Last Wednesday, I sat on College Green listening to people tell stories of their life. It got pretty cold, but there were more than a hundred people sitting cross-legged -- some alone, some in small huddled groups. Some leaned upon friends for support. Others stood silently. Everyone held candles that offered speckles of light within the darkness.
It wasn't like a normal rally -- with ordered speakers, names declared, a schedule to stick to. In this rally, there was no rush, everyone was on a first-name basis, and the audience and speakers were one and the same.
There was a unique, hushed sense of camaraderie. A quietness, a stillness, a respect. There were long pauses between moments of expression. Feelings of love, pain and anger rose and fell with each speaker's words.
The stories were not of joy or humor. They were stories of rape, sexual violence and physical abuse.
I'm sorry if I'm becoming a "theme" columnist. I'm sorry if anyone feels that three columns out of 15 is too many to spend on this topic, but to be honest, it's taken me that time to reach any level of true comprehension.
I wrote the first column out of a general, almost intellectual, sense of outrage. I knew rape was a terrible thing and didn't think it should be made into a joke.
The reactions were cathartic. The number of people who responded to the first column -- not only survivors themselves, but people who knew multiple others -- was a revelation.
There were also those who felt it was a fuss about nothing. One told me that rape only lasted 20 minutes at most -- after that you got on with your own life, that there were more important things to worry about. Others told me that many rapists hardly realized they were doing anything wrong.
And just last week, the whole issue became doubly personal for me. I wont tell you more, because it's not my story.
All I will say is that I'm left with feelings of intense anger and helplessness.
The last few months on campus have helped me realize three things about rape. First, the proportion of our own community who have been affected is far greater than I'd imagined. Second, the depth of pain and life-long trauma is immense. Third, that despite our college education, there is a desperate need for open discussion and explanation.
How can we best begin such a discussion? Any topic so laden with injury is more likely to incite than inform. Actually talking seems to be the hardest thing to do.
After the quiet-spoken ritual on the Green all the women marched in protest across campus, yelling and chanting at the top of their voices. We made our way down Spruce Street. We swore, we shouted. We sounded triumphant, defiant, unapologetic, unafraid. We sounded angry.
People looked out of their windows as we passed. They stopped in the street to watch us. Our impact seemed to grow with the more noise we made.
I'm sure it brought about a new level of awareness. It was definitely therapeutic -- finally allowing us to feel we had control of the streets. At the same time, I was saddened. I found myself regretting that those now watching and listening had missed the atmosphere on College Green just moments ago.
Did shouting and chanting educate anyone? Did it help anyone to understand something new about the issue? Unfortunately, probably not.
That would have happened if they'd listened to the earlier gathering -- if they'd heard the pained, courageous stories or felt the strong, silent support among the gathered listeners sitting on the grass.
It would have happened by listening to the whispers rather than the shouts and to the stories rather than the slogans.
And that's the real difficulty.
To hear the stories you have to let someone feel safe enough to speak honestly.
To hear the stories, you have to invest a little time. To hear the whispers, you have to come close and listen.
The slogans and the shouting are essential. But we must not turn a deaf ear to the quiet moments.
They are where the pain lives.
They are moments of truth that will linger with us long after the echoes of raised voices have faded into the dark.
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