Our Stories, Our Voices
Justice Democrats Candidates and Staff speak out about their own experiences with sexual violence and harassment.
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Alexandria Ocasio
Candidate for U.S. House of Representatives, New York 14th
Like many women, I have never discussed these experiences before — because like many young girls, I was implicitly taught that the silence of convenience is preferable to calls for justice. I will not teach my daughters the same.
Five variations on a theme.
One. I was around six years old. My family had just moved into a small, safe neighborhood when the attempted kidnapping took place. I sat on the white fence at the front of our home, waiting for my parents to get ready for a family outing.
Slowly, an old grey (or was it blue?) sedan pulled up in front of me. The driver had a thick mustache like my father. As children do, I waved. The man looked at me and brought his car to a stop. He climbed out and moved towards me — hands reaching out to grasp my torso.
My mother ripped out of the house, nearly tearing off the screen door. She screamed and screamed, face in anguish, blow dryer still in hand, cord dangling. No! Stop!
I fell from the fence. The man ran back into the car and hit the gas. Later, the police officers in my living room told me the man was dangerous. I didn’t really understand. That weekend, my father tore down the white fence. We never talked about it again.
Two. I was fourteen years old, sitting in a packed subway car headed to the local hospital where I was working on a science project. An older man around the age of forty looked at me and said hello. I waved back, my mouth packed full with metal braces. He said he liked my smile; that I didn’t look fourteen, and where did I live? I left as politely as possible.
Three. My first week in college I went with some friends to a frat party at MIT. I didn’t drink. It was a wild scene: heavy, loud, sweaty, confusing. I saw a young man, not older than 20, sling a semi-conscious girl over his shoulder and walk her up the stairs to the bedroom, her head dangling and blonde hair swaying with each step. There were so many people. Everyone saw. I didn’t know what to do. It could have been something or nothing. It felt dangerous and banal at the same time. I wish I could go back in time and tell that younger version of myself to act, to watch her, to make sure she was safe. At the time, virtually all campuses in Boston were silencing reports of sexual assault.
Four. I had graduated college and was seeing a young man two or three years older than me. He had all the traditional markers of trust: elite education, well-groomed, hard-working, mentored young men. He was introduced to me by friends and family.
Despite his education, the words ‘no’ and ‘stop’ weren’t in his vocabulary.
Five. I am now a candidate for United States Congress. One day, I mentioned the topic of feminism in an Instagram story.
The replies flooded in:
“Please don’t talk about this in your campaign.”
“I support you, but stick to the real issues.”
“Talking about this is Identity Politics and it’s how you lose.”
This time, I know better. I know that truth outshines power. Telling the truth is the first step in fighting for a just world, one that ends the practice of cloaking sexual predation and abuse of power in a shroud of silence. It is time to hold each other accountable, to positively establish safe and just environments — even when it’s inconvenient in the short term. It is time for both victims and the accused to have a fair due process deserving of a just society.
Lastly, I am thankful for the courageous women before me whose testimonies have given me the strength to say, #MeToo.
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Courtney Rowe
Candidate for U.S. House of Representatives, Iowa 1st
I see a lot of people asking why this #MeToo campaign is encouraging women to share their stories on social media and in the press. Why not file police reports? Why not report things through the usual authorities? #MeToo is not really about prosecution. Certainly we all encourage women to seek prosecution of these crimes, but honestly #MeToo is about the failure of that usual system. It’s about the shelves full of untested rape kits. It’s about colleges telling women how not to get raped, instead of telling men not to rape.
That mentality caused me to not report my own rape to police. I was a Senior in college. ‘I should have known better’. I let the guy I had dated for three weeks make me a drink at his fraternity’s Halloween party. Rule number 1 for the college girl: ‘Never leave your drink unattended and always drink something you watched being made or from a trusted source.’ Status: Failed. I thought I could trust him, but obviously my judgement was ‘flawed’.
Rule number 2 for the college girl: ‘Always go to a party with another girl who will ensure you leave.’ Status: Failed. I was at the party with several of my sorority sisters, but I arrived with the guy I was dating. It didn’t seem necessary to use the buddy system. They knew him. I knew him.
Rule number 3 for the college girl: ‘If you are raped, don’t wash. Immediately go to a hospital and request a rape kit’. Status: Failed. No one explains the shock of rape and the disorientation of rohypnol the next day. By the time what happens sets in, you’ve showered away the physical evidence. If he used a condom, good luck proving anything.
Rule number 4 for the college girl: ‘File a police report, but if there is no physical evidence, it is very unlikely the perpetrator will be prosecuted.’ Status: Failed. If you have no physical evidence, what’s the point in reporting it? You’ll be interrogated by police, by the prosecutor. If the case goes forward, you’ll put yourself through embarrassment for failing rules 1–3. Plus you’ll most likely be called a liar by people you trust.
#MeToo is not about prosecution, it’s about removing the shame for failing steps 1–4. If we as women can rise up and remove the victim shame of rape and sexual assault, we can hope that one day women will feel empowered to report these crimes to police, and that taxpayers will feel the need to process all those untested rape kits.
I’m running for office so my nieces and nephews, never have to say #MeToo. It will take changes to our justice system. It will take change to sex education at all levels. It will take all of us getting tired enough of hearing #MeToo, to say #NoMore.
Courtney Rowe
Candidate for U.S. Congress
Rape Survivor
#MeToo
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Antoinette Sedillo Lopez
Candidate, U.S. House of Representatives, New Mexico 1st
As a clinical law professor and a domestic violence advocate, I have counseled many survivors who have experienced everything from a sexually hostile workplace environment to brutal rape.
With my own college experience with rape in the late 1970’s, like so many women, I did not report it. I did not even tell friends or family about it at the time because I was afraid. I felt ashamed and embarrassed. I felt isolated and I wasn’t aware of any services that might be available. It has taken me years to work out how the trauma has affected me. But this isn’t just my story, this is the story of the 1 in 4 women and girls and the 1 in 20 men and boys in New Mexico who have been raped and/or victimized by uncompleted rape. It is the story of Latina domestic workers in Albuquerque who are sexually harassed and even raped at work, but are afraid to disclose their victimization because of their legal status. It is the story of a young woman who told me that she was raped while enlisted in the military and when she reported it, her senior officers (some of them women) told her, what did she expect — after all she is so pretty. It is the story of an incest survivor who discovered that he father had been sexually abused as a child. It is the story of a transgender woman who told me she does not know a transgender individual who has not been raped and/or sexually assaulted.
I believe that individuals today may have more services available to them and they may be encouraged to speak out against harassment, assault and rape, but it still happens to them — especially to young, vulnerable women, children, LGBTQI individuals, and disabled individuals. Things have to change. We have to do better than simply provide services. We need to stop the behavior. And we need to change the way our government responds to abuse and discrimination.
I’ve seen what bad policy can do to people, and my own experiences drive me to change it. After this president was selected by the Electoral College, ICE agents started showing up at the courthouses which caused great fear among immigrants who were victimized. They were afraid of getting the restraining orders they needed or even testifying at the criminal trials of their abusers. I organized domestic violence and sexual assault agencies to ask the New Mexico Supreme Court to stop permitting ICE agents to detain individuals at the courthouse because it deprived immigrants of access to our justice system, which further victimized them. I knew that so much of the work we had done over decades was at risk. Our country was going backwards under this administration. I could not and will not let that happen, so I stepped up to run for Congress.
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Anthony Clark
Candidate, U.S. House of Representatives, Illinois 7th
Systemic forms of oppression cannot change without those who are responsible for that form of oppression holding themselves accountable. As the next congressperson representing Illinois’s 7th Congressional District, I take a direct stand as a man against rape, rape culture, sexual assault, misogyny, sexism, and any action that attempts to use power derived from gender and position to oppress women.
My mother, Blanche E. Clark raised me to love everyone and to truly respect women. I view her as a queen and even at 35, I am still a mother’s boy and have worked to be a true ally for women’s rights my entire adult life. Knowing this, I still recognize that as a man, I have throughout my life been complicit in the promotion of the very actions and ideologies I am supporting women in eliminating. I speak to each and every woman that I have encountered throughout my life and want to say to you, that my reputation or sense of self is not more important than holding myself accountable for any action no matter how small that has led to the oppression of women.
I challenge all men to step up and hold themselves accountable, to recognize that though we may not all have committed illegal crimes, we have still been complicit and must do better. All men, including our current representatives cannot remain silent and must take a public stance in words and action! As a man I apologize for myself and for not doing more throughout my life and as your next congressperson and current teacher and activist, I promise to continue to hold myself and others accountable while continuing to fight as a true ally. I cannot fight for men to be equal and free if I am not fighting for the same for women!
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Tara Reilly
JD Staffer
Growing up I was conditioned to navigate unwanted advances from men. It was “normal” and always somehow due to something I was responsible for; my developing body, my makeup, my nail polish, my lips. Being groped by my father’s friends at 11, sexually assaulted by a boyfriend’s dad at 14 and coerced with varying levels of force and manipulation by male friends throughout my formative years just became part of my narrative. As a child, my divorced parents raised me to fear and suspect violence and trickery from men. That vigilance and self protection were the only way I could stop someone else from taking “the only thing men really want”, my body. Men had one objective and they literally couldn’t help it. However, the self defense I was taught wasn’t just a skill, it was a complex and artful dance. At just 11 years old, I learned to walk a very thin line between not “allowing” a nearly 40 year old man to have sex with me while also not angering or accusing him of anything. He was a close and valued family friend and client of my father’s. Any aggressive rejection, open fear or disgust would have jeopardized an important, 20+ year friendship of my father’s and reduced our already meager means of living. Plus, to be honest, I liked him. He was funny and cool and my dad even seemed more funny and cool around him. I didn’t want him to stop visiting, I just wanted him to stop touching me and exposing himself.
As I waded into adulthood, my capacity to graciously deflect the blatant advances and degradations from coworkers and bosses without offending them or jeopardizing my own income became an invaluable asset. It wasn’t easy to smile and nod when my boss ended a performance review by saying, “Good job sweetie” and patting the top of my head, but I did. Nor was it easy to reply, “Gross lol” first thing in the morning to a work email from a Senior VP that contained a YouTube video of a steamy, spanking scene in an office, but I did. Or when I had to feign concern while hearing about the stressful demands of a coworker’s libido and his wife’s lack of interest… Or casually swiping away a different coworker’s hand after it kept ending up on my arm, my butt, my upper thigh, all the while smiling and not alerting other coworkers to what was happening below eye level… Or acting appreciative and flattered, not angered and disgusted every time a man (usually married) commented on my attractiveness or decided to start my work day with “Good morning beautiful”… Or the time I was standing in my office when my boss’ good friend and colleague wrapped his arms around me from behind, pressed his body into mine, snuggled his face into my neck and commented on my feet. In front of my boss. Or that other time that… Or… Or… Or…
Dealing with creeps (while shielding them from the self-realization of their own creepiness) was a seemingly benign daily annoyance like stalled traffic, broken copiers and rude receptionists. When I did get offended or concerned enough to bring it up to another woman or coworker, it was usually met with dismissiveness, blame or suggestions on what I could change about myself to prevent it in the future. “You were the one talking about circumcision yesterday (regarding my infant son and scientific findings)”, “Have you thought about toning it down? The bleached hair does cast you in a certain light to men” “He just thinks you’re cute” “Men don’t say those things to me” “He didn’t mean anything by it” “He’s just flirting” “It was just a compliment”. The behavior itself was never the issue. The men were never held accountable, or even made aware there was anything wrong with their behavior. Trying to talk about it or seeking support just added salt to the wound and compounded the feeling of betrayal.
Times are changing though. A movement has begun. Women are standing up and telling their stories. Men are opening their eyes and either standing up in solidarity with us or sitting down in silence and shame for what they’ve done. And the more women that stand up, the more other women see it isn’t our fault. We aren’t asking for this and we don’t have to shoulder the consequences of unchecked sexual aggression any longer. My daughter is now the same age I was the first time a man put his hands on me in a sexual way and I am thankful she lacks the perspective I had. I am also thankful she sees the headlines and that we have the opportunity for an open dialogue about what is ok and what is not. I am thankful she does not fear men or feel inferior to boys her age.
Her path will be different. Abuse will not be part of her narrative.
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Shannon Thomas
JD Staffer
“We don’t believe you. And even if we did, we aren’t going to do anything about it.”
That’s what I heard when my country elected a serial predator to the White House. The Billy Bush tapes pressed play on my worst nightmare, and on January 20th, a rapist took the Oath of Office. It was the worst time in my young adult life and, sadly for me, that’s actually saying a lot. You see, I’m no stranger to institutional betrayal.
I was 20 years old when I was first sexually assaulted. A scared junior in college at home on summer break, I did what I was supposed to when everything goes wrong: I got a rape kit, I told the LA Police Department my story, and I spent the scariest 15 minutes of my life in the lobby of a Planned Parenthood, waiting to find out if I was HIV positive. In many ways, I’m still waiting. The police never followed up with me or came to collect the rest of the evidence. To this day, my bra and underwear from that night are still tucked away in a brown paper bag, carefully folded on the top shelf of my childhood bedroom.
That was the first time, when I told the police, and nothing happened. The second time, I told my university, and nothing still.
My senior year, I returned to Berkeley with just enough time before graduation for a boy in my class to start harassing me online — first political threats, then rape threats. When I showed his messages to the administration, I was told “he’s just joking. You shouldn’t take things so seriously. Try to be friends.” It was around that time I had my first panic attack and my first seizure. I developed constant nightmares, sleep paralysis, and a scarlet rash that covered my neck. Finally, I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I spent the last months of undergrad trying to write my thesis while I sat next to that guy for 3 hours a week. It wasn’t until 31 other survivors and I filed a very public Title IX complaint that the university took any action (apparently no one likes bad press). But even after all that, they never removed him from my class, and to this day, I still have nightmares.
It was the most invisible feeling to share my truth and not be believed. So the third time something happened, I said nothing at all… until now.
At the ripe-old-age of 25, the years since my first assault have been a battle to reclaim my life and make some meaning of what’s happened to me. I moved to India to combat gender violence, and I took self-defense classes; I filled the pages of news articles on sexual violence, and I published my own; I spent free hours counseling survivors, and I upended my career plans to help elect progressives (and progressive women) to Congress. I thought if I just worked hard enough to change things fast enough, I could outrun the trauma I’ve experienced. But clearly there’s more work to be done, because I was raped just two months ago.
This time, after having been failed by every institution of power I’ve encountered, it was tempting to stay silent. But as usual, Audre Lorde already spoke the words I needed to hear: “And when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed, but when we are silent, we are still afraid. So it is better to speak.”
At Audre’s urging, here is what I have to say. If we only support survivors when it’s politically convenient, we are not allies, we are complicit. If we say “we believe women” and then defend abusers, we empower rape culture. And if we build a progressive movement without half of the population, we are not populists.
Thankfully, we have more chances to do it right because life goes on beyond our twenties, and beyond January 20th. I know because on January 21st, the day after the inauguration, I stepped into the streets with millions of women marching on Washington. Those same women are running for office in droves, and even more are coming forward with their stories. I won’t let them speak alone, because for each one, there are a thousand more — the high school girls I met at the Women’s Convention in Detroit, the waitress at the Baton Rouge truckstop, the journalist in her boardroom, Cyntoia Brown in the courtroom, maybe some of you out there too. If we can lend our voices to each other when we can’t speak for ourselves, maybe we will finally be heard. And maybe, next election, the American people will answer us differently.
“We believe you, and we are going to do something about it.”
