Disclaimer: This article discusses sexual violence and violence against women.

On Friday, Oct. 31, 1997, the University campus was abuzz with chatter about the event that was planned to take place that evening called “Take Back the Night.” The event, during which students marched around campus to raise awareness about rape, sexual assault and intimate partner violence, was organized by students at the University annually until 2011, according to The Argus’ records. When Halloween 1998 rolled around, Take Back the Night garnered hundreds of participants on campus who hoped to take action against forms of violence that disproportionately affect women.

In that day’s issue of The Argus, Kipp Baratoff ’99 took to the Opinion section—then called Wesspeak—to respond to some criticism of the march that she’d heard around campus. 

“My intent in this Wesspeak is to explain about sexual assault and abuse, and hopefully thereby place Take Back the Night into the context of an evening of female healing, rather than an evening of men-bashing,” Baratoff wrote. 

Baratoff went on to openly discuss her experience of sexual abuse and the emotions she has been dealing with for her entire life because of it. She made it clear that, while many of the survivors who planned to attend Take Back the Night had been previously victimized by men, the evening would be centered around the healing process of survivors, regardless of their gender identity. 

“Can you imagine not being angry at the gender who assaulted you?” Baratoff wrote. “The anger, or if you choose to call it ‘bashing,’ is a part of a victim’s healing process. Even if these sentiments are not expressed during the course of the Take Back the Night evening, their energy is still present due to the nature of the wounds being healed.”

What struck me as I read Baratoff’s passionate pursuit of empathy and candid depiction of her own experiences was how familiar the emotions and thoughts that she expressed were to me. Other women in my life had shared their experiences of surviving sexual assault and domestic violence, but I’d never experienced that loss of autonomy and the feeling of complete helplessness that such incidents come with until I got to Wesleyan. 

When I first arrived at the University, I was impressed with the progressiveness of the student body. It seemed to be in line with what I’d been promised through the seminars and online tours and WesAdmits posts prior to arrival. At first, I felt really safe being a woman on campus, going out on the weekend with my friends, and even walking home by myself after a long night in Olin. 

That perceived sense of security lasted up to the weekend of Halloween my freshman fall. I’d attended a party on campus with a friend of mine, who was visiting from a different school. When we were walking home, my friend ended up in a conversation with a male faculty member (who no longer teaches at Wesleyan). He insisted on walking us the rest of the way home despite my repeated assertions that we were both fine. When we got to my building, he assured me that it was okay to go into my room while they said goodbye. The moment I turned my back he led my friend—a drunk 19-year-old girl—away from the one person she knew on campus. 

I spent several hours after they left my building trying to call her, text her, get her location while sobbing, thinking that I’d never see her again and that it was my fault. I later learned that he’d taken her back to his home and, when she started crying, he kicked her out to find her way through a town she’d never been to at 5 a.m. When we finally found each other later that Sunday morning, she didn’t explain what happened. We didn’t talk about it for the rest of the weekend when she was here, or even after she left the next morning. 

Two months ago, when that memory seemed distant—like a fluke in an otherwise fun freshman year—I went to one of the first on-campus parties of the year with some friends, happy to be back with fewer COVID-19 restrictions. I would recount what happened to me that night, but I can’t remember anything after my second drink. Even when I was practicing harm reduction measures like counting my drinks and only drinking canned drinks that I opened myself, someone found a way to slip something into my drink. This rendered me incapable of walking by myself, talking, keeping any of my food down, or remembering most of the night. 

Again, after I had an understanding of what took place that night, I didn’t talk about it. Not with my parents, my friends who were there, or my therapist. I thought that if I locked it away in my mind it would somehow mean that I had gotten over it, moved past it. The truth is I’ve been afraid to admit that I don’t feel safe going out to parties on campus anymore (I haven’t been to one since that night two months ago) and that I’m angry at myself for letting my guard down enough to let those experiences happen to me and to someone I love. 

However, when I read Baratoff’s article, it reminded me that it’s okay to feel the fear and anger that comes with being a survivor and that I’m allowed to acknowledge my pain. It also affirmed that blaming myself does nothing but excuse the perpetrators who victimized me and my friend. Most importantly, it helped me to recognize that there is so much that I can do—that we all can do—to support survivors and to prevent instances like the ones that I experienced.

“One of the goals of Take Back the Night is to allow women a safe place to talk about these difficult experiences,” Bartoff wrote. “This is an extremely important step in the healing process because it brings into reality the traumatic event which transpired. This reality is then supported and backed up by hundreds of people.”

Twenty-six years after the publication of Baratoff’s piece, many rights that women have felt entitled to over the past half-century are being stripped away across the country. Now more than ever, it is extra important to take action against violence against women, especially women with other marginalized identities, such as trans women, against all sexual violence. At Wesleyan, we are lucky enough to be able to organize events like Take Back the Night and other safe spaces for survivors, but it’s just as important to incorporate our support for them into our everyday lives. 

Firstly, it is crucial to believe survivors and to allow them to share their stories and be affirmed if they so choose, regardless of their gender or any other identity.

It’s also imperative to hold perpetrators of sexual violence accountable, even if you consider the person a friend. If you ignore the harm that someone has caused and refuse to demand that they admit their wrongdoing and do everything in their power to make amends, you are complicit in their actions. It pushes survivors to hide, rather than to speak out against their assailants. It’s just as important to call out comments that sexualize or objectify other people, even if they’re phrased as jokes. The only way to change the attitudes of the people around you is to not let the “little things” slide, especially if you enjoy more privilege (such as being male, cis, and/or white) than the person a comment is being made about.

We should all do what we can to change the systems of power that continue to victimize women. This could mean voting for leaders who will defend women’s rights or sending letters and petitions to local leaders to express your outrage at the status quo.

Most importantly, it’s not enough to assume that Wesleyan is a progressive institution and that there’s nothing you can do to truly support survivors. The only way things are going to continue to improve here is if we all make a concerted effort to understand one another’s experiences.

“This Wesspeak is written with love and empathy for anyone who has been assaulted or abused, and with great respect for those who endeavor to understand.” Baratoff ended her article.

As Baratoff rightly pointed out, love, empathy, and respect are the way toward a better future for us all. 

 

Sulan Bailey can be reached at sabailey@wesleyan.edu.

“From the Argives” is a column that explores The Argus’ archives (Argives) and any interesting, topical, poignant, or comical stories that have been published in the past. Given The Argus’ long history on campus and the ever-shifting viewpoints of its student body, the material, subject matter, and perspectives expressed in the archived article may be insensitive or outdated, and do not reflect the views of any current member of The Argus. If you have any questions about the original article or its publication, please contact Head Archivist Sam Hilton at shilton@wesleyan.edu.