Rape Culture and Denial : an Open Letter to a Boy I Know

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I always knew we believed in different things. One look at our backgrounds shows we grew up in almost opposite worlds. I was from one of the most liberal states with openly feminist parents, while you lived all across the South in a conservative military family. But when you told me you believed everything I ever told you, I thought you meant it.

The first time I saw you, I had to know you. I slowly worked up the courage to speak to you in class and was ecstatic when we became friends. A few weeks after we met, we had our first conversation about feminism. You told me women wanted to have it all. We didn’t just want to be equal to men, we wanted to be better.

I told you I would trade every ‘benefit’ of being a woman for the ability to walk around at night safely. I put every fear I’d ever felt into my words. And you slowly nodded your head and said you understood.

These conversations continued throughout our four years of college. I’d argue society inherently values men’s lives over women’s, especially women of color. I’d point out rape culture, slut shaming, victim blaming. Laundry lists of the microaggressions women face. Eventually you’d nod and say you understood, that you could see where I was coming from. 

What you didn’t know was the number of rape and sexual assault survivors in my friend group was rapidly growing. The people I love most have been raped and assaulted, some multiple times, some once, some when they were in high school, some in college, some by strangers, some by friends. I’d realized the majority of the women I know had either experienced sexual assault, or are closely tied to someone who has.

But I thought you believed me anyway. 

The last time we seriously talked, you joined a friend and I for lunch. I started to catch you up on our work to end sexual assault and rape culture on campus. And then you interrupted me. You said alcohol is the biggest “responsibility problem” undergraduates face. You said drinking is when women “put themselves most at risk,” because “they’re being irresponsible by being that drunk” and asked “how unaware would you have to be to drink that much?”

What you didn’t know is that my friend is a survivor three times over. Two of those times she was drunk. That does not invalidate her experience. She sees her rapists on campus to this day. But you barreled on. You decided a hypothetical would help clarify your point: “If I was blackout and punched a wall and couldn’t walk home, that’s on me. I’d take responsibility for it.”

Because punching a wall is just like getting raped. Are women the wall or the fist?

I said being drunk isn’t an open invitation for rape or sexual assault. And every time I thought you were starting to understand, every time I thought you saw the look on my friend’s face when she spoke up to explain how women often feel vulnerable in situations involving alcohol, you pressed on with a new version of the same point. I couldn’t believe this was happening. We’d talked about this for four years.

I thought you believed me.

The conversation ended with “I think you’re misunderstanding me; I’m just saying drinking is bad.” You got up and left. I stayed. You’d listened to what I’d said for so long. You’d cared. Years ago, I told you I would trade every faux privilege being a woman offers if it meant I could walk home alone at night without fear.

I thought you believed me. It’s clear you don’t.

Being drunk doesn’t invite rape or sexual assault. Nothing invites such intense physical harm, lasting emotional trauma and personal pain. Your willful ignorance is how rape culture thrives. It is the reason survivors have to fight to be believed, to be prioritized, to be seen. Refusing to acknowledge sexual violence only perpetuates the problem. But I think acknowledging this scares you, because you’re afraid of what it means for you and the boys you know. 

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