Take Back The Night was possibly... no, not possibly. It WAS the most moving event I have ever had the privilege to attend. It got more and more intense as the night went on, hit me deeper and deeper as more words were spoken. It began with a short introduction – A Minor, Hogan, and various VAWPP members spoke, showed their support. A couple boys from a mens group potently announced that though rape and sexual assault is publicized as a 'women's issue,' it's not; it's a societal issue. A mother who volunteers as a crisis hotline worker overcame her fear of public speaking to become the first survivor story, and my heartstrings were touched just a little.
We, clad in unifying black t-shirts, were each given a candle and many given signs shared what we had with each other – traded off signs, gave flame to each other when the wind blew the faint fires out... Chanting, we began to walk along the street. At first I was too busy looking at my word sheet, making sure I was chanting the right responses to the prompts, but as we walked into an area densely populated with students, I began to yell at individuals who were standing in doorways or had come to their windows. I wanted my message to reach them. It hurt when a boy walked by and scoffed, it was disheartening when someone yelled 'Shut the fuck up!' from their window, but when people stood and nodded, when people had out cameras and were taking videos, when people clapped as we went by, or as they got a word sheet from someone and joined our ranks.
Every time we repeated the chants from the beginning I expected for my voice to give out. There was a point when it finally hit – they weren't just slogans. They were real messages that everyone needed to understand. The victims on campus needed to hear them, to know they aren't alone. The rapists need to hear them, know that we wouldn't forgive them. The people who stood by and did nothing needed to be spurred into action. I didn't know my voice could yell for that long, but what were were saying was too important to stop saying it.
As we reached the end of the march, my favorite moment happened. One of the chants was 'We are women, we are men, together we fight, to take back the night!' At the beginning of the rally, I had given my sign to a man who had been pretending to hold a sign, but hadn't been given one. He was excited to be given one, but almost seemed to be... trying to take the event light-heartedly. He would chant the words on his sign instead of the words on the sheet, or he would intentionally be a beat behind everyone... but as we marched, I think it got to him. He began to chant with us, and at the end I was standing behind him to hear him yell, passion in his voice, “...WE ARE MEN! TOGETHER WE FIGHT, TO TAKE BACK THE NIGHT!!!” His intensity gave me chills.
We had doubled in number by the end of the march. We stood in a semi-circle and finished by cheering at each other and whooping and hollering. We all were buzzing and exhausted as we went back inside to listen to speakers.
I kind of expected that to be the (more or less) end of the night. My heart had been touched, I was impressed, I was empowered, I was ready to be done... but the event doesn't work that way. What was supposed to be one hour of speakers, went so long that we were kicked out of the space. It was shocking how person after person ascended the stage, stood quivering before the mic – afraid not of the hundreds of people in the crowd, but afraid of their own memories and experiences. The stories were each shocking, touching, heart-wrenching, and torturous. One girl told of rape by her cousin's boyfriend, another of rape by a trusted friend. Some girls told how indifferent the police had been, how they were blamed by officials, family, and friends for what had happened to them. One mother of four stood up and told how her husband of 20 years told her every day that she was stupid and ugly as he squandered the money she earned, and she raised their four children. After he left her for a 28 year-old, she went back to school, and took classes, earning a 4.0 GPA. “Never again,” she said strongly, “will anyone tell me I am stupid. I am not stupid. Nor am I ugly. I am intelligent and beautiful, and I raised four beautiful children.” She told everyone to never forget that there is someone out there who thinks they are beautiful and that if they are ever feeling bad, to just call up that person. “Just call them, because there's someone who wants to tell you that they love you. And if you can't find anyone, call me and I'll tell you.” That's the one that got me. Everyone chuckled a little, and I can guarantee I wasn't the only one in that room of hundreds who had a tear run down her cheek from that woman's strength.
Many girls stood up with their friends holding their hands. Some clutched the microphone like it was the only thing keeping them upright. Some girls tore tissues into little pieces that fluttered to the floor as they nervously stuttered out their stories. Often, girls would turn around and cry into a friend's shoulder, or would wipe their eyes and apologize, try to breathe, and continue telling the most terrifying stories of their lives. Some brave young men also went to the stage, and told of how they had been raped, and reminded us that while it's projected as a women's issue, it hurts just as bad when it's a man and a man or a woman and a woman.
If there was a dry eye in the house, I'd be shocked. Some people left because it was too emotional. We all watched as brave soul after brave soul bore themselves bare in front of hundreds of complete strangers! Some told stories of things that had happened in middle school, wiping their eyes as they explained how they tried to convince themselves it was something less hurtful. Some told stories of a mere few days ago, thanking us for listening, because now they could start to heal. Whoever thought to put the tissues on the podium is a genius – I don't think some of the girls could have made it without them.
When we finally left that space, there was a solemn mood over us all. People were curled up in chairs, eyes red, holding hands with close friends. Other groups were hugging and crying into each other. Other groups tried to smile reassuringly, wishing there was something they could do for these absolute strangers, these beautiful girls, these blameless victims. That was my group. Every time I saw a crying face, I wanted to wipe their tears away, give them a warm shoulder to lean on and cry into.
The stories made me reassess my own personal prejudices. One of the girls who told her story had been raped multiple times, once by someone she cared deeply for, who stole her virginity. When she first walked onto the stage, I assessed her first with my biases. She was thin, pretty, wore tight clothes that were fashionable and well-made. She had beautiful straight hair, wore Uggs. She was so many things that I both envy and despise, because so many people fitting that stereotype have been cruel to me. Hearing her say that her rape made her develop an eating disorder, made her turn to promiscuity and alcohol, and how she heard people call her a slut behind her back made me realize that.... I'd be that person. I'd be the one to assume she was a slut for being the pretty thin girl with an eating disorder who got all the boys and got all the attention at parties. What kind of person am I for judging her without understanding that she was like this because she had been raped, and that otherwise she was a beautiful, kind, caring person! How dare I judge someone on their shoe choice, while berating them for not giving me, the nerd, a chance.
After we left that space, some of us retreated to the women's center, where we munched cookies, talked, tried to laugh, let people cry. A pretty girl with a dainty voice and daintier fingers played acoustic guitar and sang quietly into a microphone. Watching her, I felt like I was witnessing something beautiful – like I was spying on a private moment of song that she was singing because it came from the very deepest part of her – the way you only sing when you're home alone in your room with the lights dim, because you need to get something out. We listened to her, and a few girls and I sat in a line playing with each others' hair and giving massages. It was intimate, and each of the women and men in there was connected in a way that is very rare to feel – like each of held a part of someone else in our hands, and needed to love that little part intensely, lest it wither and die.
Everyone eventually started to leave, giving each other rides home, forming groups to trek through the rain that our march had narrowly avoided. I remained a little longer, and eventually found a ride home with some people I started the night as being vague acquaintances with, but with whom I now feel deeply connected. It was an odd moment, though, knowing that I was riding in a car as the only one who had not been traumatized by sexual assault. Though the event night is over, though I walked through the rain and to my dorm, went to my room and went to bed, my role in this isn't over. I'm just not sure where to start.
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hopeful
restless
pissed off
nerdy
sleepy
loved
devious
melancholy