Brock Turner is being released from jail after serving only 3 months for three felonies— assault with intent to commit rape of an intoxicated/unconscious person, penetration of an intoxicated person, and penetration of an unconscious person. If this doesn’t alarm you, it should.

Because once again, we have told the entire female population of this country that the American criminal justice system doesn’t give two fucks about them being violated without their consent. And if it’s never crossed your mind to pray that your child doesn’t ever get raped by an upper middle class white man— it should. Because a whopping 51% percent of American rapists are white males. Now, factor in that for every 1,000 rapes, 994 of those perpetrators will walk free, and it will come as no surprise to you that 2 out of 3 rape victims don’t even bother trying to report it. I am one of those 2, and mine is just another long lost story in the sea of women crying out to unconcerned, indifferent ears. 

I’ll never forget it— the way they branded that Scarlet letter into my skin. L is for L-I-A-R. That’s what they called me when the laser focus of teenagers in our high school fell on me and the rumors of my sexual assault. The whispers were deafening. 

“She’s using rape as a cover up so nobody thinks she abandoned her morals.”

“What a dramatic, lying bitch.”

“She could have said no.” — and I did. But nobody believes the cry of a teenage girl in a sex filled world. Especially when your assaulter is your boyfriend. 

News spreads like a California brush fire in a small town high school. It felt as though the entire campus had been handed a bag of popcorn and a front row ticket before the last word even left my tongue to the only friend I dared to mutter them to. 

What surprised me the most, was how quickly people took sides. I didn’t realize until then that rape was ambiguous. That people would look at facts very subjectively when they involved someone they knew personally. The division of friends alone felt like a clear cut reason not to come forward with any legal actions. The class of students turning my sexual assault into a hypothetical scenario— editing the story of my trauma to one more to their liking— that convinced me that the faster I could sweep this under the rug, the better. 

But my attacker had other plans. Plans to harass, and torment, and eventually confront me in a horrifying altercation that led to friends quite literally forming a human shield to get me to a safe place while a teacher sat by and watched, dumbfounded. I can still see his deer-in-headlights glaze as my fear-filled, tear swollen eyes begged him to save me. 

His faint-hearted weakness led me to the administrative office in search for some sort of protection. There, I was met with a performance of The Beatles famous song, “Let it Be”— only the administrator had cleverly changed the words to “Let it Go” as he chanted me out of his office with his off-key melody proposal that I was merely an over-dramatic teenage girl. I’ll never forget the way I felt when I walked out that door. It’s the same way I feel every time I read another headline where a young woman is painted as “the boy who cried wolf” and her rapist is treated like the victim of a female’s menstrual cycle of emotions and exaggerations— Defeated. 

These young, charming, likable white men who keep getting off with barely a slap on the wrist, are wolves in sheep’s clothing. And they are feeding on our women and using our male dominated, predisposed justice system to command, control, and further silence victims everywhere. 1 of 6 women will be raped in their lifetime. Yet, only 6 out of every 1,000 rapists will be incarcerated for their crimes.  

Make no mistake ladies, America does not give two shits about you being sexually assaulted.

So it is up to us to make them care. It is our burden— each and every one of us, raped or not, to take a stand against sexual violence. We need to re-brand the Scarlet letter that tells women they are liars, or exaggerators, when they do find the courage to come forward. Instead, let the burning “L” on our chests cry out for L-I-A-B-I-L-I-T-Y. Let us march to the gates of injustice and demand that no one ever try to silence us with a song of rebuff or a laugh of dismissal, like Brock Turner provided the witnesses of his crimes. If we don’t take a stand for our nations wives, daughters, sisters, and mothers, then who will?

If it’s never crossed your mind to pray that your child doesn’t ever get raped by an upper middle class white man— it should.

 

About the author: Andi Franklin is a stay-at-home mama to two, off-the-wall boys, who fill her cup with love and copious amounts of Pinot Noir. She loves to cook, Netflix binge, and awkwardly exercise in her living room. Publishing boasts include The Huffington Post and Scary Mommy, but you can always find her at Lend Me Your Kite where she chronicles the trials and triumphs of motherhood. You can also find her on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

Author

Wannabe's are Guest Authors to BLUNTmoms. They might be one-hit wonders, or share a variety of posts with us. They "may" share their names with you, or they might write as "anonymous" but either way, they are sharing their stories and their opinions on our site, and for that we are grateful.

2 Comments

  1. Thank you for using your voice, Andi. It is strong and unwavering. I’m proud to call you my friend and walk along side you as we keep fighting the good fights in this ugly effed up world.

Write A Comment

Pin It