Wednesday, December 11, 2019 // The Statement
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Finntan Storer
statement

THE MICHIGAN DAILY | DECEMBER 11, 2019

E

very woman in my life has had to ask herself the
question: What does consent mean to me?”
My friend Sophie told me this when I first ver-
balized feelings about my experiences with sexual miscon-
duct.
I was confronted with the enduring effects of these expe-
riences at the beginning of this semester, so I started devel-
oping the vocabulary I needed to explain what happened
and how it impacted me. The effects of sexual harassment
and sexual assault manifest differently for different people,
and my reaction has always come in the form of compart-
mentalization and avoidance.
I chose to evade these experiences for months, even years,
after they occurred. They were simply “weird things” that
happened to me, moments that were uncomfortable and
awkward. Moments that just didn’t go well and weren’t
worth talking about because I wasn’t a victim. I refused to
let myself feel anything but slight unease about these situa-
tions because I thought what happened wasn’t “bad enough”
for me to be as upset as
I was.
The truth of the mat-
ter is if someone breaks
physical
barriers
or
pushes you into sexual
circumstances without
checking in, you’re not
giving
consent.
Con-
sent doesn’t only apply
to penetrative sex — it
applies
to
touching,
exposure
or
sexual
activity of any kind.
Consent applies to unsolicited comments about sex, requests
for sexual favors and “teasing”, which are invasive and disre-
spectful acts that disregard important boundaries and leave
the recipient feeling as if their autonomy is in question.
However, the stigmas regarding sexual misconduct — the
victim-blaming, lack of belief and internalized guilt that
survivors feel — are existent and intimidating. Even though
I can identify inappropriate behavior, I stand strongly with
survivors and understand the importance of accountabil-
ity, I could not break these stigmas down in my own life. I
instead blamed myself and pushed my experiences out of
mind to avoid dealing with their effects.
“I think it would help you to put objective language to it. If
someone else told you this story, what would you say?”
My friend Nate asked me this when I began trying to pro-
cess what had happened.
Every time I tried to talk about my experiences, I found
myself making excuses for the other person. My judgment
was clouded. As a woman, our patriarchal society has taught

me to go out in groups, analyze what my outfit says about my
sexual desires and be cognizant of who I’m talking to. I’ve
been told to always carry my drink with me and to not accept
one I didn’t see poured with my own eyes. Society has pre-
pared me against boys in dark basements who I don’t know
and it has warned me about those who might aggressively
force sex. It’s all about how you can fight back or avoid a situ-
ation in the first place. It didn’t tell me that sexual miscon-
duct is a snake with many heads and that most victims know
the person who sexually assaulted them.
Friends, colleagues and classmates perpetuate sexual
misconduct. Loved ones perpetuate sexual misconduct.
The idea that harassment and assault happens exclusively
in the shadows with unknown, covert players is a disservice
to understanding the breadth and complexity of the issue.
People aren’t monsters, they are human beings shaped by
their surroundings, and even people we know are capable of
wrongly pushing, or breaking, boundaries. Our existing cul-
ture does nothing to curb sexual misconduct, support survi-

vors or hold those who do these things accountable.
Nate advising me to view my experiences objectively was
the best idea I received when I began coping with my own
feelings. I’ve always been a writer, and journaling helped
me open up about the impact of past experiences. There’s
something about articulating the pounding in my chest or
the source of a random burst of emotion that makes it seem
less scary or unfounded. But journaling is not objective: It
leaves room for my own internalized guilt and shame and
confusion to show itself. The idea that “if I could just get over
it, then everything could go back to normal” appeared on my
pages in a million variations. Journaling lets me process the
good and the bad, the rational and the fallacious.
I alleviated some of my stress by trying objective writing.
In Angell Hall Auditorium A I sat with my class notebook in
front of me, dated and prepped to jot down lecture points.
But instead of tuning into what happened with the develop-
ment of sound in Hollywood, I wrote out what happened
to me. I did this without using names or adjectives. I told

the stories outside of myself, as if someone was in the room
watching it all play out. This broke down some of the stigmas
in my head. Looking at the folded up notebook paper, there
was no question of blame. I was able to see that my inter-
nalized guilt and the fear that I was being “dramatic” were
unfair. I was able to rationalize that consent is something I
hold close to my chest to protect my bodily autonomy, and
others haven’t respected that power.
“Let me send you this podcast I listened to about consent.
It will be really triggering, but it could help.”
My friend Danielle offered this to me after I had a notice-
ably difficult day.
“In the No” with Kaitlin Prest is a Radiolab podcast series
collaboration that explores the meaning of consent. The link
popped up on my iPhone, and after having a particularly bad
day of crying fits and skipping class, I sat down and listened
to part one. Kaitlin tells the story of her best friend sexu-
ally assaulting her and the subsequent damage caused by his
problematic response to her pain.
It took me almost two
hours to listen to this 55
minute podcast. I was
sitting in the fishbowl
with my headphones in,
watching students print-
ing and walking around
the computer stations
with a pen in my hand
and my notebook on the
desk in front of me. I
wrote down everything
that reminded me of my
own experiences. I wrote
down any powerful sentiments about consent that I either
agreed with or hadn’t previously considered. I went in with
a red pen and yellow highlighter until it looked like I was
guaranteed an ‘A’ on my next exam.
This process helped me deal with what happened in an
analytical way; it was like an audio mind-map connecting
dots that I couldn’t before. I shared the notes with Sophie
and Danielle — I started talking more and generally being
more open about it. Knowing there are so many people in
situations like mine, who have had questions and feelings
similar to mine, has made me feel less alone.
I’ve written poems and letters and bullet points and this
article. I’ve gone to therapy and contextualized my situa-
tion to professors and colleagues. There’s an idea that sexual
misconduct is something you don’t talk about, but if someone
who experienced it opens up, listening can help the healing.
To me, consent means ownership of my body and my
story. Situations from my past don’t make this ownership
any less real.

What consent means to me

BY ERIN WHITE, SENIOR OPINION EDITOR

CONSENT

“