Tw: discussion of sexual assault
The year is 2016. I’m three years and some change into my undergraduate degree. I’m two years into therapy. I survived multiple sexual traumas at this point, including one that took place in my college dorm.
I’ve given up believing my university cares about survivors.
It’s sexual assault awareness month. The Counseling Center hosts a project with the local women’s shelter. Students are able to paint their own shirts. I stand in front of the table, sweating beneath the Texan sun, determining how to channel my “fuck you” energy.
Do I go with “silence is complacency?” A little broad.
How about “you’d rather teach freshmen how to avoid rape that teach potential abusers what rape actually is.” Too wordy.
I end up with “rape is not a porn genre.”
Maybe that’s anti-porn of me, anti-feminist of me. Maybe it doesn’t encapsulate my complicated feelings regarding survivors and the relationship some may have to nonconsensual erotica. Maybe I don’t yet have the words to describe my own relationship with similar material. The words are messy. The shirt is messy. I’m messy.
I wear it anyways.
