A Mother and Daughter Reflect on Campus Sexual Assault

25 years ago this fall, I was sexually assaulted on campus during my first semester of college. I waited nearly 20 years to talk about it, and when I was ready, I called my mom. This is our story.

Daughter

I remember my red raincoat with the plaid lining. It was my first raincoat, having never needed one in the dry eastern Oregon climate where I was raised. My mom and dad bought it for me when I got accepted to a university in a town known for rainy weather.

Mother

I remember the raincoat we bought for you before you went away to college. It was red, your favorite color, and had a plaid lining. We were so proud of you (we still are!). You worked so hard in high school and were so proud of the scholarships and awards you’d earned.

Daughter

I was a first-generation college student and the first of the four daughters to “go away” to school. I needed a part-time job to help pay tuition and was excited when I was hired on campus to read to a student with a visual disability. The tutoring office gave me his contact information, and when I called him he invited me to come by his dorm to meet and pick up his books.

Mother

We talked quite a bit at the beginning of fall. You made some new girlfriends at church and a few in your dorm. Your roommate was a graduate student from China, and you didn’t see much of her. I remember you talking about Rachael, the girl across the hall. You two had a lot in common, having both run cross country in high school. You rode bikes across town to the Fred Meyer and ran on the trails near campus. You always had a funny story to tell. I remember your dad and I worrying about you out on the bike path alone.

Daughter

I must have been excited in those first few weeks of college, but I don’t remember. I hear my friends talk about their first college year with great detail. Their favorite late-night hangout. Roommates’ names. Memorable professors. Tales of parties. Me? I remember the red raincoat my parents bought me. I remember the red raincoat because I was wearing it the day I was assaulted on campus.

Mother

When you came home for Thanksgiving without your coat, you said that you lost it or someone took it. You got defensive when I pressed for more details so I let it go. By that time you had already started to fade away. When I asked you about your new job, you were evasive. I knew you were not OK, but you kept reassuring me everything was fine. Your job was fine. Classes were fine.

Daughter

I was a smart girl, but my inner voice must have been on mute that day. My inner voice should have reminded me to not go to that room alone. To not shut the door once I arrived. He was an older student, probably in his late-20s. It didn’t take long to feel uncomfortable. He must have sensed my discomfort because he tried to lighten the mood with a dirty joke. And then he was behind me, arms around my hips, hands reaching under my raincoat, and I just stood there, staring at the door in front of me. I must have walked out without a sound, and he must not have followed because the next thing I remember is being in my dorm bathroom, taking off my raincoat and shoving it into the garbage. I threw his books in the garbage too, covering them up with used paper towels so no one would see.

Mother

And then the phone calls became less and less frequent. I can’t remember exactly when, but you stopped calling. This was before cell phones, email and Facebook. I had only the land line for your room and the hope that you would answer. I called and called. I was frantic. I didn’t know anyone at the school, so I began calling the Church when you wouldn’t return our calls, pleading with them to please reach out to find out what was wrong. They told me you seemed fine, always smiling. I called again, this time to speak to the Bishop. He said what a wonderful young woman you were. I wanted to scream through the phone. I know she’s a wonderful woman! But something is wrong!

Daughter

I remember him calling my phone again and again after that first meeting. He wanted his books back. I unplugged the phone to make it stop, terrified he would find me. I have little to no memory of the rest of that fall. I stopped going to class, wandered around campus during the day and retreated to my room or to the church at night. I remember one professor leaving a voice mail on my phone because I hadn’t been to class but what could I possibly say to explain? I deleted the message.

Mother

I remember getting a letter from the school in December about your fall grades…something about, “Your child may have experienced a difficult adjustment to college…” but when I asked you about it, you assured me that your grades were great: two As and a B. It was just a form letter. I didn’t believe you. You were irritable and distant throughout the holidays.

Daughter

I tried to go back after winter break, thinking I would start over. I made it until March before calling my parents to come and get me. They drove seven hours to pick me up, no questions asked. I don’t remember leaving the dorms, saying goodbye, packing my things. I remember getting out of the car in my driveway and feeling at once ashamed and relieved to be home again. What happened to the girl I was, the one with a good head on her shoulders? This time last year I was winning awards for academics and things like, “most inspirational,” “school spirit,” and helping others. Now I was a failure, a college drop-out, and it was my fault.

Mother

I never ever thought that it was your fault. I remember looking at Daddy, tears running down both our cheeks when you finally told us, 16 years later, about the assault. It was like a veil was lifted. Suddenly it all made sense: The evasiveness about grades and your job on campus. Not returning our calls. My intuition that something was seriously wrong. I looked at you and saw our little girl again, so full of promise, having worked so hard to get that scholarship. Did I forget to tell you we were only a phone call away? Did I remind you that you could count on us in an emergency? Did I tell you we were proud of you? I must have said all of those things, but it never occurred to me to worry about sexual assault.

Daughter

I eventually went back to college after dropping out for a few years. It was my parents who encouraged me to return, who told me I still had great potential. I enrolled at my hometown university. Once again I won awards for academics, for service, and landed a good job after graduating with honors. I was good at my job, a good leader, colleague, and supervisor. Once again, I won awards and earned scholarships, this time for graduate school. What others saw as achievement was my atonement for what I thought was my mistake. The harder I worked, the farther I ran, the easier it was to drown out the constant hum of shame and self-hatred for that one day. But the hum would not be silenced. Years later, I couldn’t maintain healthy relationships. I bounced around in shame, guilt, self-blame. I felt weak and dumb, even as I dissociated from the assault and those days immediately following. My loneliness gave way to depression. In my early 30s, I began fading again, stopped returning my mother’s phone calls. And once again, she showed up on my doorstep, with my dad, to take me home.

Mother

After the deep sadness for you and what you went through, and then the regrets and fear that I hadn’t done enough came another flood, this time of ‘what-ifs’ and wishes: I wish I had known that when I sent you to school not everyone would have your best interests at heart. That your inexperience could lead to victimization. I wished that the orientation program would have stressed the situations where sexual assault could occur. I wished that when the school hired you for that job, they would have mentioned the pitfalls of going to someone’s dorm room or apartment alone. As I write this now, 25 years later, I know it is inexcusable for an institution to fail to address sexual assault. To fail to reach out when a student stops going to class. I can’t help but wonder, did anyone notice my strong, smart, beautiful, powerful but vulnerable woman wandering around campus without a coat? Then again, maybe they, like me, didn’t know any better. If I could change what happened to you I would. Your experience is my experience because you are a part of me and we are a part of you.

Daughter

It wasn’t until last year, when I was in the middle of a meeting to coordinate a sexual assault prevention program on the campus where I worked, that the memory of the red raincoat rose to the surface again, and with it the tears to finally grieve for the girl wearing it that fall afternoon. Today, colleges and universities are required to address sexual assault, but back then it was not uncommon to wander alone, in silence. I cannot change what happened to me, nor can I prevent it from ever happening to my own daughter. My experience is a part of me. But today I lay down my shame, and I invite anyone who reads this and has experienced something similar to do the same. And, if you have a mom like mine, pick up the phone and tell her your story. She wants to hear it.

Note: This fall marks the 25th Anniversary of The Clery Act, landmark legislation that paved the way for safer campuses and greater accountability for disclosing, preventing, and addressing campus crime. The Clery Act is named after Jeanne Clery, a 19 year-old college student who was raped and murdered in her dorm room. Jeanne’s parents honored her by lobbying to make campuses safer for all of our children. For more information about campus sexual assault, visit The Clery Center.

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