The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
8 — Wednesday, February 16, 2022

ANONYMOUS 
CONTRIBUTOR

S T A T E M E N T

Read more at 
MichiganDaily.com

From stalking to 

harassment: 

TW: Sexual Assault, Stalking, 

Sexual Harassment, Rape 

Dear U-M Housing,
You called my being stalked, 

threatened and sexually harrased by 
my residents a “personal matter.” It is 
not. It is a hazard and a direct result 
of the unsafe job you hired me for. 

I am “Alice” from the Daily’s 

recent investigation about U-M 
Housing and ResStaff safety. Here is 
my full story. 

***

I am truly amazed I didn’t become 

another “College girl raped and 
murdered” headline that year — the 
year I was a 19 year old “Traditional 
Resident Advisor (RA)” in a freshman 
residence hall on the University of 
Michigan’s Ann Arbor campus. 

My entire first year as an RA, I 

lived in constant fear because five of 
my male residents were harassing 
and stalking me. They memorized 
my schedule and followed me around 
campus. They threatened to break 
me. They cornered and harassed 
my friend. And after I reported the 
incidents, it only got worse. I caught 
the five men watching me while I 
slept in my bedroom because U-M 
Housing refused to put locks on all 
doors to my room. They discussed 
raping me while standing directly 
outside my door. They switched into 
one of my classes to continue stalking 
me. And one night, I caught them 
under my window taking pictures 
of me. The entire time, I was ignored 
by the Division of Public Safety and 
Security, lied to by my Hall Director 
and pushed aside by U-M Housing 
administrators. 

It began on the second day of 

classes. I overheard my name spoken 
by five of my male residents living 
directly across the hall from me. They 
laughed and started talking about 
how excited they were to “break her.” 
It took me a second to realize they 
were talking about breaking me. 

The air caught in my throat. What? 

‘Break me’ how? I wanted to believe 
that the comment was innocent but 
their tone of voice said otherwise. 
I tried to voice my concerns about 
the comment to the other RAs, but 
they didn’t think the men were being 
serious about it. 

The following day, the ringleader 

of the five men came by my room 
because he needed information from 
the first floor meeting that he missed. 
As his RA, I had to act like everything 
was fine, totally normal. That is 
always your job as an RA: provide 
help for whatever the resident needs. 
After all, every resident is a customer 
to the University. We treated 
them as such, with politeness and 
unwavering hospitality. 

After I filled him in on what he 

missed, he started gloating about 
how nervous people became around 
him due to his tall, large stature. He 
said he loved seeing how nervous 
they were around him. He said 
‘people’ but it was obvious to me that 
he meant women. 

I saw the group of five men 

in places outside the dorm every 
day, which, on a campus of almost 
50,000 students, is weird. It started 
innocently enough, saying ‘hi’ to 
them outside Mason Hall or South 
Quad. 

Then, their presence became a 

pattern. I noticed at least three of 
them during many passing periods 
when I came out of my lecture halls, 
or sitting a few tables down anytime 
I was eating in any of the seven main 
dining halls on campus. 

I became increasingly nervous 

everywhere on campus and started 
spending most of my time in the 
dorm community center — every 
residence hall’s mail and package 
room — surrounded by the other 
RAs. Last year, RAs stopped working 
at community centers, thanks to 
hiring more Community Center 
Assistants (CCA). The RA contract 
(the Letter of Appointment) was 
updated accordingly for this school 
year. 

The other RAs would text me 

when the five men were in the 
community center looking for me, 
which happened multiple times each 
week. 

After a few weeks, I started getting 

creepy notes in messy handwriting 
on my door. The notes included 
poems, private details about my life 
and lines professing love for me. 
Some were signed by the residents, 
some weren’t.

I dreaded returning to my room 

because I would have to walk past the 

men’s doors — if they saw me, then I 
had to engage in nice conversation as 
they purposely said things to make 
me uncomfortable. Afterward, I 
would hear them saying “fuck her,” 
“nice ass,” or “oooh I’d like to tap 
that.” I don’t know if they knew I 
could hear them, but it stung either 
way. 

One evening, I was preparing to 

go out with friends, doing my hair 
and nails in the bathroom, when the 
ringleader knocked on my door. The 
loud knock startled me; I burnt my 
thumb on the curling iron. After a few 
moments of pause, he proceeded to 
bang on the door with what seemed 
like all his strength, and screamed 
down the hall in his frustration. I 
waited until I knew he was gone 
before running to my friends at the 
bus stop. 

The next morning, I complained 

to Eric, one of my closest RA friends, 
about the previous night’s incident. 
He advised me to update my boss 
(our hall director) about the situation, 
which I had been doing any time 
something new occurred with the 
five men. 

A few hours later, Eric called me. 

According to him, he was walking 
to the bus stop when the five men 
cornered him against a car in the 
parking lot and interrogated him. 
They would not let Eric leave until he 
said where I was.

I immediately went to my boss — I 

wanted to report to DPSS what was 
occurring. I wanted to stop the five 
men, specifically the ringleader. I 
didn’t have a specific punishment in 
mind, I just wanted DPSS to get the 
men to stop threatening my friends 
and stalking me. 

I was wary of working with DPSS. 

Officers had already ignored my 
concerns during duty rounds, and 
they had talked down to me when I 
had called for help with a multiple-
resident conflict. They were also 
rude — practically ignoring me and 
always grumbling — any time I called 
about weed odors in the hallways. 

In this instance, I figured the 

situation with the five men had 
gotten so bad that even DPSS couldn’t 
avoid helping me. I thought the 
meeting would take a while — I had 
emailed my professor telling him I 
would miss class. I told my friends I 
would be late to dinner.

An older male DPSS officer met 

me and my boss (the hall director) 
in the main office of the dorm. The 
officer was constantly checking his 
watch; it was obvious he wanted the 
meeting to be over before it had even 
started. 

The meeting took maybe ten 

minutes total, and the officer spoke 
with increasing skepticism as I 
shared my story and showed him 
texts, video recordings of the five 
men, pictures with timestamps and 
the physical notes that were left on 
my door.

The DPSS officer didn’t seem to 

think most of my information was 
relevant. At the end of the meeting, 
the officer looked at me like I just 
wasted his time and said, “Honey, it 
sounds like they have a little crush 
on you. Why don’t you just confront 
[the five men]?” I found out later, 
after reading a copy of the report, 
that he neglected to put some of the 
information I told him into the DPSS 
report. 

After this meeting, I shut down. 

My hall director had failed to stand 
up for me or try to help convince 

DPSS that this was an issue. Instead, 
the two of them agreed to have the 
officer talk to the ringleader and ask 
him to stop harassing me, because his 
behavior was “scaring me.” 

Months later, I found out that all 

DPSS did was have a two-minute 
long phone call with the ringleader. 
Apparently — according to their 
report — the ringleader was very 
apologetic.

DPSS and my hall director 

arranged for the ringleader to 
apologize to me in my room. Alone. I 
had done everything in my power to 
avoid being alone with him again, and 
now I had to let him into my private 
room because “he’d changed.” 

Unsurprising to me, his apology 

was wholly insincere, it lasted less 
than a minute and he sounded more 
amused than apologetic — I felt 
violated that he came into my room 
again. 

Later that day, I heard the five men 

laughing about me being so scared 
I called DPSS. Their conversation 
made it clear that my decision had 
validated their goal of scaring me and 
they thought it was hilarious. 

***

The dorm I lived in had an odd 

room layout. There were two access 
points in each dorm room: one door 
with a keypad lock from the hallway 
and one door from the bathroom 
with no lock. 

My dorm room and the dorm 

room next to mine were connected 
by a bathroom (Jack and Jill style) 
but there were no locks on either 
side of either bathroom door. The 
resident that I shared the bathroom 
with — and anyone in her room — 
had full access to my room through 
the bathroom. 

For the privacy of the resident I 

shared a bathroom with, I always 
kept my door to our shared bathroom 
closed. A few days after the ringleader 
apologized, I woke up from a nap to 
see both bathroom doors open. The 
five men were hanging out in my 
suitemate’s room. I got up and shut 
the bathroom door as they giggled. 
I spent the night on the floor of 
another RA’s room. 

The lack of locks was an ongoing 

issue for RAs in this dorm, as many of 
us have woken up to a resident in our 
room or later found out that a resident 
snuck into our room without our 
knowledge —I know of three other 
RAs that year who had this problem. 
When we brought our concerns to 
our hall director, we were told locks 
would be a “fire hazard.” We were 
asked not to bring it up again. 

We went to the U-M Housing 

administration and asked if they 
could help. Without a pause, their 
 

only response was, “Sorry to hear you 
feel that way.” 

I fashioned a lock for the bathroom 

door out of pipes, a bike lock cable 
and a refrigerator magnet. It looked 
ridiculous but it worked. I put a 
screwdriver under my pillow before 
I went to bed each night. Jeans with 
a belt became my pajamas. I barely 
slept.

***

One night, a friend of mine texted 

me, unprompted. He was at a party, 
wanted to hang for a bit and get a 
ride back to his place. I obliged. Once 
we got back to my dorm, I went to 
the bathroom and he started asking 
weird questions about my dating life 
and sexual history.

The questions made me nervous. 

I was about to change the subject 

when a noise made me freeze — 
the five men were walking into my 
suitemate’s room. I bolted from the 
bathroom, and my guy friend took 
that moment to grab me and kiss me. 

It was gross. He reeked of alcohol. 

I tried to push him away, but he 
grabbed me and kissed me harder. 
I could hear the five men laughing 
with my suitemate, less than fifteen 
feet from me. 

I couldn’t make a sound. I hadn’t 

been able to lock my bathroom door 
and feared the five men entering my 
room and joining if they heard what 
was happening. 

My friend raped me that night. 

I tried to tell him to stop but he just 
smirked. I stopped fighting him after 

he was inside me. I gave up, I guess. 
There wasn’t anything I could do. 

I didn’t want him to get any 

satisfaction so I closed my eyes as 
they welled with tears, determined 
not to let a single one fully form. I 
let my mind dissolve into the pain. I 
dissociated.

When he pulled up his pants, 

he kissed me on my forehead and 
asked for a ride home. His voice was 
muffled, fuzzy. I have no idea what 
else he said to me — I just got up and 
drove him home.

I broke down the second I got back 

to my dorm room. My chest felt like it 
had collapsed as I heaved and sobbed. 
Eventually I got up, took a shower 
and convinced myself I was fine. 

The next morning I went to CVS 

for Plan B. 

RAs 
are 
individuals 
with 

reporting obligations about sexual 
assault. We report to the hall director 
if something happens. The person 
who we work with every day, live in 
the same building with and who is 
in charge of us is the person we are 
contractually bound to report our 
episodes of sexual assault to. 

This is something I have never 

understood. How can you make 
a rule stating that after one of the 
most devastating things happens to 
someone, you strip them of their final 
decision: who they tell? 

I was fully aware that by talking to 

my superior, I would lose the little bit 
of power I had left over my body. 

My closest friends were the RAs 

in my building. They would have to 
report to our boss if I told them. I 
knew I couldn’t talk to my friends 
until I was ready to relive that night 
with my boss, who I distrusted 
immensely, 
and 
U-M 
Housing 

administrators, who would get a copy 
of the report my boss would write. 

***

I have held too many RAs, sobbing 

uncontrollably because their hall 
directors, DPSS and U-M Housing 
administrators won’t take their 
safety seriously. 

RA training modules, delivered 

via Canvas, centered around keeping 
the residents safe and the University 
from having to assume liability. 
Training pertaining to RA safety was 
slim to none.

I worked with many RAs by the 

end of my time in U-M Housing. The 

majority of the female ones and many 
male ones told me they had been 
harassed or assaulted by the end 
of their time on the job. Residents’ 
fathers flirt with you. Residents’ 
mothers yell at you. Residents ask you 
out, turn you into an object and, in my 
case, stalk and harass you. 

At no point do RAs receive training 

on what to do about any of this. If you 
try to tell your hall director, the first 
thing they say is that if you cannot 
handle it, maybe the job isn’t right 
for you — they constantly refer to the 
waitlist of people who want to be RAs 
and would happily take your spot. 

RAs were able to force changes 

during the Fall 2020 ResStaff strike 
because there was no waitlist. 

Nobody wanted to be an RA during 
the pandemic. Therefore, RAs were 
no longer expendable. For the first 
time, ResStaff could not be dismissed. 

***

When December began, my panic 

attacks about the rape got worse. I 
realized I needed support from my 
closest friends, the RAs. 

I went to the hall director’s 

office and asked a few hypothetical 
questions about what would happen 
if I reported the sexual assault of an 
RA. My boss said that I could simply 
issue the report, that my name could 
be left off the report, that the report 
would be a hard copy and not in the 
electronic system. It could be vague. 
And wholly anonymous.

Because of those answers, I 

decided to tell my boss about the 
rape. Sitting on a folding chair in the 
oddly colorful office, I felt incredibly 
nauseous. I eyed the trash can. 

After I finished my story, my 

hall director paused, typed on the 
computer, 
and 
turned 
around. 

“Oh whoops,” they said. “I made a 
mistake. Actually, your name will 
have to be on the report, it’ll be in the 
online system and I need a bit more 
information from you.” 

I sat in silence for a few moments. I 

felt the panic rise in my chest.

Before I could reply, my boss 

said, “So, what was his name? And, 
what type of rape was it? Vaginal 
penetration with a penis? Or anal? 
Was it just fingers?” 

I couldn’t speak. I felt my eyes 

getting red. I bit my tongue until I 
tasted blood.

“No.” I said. “I was sexually 

assaulted, that’s what you can put 
in the report. I’m not telling you any 
more. I’m not telling you who he 
was or how. And I am not talking to 
anyone else, especially DPSS.” 

I walked out, my eyes welling 

with tears as I grappled with the 
reality that I’d just exchanged the 
most vulnerable piece of information 
about myself with my boss. 

I don’t know who thought it was a 

good idea to force RAs to report their 
own sexual assaults to their bosses. It 
was the most demeaning exchange 
I’ve ever endured. 

***

My issues with the five men only 

persisted. They used nicknames to 
talk about me without sounding like 

they were referring to me. Many 
nights when I was sleeping on my 
dorm room floor, I would hear them 
outside my door, commenting on my 
body while looking at the pictures of 
me on the bulletin board. On nights 
when the boys were talking about me 
and I could escape my room, I would 
crash in another RA’s room. We 
would watch Scooby Doo, or learn 
chords on the guitar. 

In the winter semester, on the 

day before the University’s drop/add 
course deadline, I got to one of my 
classes and immediately recognized 
two new faces in the room. Two of 
the five men were sitting a few rows 
behind my normal seat. I knew this 
was no coincidence — they were 
freshmen in a lecture that did not 
even remotely coincide with their 
majors. 

I sat down and saw their faces 

reflected on my laptop screen. 
They were watching me. I do not 
remember anything from that course 
except running for the exit every 
time it ended. 

Midway through February, I had 

just gotten back to my room and 
was getting ready for bed when the 
five men stomped through the back 
stairwell. They were talking about 
me, using a nickname inspired by an 
event I had led in the dorm. 

As they passed my door, the 

ringleader 
asked 
the 
others, 

“Wouldn’t you want to rape [her] 
if you could?” The men burst out 
laughing. They walked into their 
room talking about how much they 
wanted to rape me. 

The world became fuzzy. My 

vision blacked out. I called one of the 
RAs, Leroy, and he came to my room. 
I couldn’t breathe. I was shaking so 
hard that Leroy had to grab me so I 
wouldn’t collapse. Leroy spent the 
night in my room on the floor, but 
even then I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t 
know what to do.

Previously, I had followed the 

rules and reported what happened, 
just like U-M Housing told me to. 
It only made things worse. I kept 
debating whether I should resort 
back to my hall director or DPSS. 
The memory of how little the DPSS 
officer had cared about my last report 
was still prevalent in my mind. And 
my hall director had handled me 
being raped so poorly.

Instead, my main group of RA 

friends decided to rotate walking me 
to my room each night so I wouldn’t 
be alone in my hall after dark. This 
lasted until the end of the year. 

***

When I think back on that year, 

I remember how my teeth were 
constantly chattering and my legs 
were always bouncing from anxiety 
— but I kept smiling. I wanted to 
be the best RA possible, even with 
everything happening. 

Honestly, I think I did a good job. 

Being an RA is demanding but I lived 
up to the challenge. My residents had 
problems, from depression to chronic 
illnesses, and I always tried to be 
there for them. 

I had residents sleeping in my 

room during insect infestations. I 
got take-out meals for sick residents, 
got groups of residents together 
who were struggling and planned 
outings for them, walked residents 
to University Health Services or 
Counseling 
and 
Psychological 

Services, 
pulled 
countless 
all-

nighters helping residents through 
personal problems, responded to 
their messages at all hours and 
answered 
their 
questions 
and 

concerns. 

My bulletin boards and door 

decorations were praised by U-M 
Housing administrators. I planned 
small celebrations for residents when 
they hit a big milestone: birthdays, 
half-birthdays 
(for 
summer 

birthdays), job/internship successes 
and passing hard classes.

Even though I did want to do my 

best for my residents, I also didn’t 
have a choice. As an RA, U-M housing 
can dismiss you at any moment, 
beginning or middle or end of the 
year, and you only have 48 hours to 
clear out your room and find a new 
place to live. 

Design by Jennie Vang

Page Design by Sarah Chung

— My experience as a former RA