Why we don't tell.
Roy Moore is the next in line to be exposed as a sexual predator in a long list that has unfolded since the Harvey Weinstein scandal. I find it both comical and distressing that Moore has attempted to justify his behavior by saying “I’ve never dated a girl without her mother’s permission.” In addition, he argued that such claims against him could not be true; it was so long ago; who would wait forty years to tell?
Apparently Moore has not heard the term rape culture – one he is clearly a product of – and how it leaves victims feeling silenced and ashamed. Perhaps he has not listened to the woman he assaulted sob on television as she spoke of her fear, embarrassment, and pain? Recounting her victimization, Beverly Young Nelson said she didn’t speak out because Moore told her no one would believe her. At only sixteen, Nelson knew that reporting the assault would lead to more trouble for her and no consequences for Moore.
For how long did Rose McGowan have to recount her rape by Weinstein before someone believed her? It is outrageous to think that McGowan is under arrest for a drug charge as I write this, but Weinstein is still free.
We live within a world that shames its victims while celebrating its perpetrators. The soul crushing pain experienced as a result of sexual violence is indescribable…perhaps even God cannot understand. There is no greater act of violence than to invade the interior of one’s body. And the shame that it brings is unbearable.
We don’t tell because we are not believed.
Time and time again we see women shamed for reporting rape. We are called liars, gold diggers, vengeful bitches. Why else would a woman make such a claim?
Even when there is clear evidence of a crime, perpetrators often emerge unscathed…Donald Trump is still in the White House.
Scripture tells us that a woman who cries rape is a liar (Potiphar’s Wife, Genesis 39) and that a “real” rape victim stays silent like Susanna (Daniel 13).
We don’t tell because we are taught that our intact hymens are more valuable than our lives.
The Church Father, Jerome said that suicide is always wrong except for the instance of rape and claimed that not even God can repair a broken hymen.
The stories of the Virgin Martyrs are hailed as an example to all women and the modern day saint Maria Goretti was canonized for choosing to protect her virginity over her life. Imagine, had she been raped, we would not know her name.
We don’t tell because we are ashamed.
Abstinence only education teaches us that if we are raped we are nothing more than a chewed up piece of gum that no one will want.
Rape victims are called sluts who want sex but don’t want to admit it. A man should be praised for liberating a woman from making such a decision. “Blurred Lines,” anyone?
If we look to scripture we find “texts of terror” that tell the stories of women who are “crucified” for their rapes, while their rapists are spared. After Tamar’s rape she lives the rest of her life as a desolate woman, while her brother and rapist, Amnon, is not punished (2 Samuel 13:11-14).
The rapes of the four churchwomen immediately before their murders in El Salvador have never been acknowledged by the Vatican. We cannot speak of such things. Church teaching on rape is clear.
According to Phyllis Trible, “to tell and hear tales of terror is to wrestle demons in the night, without a compassionate God to save us” (4).
And as Traci West explains, “the way women feel about themselves and their environment is permanently altered by the incidence of intimate assault in their lives” (p. 55).
We don’t tell because we don’t want to believe it happened to us.
To tell is to admit that something so terrible has happened that our lives no longer have value and that even God may reject us.
But if we can justify the violence to ourselves, then perhaps we can continue living without the burden of being irreparable.
But sometimes we do tell…
Because we can no longer bear the burden of carrying such shame.
Because we don’t want to see others experience such torment.
Because we want to validate the experiences of others who have also “wrestled demons in the night.”
Ten years later, after embarking on my own academic career, that my professor sexually assaulted me on more than one occasion during my last semester of college. He kept me after class, backed me into a corner, groped and kissed me while I cried. He wielded his power over me. I was terrified. I felt ashamed.
I questioned what I already knew to be true. Was he really out of line? Did I provoke him? Was I not assertive? Am I overreacting?
It took a decade for me to work up the courage to call my alma mater to file a complaint against the man who is now full professor and department chair. I called the Human Resources department and spoke with a woman who asked me why I took so long to make a report. She argued that if I had really been assaulted I would have said something at the time. She asked what kind of person I was to make such accusations that could ruin a man’s career. I was interrogated. I was shamed. And just like that, I wished I had never told.