I went to college on the opposite hill from Cornell. From my vantage point, Cornell looked like a mysterious city for smart kids. A Cornell frat bro may have glanced at the towers on the South Hill and thought about Saltine Cracker boxes full of whores (Ithaca was an embarrassingly White school, so “cracker” is apt). The adage at the time was that Cornell boys took Ithaca girls to bed, while they saved Cornell girls to wed. When I was little, I thought “vagina” was pronounced “fine China.” Cornell boys (used to) think of their female classmates like fine China, only used on the most special occasions. This meant that Ithaca women were little more than paper plates, used once and thrown out.
I mostly meandered Cornell’s campus in the summer. Cornell Dairy had the best ice cream (and sprinkles). I know I went to parties on campus and I know I got drunk at those parties because I got drunk everywhere in Ithaca. I minored in getting drunk. And Women’s Studies. Strangely, the Women’s Studies classes made no mention of frat boy danger. But to be fair, I needed attention too much to pay warnings any heed.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what made my experience different than Jane Doe, who is accusing the seven fraternity members of rape. I thought I must have some extra guardian angels. I’m probably on my third or fourth set by now: God rotates them out like soccer players. My angels muzzle me when I’m about to talk stupid, stomp on the brakes before I hit a deer. Is it possible they protected me from rape?
I was a very sloppy drunk, which was one good reason why I quit drinking. Now I’m sloppy in that my meals usually end up on my shirt and my desk is always a mess. Back then, I was sloppy in that I desperately needed to be liked and validated. Men were happy to like and validate me for a couple hours and then ghost me the next day.
Maybe I avoided rape because I somehow surrounded myself with good men. I was more likely to wake up the morning after a drunken night covered with a blanket, with a glass of water available for my eventual hangover, than to wake up confused and sore in a set of crusty sheets. My male friends were not the result of my epic discernment; our friendships just sort of happened.
On bad days I surmise that maybe I’m too ugly to get raped (rape has nothing to do with looks). Maybe a force field of ugliness repelled assholes who would do me harm. God knows I did everything I could do make the right-wing boomers say I was asking for it (no one ever asks for it).
Thing is, where are Jane Doe’s angels? I hope they’re protecting her now when her worst day is displayed on a 24-hour news cycle. But what about that night? I might cringe over my poor choices, but I don’t have PTSD. The only difference between Jane and I is dumb, stupid luck. Next time things don’t work out the way I want, I’ll have to remember that at least I didn’t get raped.
The only conclusion I can come to is that something has to change. God knows safety shouldn’t be just a matter of luck.
Leave a Reply