An Open Letter to Brock Turner

A Story About Being Blonde, White, Privileged and Rape

Dear Brock,

You and I have a lot in common; we’re both blonde, white, grew in up in affluent neighborhoods in affluent towns (so affluent, in fact, I just attended a vigil for a fucking mass shooting that happened blocks from my affluent, mostly-white high school I graduated from almost 15 years ago. Another god damn mass shooting…) and, from what I can tell, neither of lacked for anything growing up.

College

We also both attended Pac-12 colleges (or, in my case, it was a Pac-10, but that’s not a point of contention for this article.) We were both involved in our athletic departments; you swam at Stanford, and I was in the marching band at the University of Washington. (Yes, that’s part of the athletic department. Technically, we were part of the cheer squad, or vice versa, I’m not sure.) I spent most of my college years getting to know athletes. I stood by my football team when we went 0–12 year after year. I literally camped out for the best seats in the house when Romar became coach and our basketball team looked like it was headed to the final four for the first time in…history?

Yes, camped out. On cement. In November. With almost all other privileged, white college aged men who were athletes or otherwise inclined to be. I stayed up until 3 am watching Christmas movies and playing catch. I tried to fall asleep until 3 am when…

I decided to back to my comparatively more comfy dorm bunk and sleep. And then I missed the game. I woke up over 50 texts from the guys: “What happened?” “Are you ok”

Yes. Totally fine. Just too tired.

“Bummer. Beer later?”

Here’s the thing, Brock. I was put in a situation where there was no one around (except for a brief moment when a media storm descended and I was front page of every newspaper the next day.) Any one the guys could have lured me “for a talk.” Handed me a drink. You know the drill. You’ve done it.

But they didn’t. Because most guys, even white, affluent, college educated and athletic, just don’t rape girls because they can.

And that’s the thing; I was often in a position where my ability to even consent was at risk…a lot. You were at Stanford, so you know how this goes. People get really drunk before, during and after games. The band? The same. We would find a way to wear as little clothing as possible (purple saran wrap was a popular choice) and get shit-faced drunk, then run around the frat and sorority house rows playing our favorite pep songs from memory (can I remind you…we are nearly black-out drunk…) Not only did no one from a house dare make a move, sorority girls were kind enough to let us in their house to go pee.

I’m not sure who was more honored.

In a band of 240, you can imagine that there were a lot of crushes, a lot of hookups, and to this day, there are more than a dozen marriages and babies from couples that came together from within the band. Guess what, Brock? They were all consensual! No one wants to be in the “family” that took advantage of another person you have to see EVERY DAY and be labeled as a rapist, even on technicality.

Yeah, I was dressed really, really, really proactively on Friday nights. That never meant I asked for it, and even — God, was this really 15 yeas ago? — it was never a free pass to jump down from a frat porch and just start raping me. And then on Saturdays, after we lost again, I got really, really drunk. Maybe my consent wasn’t always valid. But if something did not feel right the next day, you bet your ass we were both at Starbucks for 5 hours talking it out.

So yes, Brock, I get it. Stanford isn’t much different. Being affluent and in the athletic system in the Pac-12 means you’re surrounded by a bunch of guys who might party and drink and have to balance a shit ton of priorities.

But I can tell you this: As a former member of a Pac-12 athletic organization, every single person I ever associated with respected women with the highest intent. If a girl wanted sex, that was her choice. But that didn’t mean he was a rapist. In hindsight, we slut shamed a few girls too much (we were young and jealous, I think.) But I never knew one guy to be “that guy.”

Control

Brock, you don’t get it. You have totally failed to see that what you did is NOT NORMAL. Maybe somewhere along the way you thought not getting what you want meant throwing an epic temper tantrum until you did. Sure, we’ve all done that. I’ve used words to slay a few times, because customers service just sucks. I’ve seen kids — like, 5 year olds — throw temper tantrums at a restaurant because they have learned how to manipulate the shit out of their parents. Dessert? You got it.

Here’s the thing, Brock. This is not normal. Consent is a real thing. Rape is a real fucked up thing.

You don’t really understand how much you destroyed that woman’s life when you raped her…viciously attacked and raped. It was a thing that came out of some carnal instinct or some 5 year old buried deep inside you.

Like, honestly. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you stuck at 5? Has a psychologist ever asked you that?

You’re a swimmer. You made it to fucking STANFORD. Yet, this type of childish antics are not normal for Stanford. Or Silicon Valley. Or the Pac-12 athletics. Or really anywhere white and affluent, unless you’re raised in a way to get what you want or else.

Which is why I was at that mass shooting in my hometown. The kid just didn’t get the girl he wanted. So he killed her. And 2 others.

Now this is a thematic rhetoric. “Rich white kid can’t get the girl so he viciously attacks her.”

Way to go, Brock. Regardless of your pathetic sentence — you’re now part of a larger discussion in America. About rich white boys who use violence when they can’t get the girl.

Maybe you can help with that. Explain that. Do something better with your life and teach us — an our next generation of boys — how to fucking control themselves. How violence is not an answer to frustration.

After all, you’re an athlete. You should know a thing or two about choosing other avenues for anger or frustration.

But Brock, I get it. I know where you’re coming from — the exact same place I came from until I graduated UW. And for all those reasons, you have no excuse. There is no room for apologies.

But maybe, if you do better, we can find a glimmer of light in this. It’ll take years, decades even.

We have reached the point of commentary where the only answer to this constant kind of shit is “This is so fucked up.”

For all those who have been in your shoes… in that affluent neighborhood, at that Pac-12 school, in athletics, up until the point it was fucked up…please, just stop making it so fucked up.