I had been concerned about his safety because of her previous boundary crossing, so he had told her repeatedly that he would never have sex with her. I told him that he had my permission to have sex with her if he consented. He said that he didn't want to, and I made him promise to make that clear to her. I verified that he followed through. Then I trusted him to do what was best for him. One night, he crashed at her place out of town; the next day, I got a panicked early morning call.
In the aftermath of the incident, he asked me to become her friend. It is very important at times like those to trust the victim's judgment about the appropriate response. It helps them to regain a sense of autonomy and safety, power over their own lives, and trust in you. I agreed-- on the condition that I first talk to her and make sure that she understood that what she did was not ok.
I met with her and she explained to me that "it wasn't rape" because she is female and he is male. I reminded her that he had told her repeatedly that he would never have sex with her, and she said she thought he must have changed his mind because "he hadn't objected that time, like he always did before."
I deliberately put everything that I said to her into terms that if applied to switched genders, she would agree was rape. She agreed that if the genders were switched that she would call it rape, but "it wasn't rape" because he was a man and she was a woman.
Needless to say, my "friendship" with her was always a bit "iffy" and that iffy boat eventually sank.
She is still in my extended circle of friends and as such, awareness of her presence filters through sometimes-- like a post from her spouse about the terrible example of white male privilege that is Brock Allen Turner, detailing his crime, unknowingly describing their partner's crime against my ex.
I hide who she is to hide who he is. She is a missing stair but for all I know, everyone else is navigating in the dark because she is not my secret to tell. People love her for reasons that I never understood, so I call her The Shiny Psychopath in the Room.
This is your annual reminder that statistically speaking, the person that you need to worry about is not the stranger in the bushes, the man with a gun in a dark alley, the person who climbed your fire escape.
It's your friend, your friend's partner, the acquaintance that you were assured was safe, that person you've talked to a hundred times, the host's cousin who offered you a lift, the hottie from math class, your favorite barista, the smartest person you know, your coworker, the Stanford swimming star, the volunteer who reviews your open source contributions, the community leader, the feminist, the person who teaches about consent, someone who tells you they love you, the person who shares your bed.
They are the Boy or Girl Next Door, The Quiet One in the Hallway, The Exciting One at the Party. They are anyone.
In the aftermath of the incident, he asked me to become her friend. It is very important at times like those to trust the victim's judgment about the appropriate response. It helps them to regain a sense of autonomy and safety, power over their own lives, and trust in you. I agreed-- on the condition that I first talk to her and make sure that she understood that what she did was not ok.
I met with her and she explained to me that "it wasn't rape" because she is female and he is male. I reminded her that he had told her repeatedly that he would never have sex with her, and she said she thought he must have changed his mind because "he hadn't objected that time, like he always did before."
I deliberately put everything that I said to her into terms that if applied to switched genders, she would agree was rape. She agreed that if the genders were switched that she would call it rape, but "it wasn't rape" because he was a man and she was a woman.
Needless to say, my "friendship" with her was always a bit "iffy" and that iffy boat eventually sank.
She is still in my extended circle of friends and as such, awareness of her presence filters through sometimes-- like a post from her spouse about the terrible example of white male privilege that is Brock Allen Turner, detailing his crime, unknowingly describing their partner's crime against my ex.
I hide who she is to hide who he is. She is a missing stair but for all I know, everyone else is navigating in the dark because she is not my secret to tell. People love her for reasons that I never understood, so I call her The Shiny Psychopath in the Room.
This is your annual reminder that statistically speaking, the person that you need to worry about is not the stranger in the bushes, the man with a gun in a dark alley, the person who climbed your fire escape.
It's your friend, your friend's partner, the acquaintance that you were assured was safe, that person you've talked to a hundred times, the host's cousin who offered you a lift, the hottie from math class, your favorite barista, the smartest person you know, your coworker, the Stanford swimming star, the volunteer who reviews your open source contributions, the community leader, the feminist, the person who teaches about consent, someone who tells you they love you, the person who shares your bed.
They are the Boy or Girl Next Door, The Quiet One in the Hallway, The Exciting One at the Party. They are anyone.
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