then, she would be expected to
maintain the trajectory of her career while
Brown was allowed to retain his. I could not
— still cannot — fathom how some can idolize
a man capable of such
violence and even refer
to him as an “artist.”
There is nothing artistic
about domestic violence
in the slightest, and
nothing
compensatory
about
a
two-minute
YouTube apology.
Eight
years
later,
I
continue
to
think
about Rihanna’s story
as a symbol of a more
widespread
issue.
At its core, domestic
violence
is
based
on
skewed
power
dynamics, intimidation
and
coercion,
and
affects
individuals
of
all
gender
identities,
socioeconomic
backgrounds,
sexual
orientations, age ranges
and ability statuses.
Domestic
violence
remains
one
of
the
most
misunderstood
forces in our society.
Both in high school
and at the University of
Michigan, I have heard
my peers argue against
a survivor’s credibility
based on “what she was
wearing,” “how much
she was drinking” and
even her inability to “read cues.” These
statements contribute to a culture of blame
that both silences survivors and overlooks
the accountability of perpetrators.
The National Domestic Violence Hotline
estimates that one in four women and one
in seven men over the age of 18 have faced
severe physical violence from a partner at
some point in their lives. However, domestic
violence can also manifest itself in other ways
— including economic abuse, threatening
relationships between a survivors and their
children, forcefully isolating a partner and
using coercion to manipulate a partner’s
emotions. Yet, I know from my own personal
experiences that these forms of violence are
rarely shown in media.
During my first semester at the University,
I enrolled in a women’s health class
that challenged me to look beyond this
dramaticized lens. I was touched by the
words of Heidi Sproull, a clinical social
worker whose experiences involved working
with survivors and perpetrators of sexual
violence. Through a narrative that was both
vulnerable and powerful, Sproull reminded
us that the body is not an open book, but a
sacred space that can be vandalized by forces
of coercion and control.
To this day, I reflect on this course and
the way that it further inspired me to learn
more about domestic violence. Since then,
I have pursued more coursework in gender
and health and volunteered for our campus’s
Sexual Assault Prevention and Awareness
Center. I have learned from fellow students
and volunteers that domestic violence is
hardly a “one-size-fits-all” crime; rather,
one that is influenced by race, class, sexual
orientation, tribal affiliation, citizenship
and ability status. I have come to see that we
cannot understand the gravity of domestic
violence without considering the unique
backgrounds and experiences of the survivor.
As students at the University, we must
consider our campus’s culture surrounding
domestic and sexual violence. While as many
as 20 percent of female undergraduates have
experienced some form of “unwanted kissing,
groping, digital penetration, or oral, vaginal,
or anal sex” according to the 2015 Campus
Climate Survey, less than 4 percent of cases
will be reported. We have to ask ourselves:
What does it mean to truly be the Leaders
and the Best? As our University approaches
its 200th birthday, we still have a long way
to go before our campus community is active
in the fight against intimate partner violence
and rape culture.
As someone who has neither experienced
nor directly witnessed domestic violence,
I write this piece from a place of immense
privilege, and perhaps one of some distance.
But nonetheless, I am driven to write about
this issue because I dream of living in a
violence-free world. I aspire to live and
participate in a community where domestic
violence is regarded not as a “woman’s issue,”
but as a human rights concern. I recognize
that eradicating this issue — given President
Donald Trump’s attitude toward the Violence
Against Women Act — mandates that we
question deeply rooted social doctrines
regarding consent, masculinity, gender and
sexuality.
But perhaps most importantly, I ask that
we — as a campus community, rather than
individuals — challenge our discomfort
rather than abandoning it. When we
recognize that domestic violence is anything
but a “private” matter to be isolated behind
closed doors, we can take a step forward
in promoting a space that is safe for all.
I am steadfast in my belief that no college
campus, city, state or nation can consider
itself fully developed as long as domestic
violence persists.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017 // The Statement
6B
by Neel Swamy, Michigan in Color Senior Editor
Personal Statement:
Not an open book, but a sacred space
ILLUSTRATION BY MICHELLE PHILLIPS