Rape is real; and, somehow, it has to stop

Jennifer Ditlevson Haglund

With the recent revocation of institutional recognition of the Delta Nu chapter of the Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity at Northwest Missouri State University, this column can’t wait.

Five years ago as a first-year graduate student, I sat opposite two male university student athletes I was tutoring in an introductory course to mass communications. They had missed the class on the media’s responsibility to ethically cover rape cases in the news, and I had to teach them.

Both of them seemed uncomfortable, and neither wanted to pay attention. They protested that it wasn’t even worth studying.

Finally, one of them slammed his hand on my textbook and stared at me.

“Rape doesn’t happen,” he said. “Girls just lie.”

When he saw that he’d struck a nerve, he continued.

“And guy on guy? That only happens if the guy wants it to happen.”

I’ve never faced a more difficult teaching situation, and I wasn’t prepared to handle it.

After a few minutes of trying to get him to realize the gravity of his statements, the situation escalated.

The guy’s sidekick kept nudging him, begging him to stop goading me.

For five minutes, I left them in the study room while I thought about what I was going to do. When I returned, I dismissed them early and decided to report the behavior to the appropriate personnel.

As far as I know, they received a verbal reprimand.

Rape culture is real.

According to the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network, 293,000 people in the United States are victims of sexual assault, and 98 percent of the rapists will never spend a day in jail.

Google defines “rape culture” as having its roots in feminist theory, which sadly makes it less credible to some; but it affects men too.

RAINN reports that 3 percent of males from the United States have been sexually assaulted. That doesn’t account for all the males who never reported the crime because of being told that it doesn’t exist or only happens to gay men.

When I run, I can’t help but think of safety.

My husband knows my routes, but he doesn’t know that I’m writing this column in my head every time I turn the corner to leave our street.

When I pass through the campus, I think about the first articles I read in the Daily Forum before I began working here.

They were about rape.

Running, I imagine I am one of the many redheaded superheroes visiting vengeance or justice upon every sexual predator.

I pretend I can turn them into ham salad.

In my head, I’m unstoppable and strong and untouchable.

But from behind, and with a hoodie on, I could look like a college student.

When a truck rolls by with guys screaming obscene things and tossing beer bottles out their windows to break at my feet, I’m nothing.

To them, I’m not a mother.

Not a wife.

Not a sister.

Not a daughter.

Not a friend.

Not a woman.

Not a person.

As my feet hit the ground and push me closer to home, I decide not to show any retaliation, and I think about those two students and how they honestly didn’t believe that rape was real. Statistics meant nothing to them.

For me, those numbers wear faces of people I love.

Rape happens everywhere.

It’s not just in fraternities or on college campuses.

Sometimes it happens within marriages or seemingly healthy relationships.

I don’t know what it’s going to take to make it stop, and I don’t suppose it ever will until the sun sets for the last time.

I do know I’ve had enough.