“This 3-credit course is open to anyone wishing to learn more about sexual violence and its impact on our culture. The course will discuss the impacts of media, gender, power and privilege on the rape culture, as well as the effects of sexual assault, services available to survivors, and ways to get involved in ending sexual violence.”
Since my experience, I’ve affectionately referred to it as the ‘ism class,’ as prior to the deep dive into sexual assault, the class covered topics of racism, classism, ageism, and sexism, among others. Conversations throughout the semester were heavy; people often left the room if something hit too close to home or got too heated. We shared, we learned, and we grew close as a unit. Then the sexual assault portion of the class began. I don’t think I’ve ever been so impacted by a single portion of classroom material than I was over those weeks, especially so by a panel of survivors (fellow students). It was the beginning of the transformation.
As the semester, and school year, neared its end, our facilitator mentioned that students who want to become FYCARE Workshop Facilitators may apply at the end of this course. F.irst Y.ear C.ampus A.cquaintance R.ape E.ducation was something that all incoming freshmen went through and promptly ignored, myself included. I never wanted to teach, didn’t see myself as any sort of volunteer or activist, and turned a deaf ear whenever Mr. Wantland would mention the next steps of the facilitator application process. Club baseball was cruising, summer was coming, and senior year would be waiting for me on my return. I was good.
Additionally I didn’t see much value in my role at these things. Why would someone want hear from me, the kind of guy that most people would expect to be the subject of the conversation? Not that I was an overly aggressive type, but I looked the part. By this point, my wardrobe had turned over to button-ups and polos, I spent most of my free time at bars or baseball, I was to be living in a house with frat boys and lacrosse players, and I didn’t really have much school spirit in terms of giving back. I was selfish, egotistical, and uncommitted, traits that don’t describe the kind of person that would stand in front of 30 freshmen and teach them about the effects of sexual assault on a victim or worse, the role of alcohol. What did I know about that experience besides what was discussed in a classroom? How could I connect with anyone. Everyone would see through me. Clearly this wasn’t something for me.
When the time to apply came, I shared my reasons for not wanting to get involved. One of my best friends at the time challenged back.
Because of who you are, you need to do this. Because you play sports, you need to do this. Because you party with frat boys, you need to do this. Because you don’t think you’re a role model… you need to do this.
This decision, these experiences, those people, and that time has shaped me more than anything else in my entire life.
I wasn’t the kind of person you would expect to see standing at the front of the room, and that meant so much to the people looking at me. Did I show up hungover on a Sunday evening, knowing full-well I would be leaving after the workshop for a night at the bars? Yes. Did I wear my Illinois Club Baseball hoodie and sweatpants (humble brag)? Yes. Did I talk about my own experience when I was in their shoes, sitting in the back, not talking, not participating, signing my name, and leaving? Yes. I did all of that. And it mattered. It mattered because of who I was.
My colleagues and friends who presented with me weren’t any more or less qualified to teach, didn’t know the content any better or worse than me, and didn’t care any more or less than I did, but we all had our unique perspective. Many were from a very personal source, often even from their own experiences. Some were the kind of kids that had been volunteering their whole lives. Some were quiet. Some were nervous. And some were like me. We were loud, and honest, and brutal. We were sympathetic and relatable. And we were not what anyone expected.
And even though I didn’t have first-hand knowledge of how it feels to wake up feeling violated, I had the knowledge of what it was like to not care. To turn a blind eye. To live my life as if there wasn’t a widespread issue and everything was fine. I showed that even someone that looks like me, and talks like me, and acts like me, can still care so deeply about the experiences of others, even if I can’t even begin to imagine the true depth.
It’s because of who I am that it is so important I stand for what is right and try to make a difference. Your voice is important. Let it be heard.
