Signing you in

Last month, Jane Doe, a former student, filed a civil lawsuit against Cornell University over an alleged 2024 sexual assault at a fraternity. In her words, she was drunk when she arrived at the frat, and she was “pretty OK” with an initial encounter involving two men she knew. But the night quickly spiraled. She alleges that men pushed her to take ketamine and that multiple men forced sex on her. At one point, she took more ketamine hoping to pass out, reasoning that if the men had sex with her while she was unconscious, no one could deny it was rape. Afterward, she texted with her rapists. In the eyes of some, this means she was “fine.” That’s not how I see it. Especially because something similar happened to me.

When I was raped at a frat house in 2016, I initially sought to forget the encounter. That was easy because I couldn’t remember what had occurred. The gentler reality I gave myself deflated when a “friend” of mine in the frat texted me that I was raped. His take on the situation was to laugh it off as a night that got out of hand. Apparently, it was no big deal that none of the brothers present stopped an older brother from raping a nearly unconscious woman. I followed his lead and downplayed what had occurred.

Later, younger members of the fraternity told me that they had known I was being raped and felt bad for not intervening. They at least had the decency to look chagrined as they apologized for allowing it to happen. I assured them that I was fine. Maybe I was in shock. Maybe I was in denial. Or maybe I was just numb to experiencing sexual violation from men. I was keen to put it all behind me. But first, I wanted to speak to my rapist.

Despite the other frat brothers having told me that I was barely conscious, he assured me that the rape was a rumor and said I had consented to sex. Like a lot of women, I think I’ve been conditioned to people-please. My instinct wasn’t to call him out—it was to soothe the discomfort. A sick knot rose in my stomach as I rushed to smooth the situation over. Then I did something that seems to shock people: I apologized for questioning what had happened and promised him I’d shut down any rumors.

I wanted to back up my words with actions, so I agreed to return to the very house I’d been raped in. I awkwardly sat on the couch and pretended to be interested in a TV show to demonstrate to him that I was, in fact, fine. The entire time, I counted down the minutes until I could make my escape. Maybe I wanted to prove to him that things were normal.

More likely, I was trying to prove this to myself. In the following months and years, his name and image would immediately fill me with a crawling disgust that spread from my core. There would certainly be no more forced-friendly TV sessions. I just wanted to continue with the life I had occupied before he made the choice to alter it. I think many victims can understand my response. But it doesn’t change the fact that I was raped.

In the days after Jane Doe’s assault, she exchanged friendly texts with two of the men she would later accuse, who had been her friends. Some point to the friendly messages as proof that she wasn’t actually raped. They reach for the oldest line used to discredit women who report rape: She regretted it and changed her story. As somebody who has lived a portion of Jane Doe’s experience firsthand, I can say with full confidence that she responded in one of the many very normal ways people react to an extraordinary violation.

Some women are able to fight back with words or fists. But for many of us, going limp, enduring, downplaying, and brushing it off are simply survival tactics that contradict the perfect victim narrative. Sometimes you allow things to happen because you want it to be over sooner. In many cases, fighting back could mean a worse assault, or even death.

The prevailing legal advice is to preserve evidence. But not everybody leaves a sexual assault able to clearly say, “I was raped.” Many of us want to scrub off the crime that was forced onto our bodies: take a long, scalding shower, go to bed, maybe even burn the evidence, and tell ourselves any story that is easier to digest.

Most rapes aren’t as clear-cut as Jane Doe’s, but it shouldn’t take so much effort to convince people that a rape took place. The Centers for Disease Control now estimate that nearly half of women (45.1 percent) in the U.S. have experienced some form of contact sexual violence. When an assault happens under any circumstances other than that “perfect” scenario, it becomes immediately apparent why many rapes and assaults are never reported.

As long as we repeat the story that rape occurs when a woman vocally says no and fights back, we can absolve ourselves and our friends. Or we can spread the blame and downgrade rape from a jailable offense to something that can be overlooked with a slap on the wrist so that the rapist can continue with his life. As CBS News reports, none of the seven men Jane Doe sued have faced jail time, though the district attorney has reopened the criminal investigation. Two were expelled, two were suspended, two were found not responsible, and one graduated. According to the lawsuit, some of the men were allowed to mitigate their conduct by submitting essays, which Cornell calls “reflection papers.”

Rape is not a mistake. It’s not a silly or inconsequential blunder that you can forgive with an indirect apology or explanation. At this point, I’m sick of writing about having been raped. If only it would reach a point where men were sick of doing the crime.

Slate is published by The Slate Group, a Graham Holdings Company.

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