A Response to Hank: The Stuebenville Rape Case

Lately, there has been a lot of coverage in the media regarding the Stuebenville rape case. Everyone has something to say about it. Even Henry Rollins blogged about it. Interestingly, it was his post that fired me up a bit. While I found Hank’s comments diplomatic and his tone sufficiently outraged, I still felt that he narrowly missed the point.

It goes without saying that what happened to the girl in this case is unspeakable. It is a nightmare. Although I have very strong opinions in this area I don’t often comment on them publicly or in writing. As I told one friend, I like my friends too much to either alienate them with my opinions or to dislike them because of theirs. That may be lame but I am okay with that. I choose to like people rather than dislike them. However, this time, perhaps I have a unique perspective on this subject; first and foremost I am a woman, I am also a mother, I am a mother to two beautiful girls, I have a sister, I have nieces, I have a son and I am also a prosecutor.

Three things in particular that Hank wrote troubled me. He wrote 1) “I thought first about the two young men”; 2)  ”Would you be “more sorry” about what you did?… At what point do you get “better”, how many years in one of these places does that take?” and 3) “What made these young people think that that what they did was ok?”

First, I take issue with the fact that Hank, like many, many others “thought first about the two young men”. I did not. I thought first about the girl and her parents. Yes, it is difficult to grapple with the idea that human beings can abuse each other in this way. Our first reaction is to ask why and wonder where things went horribly, horribly wrong. There must be someone, something to blame. While I can understand and appreciate the sentiment that there are larger social issues at play here, rape is nothing new, not to our culture and not to any culture. Rape has existed since the beginning of time and throughout the world.

The fact that rape still occurs is a complex societal issue and clearly, prevailing attitudes need to be changed, but how will that happen when someone who is socially evolved thinks “first about the two young men.” In my mind, that is backward. Our first question should not be, how did we as a society fail these boys? The question should be, how did we as a society fail this girl; our sister, our daughter? Change in social consciousness cannot occur when we think first about the rapist and not the victim of the rape.

Second, Hank wonders whether or not while serving a lengthy prison sentence “would you be “more sorry” about what you did?” He goes on to ask “at what point do you get “better”, how many years in one of these places does that take?” In my profession I am a proponent of treatment and rehabilitation. I am all for rehabilitation. I am all for treatment. But rape, sexual assault and sexual abuse are a different beast. Many crimes can be attributed to addiction, under-privilege or mental illness. Rape cannot. Rape is dehumanizing. There are power and control issues associated with rape that are not present in other types of crimes. This is the point where I draw the line on rehabilitation. I am sorry but I don’t see anyone standing up in a room full of people and saying “Hi, my name is John and I am a rapist.”

No amount of telling a rapist that he can’t rape is going to stop him. Women can stand up and yell “RAPE IS NOT OKAY! WE WILL NOT ACCEPT THIS BEHAVIOR!” until we are blue in the face, and frankly, women have been doing just that for over 30 years. And all the sex education and women’s studies classes in the world have still landed us in the same place. The place where, in 2013, boys will stand around and laugh while they sexually terrorize a young woman.

What other way is there to show women that they are valued than by having actions such as these punished severely? The point is not to lock these boys up to make them feel bad about what they did. Whether they feel bad is not the point. Whether they feel bad doesn’t change what they did. It doesn’t mitigate rape. The point is to ensure that these boys do not rape any other girls for a specified amount of time and to demonstrate to that girl and to all our daughters and sisters and nieces that we have their backs.

Lastly, these boys knew what they were doing was wrong by any standards. In my experience people who commit crimes absolutely know what they are doing is morally wrong. They just find a way to rationalize it or justify their behavior. Similarly, the boys in Stuebenville knew what they were doing was wrong. They simply justified it. She was drunk. I was drunk. She was asking for it. She wanted it. Everyone else was doing it. By blaming parents, coaches and teachers for their sense of entitlement and asking how we as a society failed these boys gives them the justification that they were looking for. It gives them an excuse for rape.

So let’s start by thinking first about the victim. Let’s talk about how she has been forever “damaged”, abused, battered, taken advantage of, degraded, humiliated and devalued. Let’s talk about how we failed her. Then let’s talk about how we value her. Let’s talk about how important her bodily integrity is to us. Let’s tell her that we are willing to sacrifice those boys for her.

 

Today…

I have been clenching and un-clenching my jaw all day. I am so unspeakably angry. I sit here punching keys to voice my overwhelming anger. I am not often at a loss for words but today I am.

I look at my kids and I love them so much it is physically painful. Even when they are not with me I can feel the weight of their warm little bodies curled up on me.

I worry about them every day. I wonder how I am going to protect them and keep all three of them safe, keep them from becoming addicted to drugs and alcohol, protect them from stress, anxiety, depression and heartbreak. To a certain extent I have made peace with the fact that I can only do my best and that I can’t keep them in a bubble. But on a day like today… I feel so small. I feel so lost, desperate and helpless.

There are things in this world that I cannot predict. There are things I cannot stop. None of us can. But can there be some measure of security? Can I send my children safely to school? Can I send them to the mall to pick out stocking stuffers with their Dad? Can I expect that they will be here to wake up on Christmas morning with joy and excitement in their eyes? Can I anticipate them creeping into my bedroom tonight to tuck their cold feet under my legs?

If only we had the power to follow someone into death and drag him back to face the destruction he has left. Senseless. Cowardice. I am so tired of these men who believe that the only way to be recognized is by killing innocent people… and children! Then they kill themselves. Too cowardly to even face up to what they have done. Too cowardly to face the hurt and the anger. They have their “moment of glory”. To be remembered. At what cost?

It would be easy to sit here at my keyboard and remove myself, to let my head say, “It was not my child”. But it was somebody’s child. Some mother out there tonight will not feel the weight of that warm little body curled up next to her like I will when I go home at the end of the day. For that mother I ache.

Prego Project "Like" Support "Reblog"

Reblogged from Prego and the Loon:

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Prego Project is a voicing violence award to provide support and strength to victims of domestic violence and those affected by it. I want to recognize those willing to speak up and discuss personal stories of domestic violence accounts. In an abusive relationship there is often a lot of crazy making, and over time you tend to feel that your voice means very little to the world around you.

Read more… 817 more words

As some of you know, I work as a Deputy District Attorney. I spent 18 months working in the Domestic Violence Unit prosecuting crimes of Domestic Violence. It was one of the most challenging and emotionally charged times in my career so far, but I was also passionate about it. Eventually, I asked to transfer out of the unit in order to focus on myself and my family. I had a hard time leaving the files i.e. the victims, on my desk when I left for the night. I had trouble sleeping at night and being present "in the moment" when I was at home. With three young children I had to make that choice. It has been a good one for me and my family but it hasn't taken away my passion for eradicating Domestic Violence and working to protect the women, children and men that it effects. Prego and the Loon is an amazing blog. Read it, it may really open your eyes. I would like to thank Prego and the Loon for nominating me for the Prego Project Award. I am honored.

Friday’s Child

Blood is rushing through a tube next to my face. There are a lot of people in this room. It is cold in here and there are a lot of machines making noise. I watch my heart rate blip on the monitor. 93, 92, 90, 92. If I just keep watching it, I won’t die. My brain takes over and tells me that if I just concentrate my heart can’t possibly stop. She slips out quietly and the room stands still for a brief second. When it moves again half the people in the room rush out taking her with them. I don’t hear her. I don’t see her.

“Now we can take care of you.” Says a voice on the other side of the curtain.

Many times I have sat down to write this story. But every time I do I worry that it sounds like a horror story. I don’t want it to be a horror story. I have never felt the need for it to be a warning to others. I want it to be a blessing. It is a blessing. My little girl is a blessing. Everything about her is a blessing; her conception, her birth and her near perfect development.

The weeks before her birth are standard other than this will be the first time I have gone into labor. My twins were a scheduled c-section. I have my last appointment with the midwife on Monday. She is overdue and we are concerned because my husband’s final exam at the fire academy is on Friday. The midwife cocks her head to the side, smiles and says “Oh, well. You know she will come on Friday, right?”

Tuesday the contractions start in the evening. I feel a rush of excitement. I am alone. My husband is at work, my mom and the twins have gone to bed. At 3:00 am I wander around the house and happily pack a bag.

Wednesday night I call the midwife and say I am coming in. I am not dilated when I get there. They say I can go home and get some rest. I tell them I would rather stay because laboring with two year old twins crawling over me has worn me out.

Wednesday night goes by. I ride waves of pitocin all the next day while my husband studies for his exam in the cafeteria. I am tired to the bone Thursday night. I am dilated to a 7 at 10:00 PM. Something isn’t right. I haven’t peed all day and my bladder aches but nothing comes out.

“What should I do? Is this normal?”

“It is up to you. Yes, it is normal.”

Please, someone tell me what to do. I am too tired to think. It hurts too much to think. Just tell me what to do. Please.

Epidural and catheter.

“Between 2 and 4 AM, I think you’ll be ready to push.”

2:00 comes and goes. 4:00 comes and goes. 6:00 my husband gets up. The nurse says nothing is going to happen for awhile. We agree he needs to leave for his final exam. I will call if anything starts to happen.

Even though my legs are numb there is a stabbing pain rising and falling on my left side. A flame pressed to my skin.

There is a scuffling sound, footsteps and paper rustling. I blink my eyes and look around. There are close to ten people in the room. There is a doctor, not the midwife. He looks at the fetal heart monitor and says something about the monitor being out of place and they are having a hard time finding the heart beat.

He needs to examine me. My legs are so numb I can’t move them. I hear, “too much blood…”

Plugs and cords are ripped from the walls. There is yelling. The end of my bed slams into the door frame.

“What is happening?” I feel like I am screaming but it comes out in a cracked moan.

“I am scared,” I whisper into the chaos.

I watch the ceiling tiles speed by above me. I think to myself “I am going to die. My baby is going to die.” I think about my husband and I see a flash of him standing in an empty hallway and I think, “Will he be okay? Will he forgive himself?”

I am lifted from one table to the next in the white room filled with machines and lights. My body a lead weight. Doctors and nurses are talking over the top of me. Anesthesia.

“I don’t want to go to sleep! I don’t want to go to sleep!” If I go to sleep I might not wake up.

I see his blue eyes above the surgical mask. I don’t know what he is doing there, suddenly next to my face. I grab his arm. He looks straight at me and I lock my eyes into his. “I’m scared.” I whisper to him, a secret between him and me. I grip his forearm, digging my fingers in. I cling to him. He is my anchor. He doesn’t break eye contact. He stays with me until he can’t any longer and he gently peels my fingers from his arm and says, “You are doing great.”

14 minutes from the time the doctor walked into my room she slips quietly into this world on a Friday morning.

I ask the midwife to find my video camera. I don’t tell her but I don’t want to die without seeing her.

They bring me a short video and play it next to my face. It is hard to see what she looks like under the tubes. But I hear her crying. I see her moving.

I stare at my heart rate on the monitor and a female pediatrician comes in. She is talking about an ice blanket, lowering the baby’s body temperature for 3 days. She is asking my permission because there is no one else to ask. She tells me it reduces swelling in the brain. It can help reduce brain damage. Will I give permission?

The minutes go by on the clock. They talk about blood loss. They talk about me. They comment about how calm I am.

“I am concentrating,” I want to say but I can’t take my eyes of the monitor.

Then my mom is there. She smiles at me, her smile pinched. Her face is frozen, the stricken calm of an emergency. The room is finally quiet. It is still white and cold but the doctors and nurses have gone. It is just me and her and the units of blood dripping slowly back into my body, replacing the blood that rushed out through the tubes or spilled out on the floor.

They bring her in and all I can see coming out of the tubes and machines is her thick head of black hair. I touch her little hand, but I can’t see her face. I know that she looks just how I had imagined for 9 months. Black hair and blue eyes just like her daddy. She is a strong nine pounds. There is no swelling in her brain and she won’t need the ice blanket.

Finally my husband is with me. Standing next to my bed, his hand nervously wringing my hand. A tear escapes through his eyelashes.

It will be two days before I get to hold her. She gets stronger every minute. When she is able they bring her from the NICU to my room where I can see her through the tubes that are now attached to me pumping the contents of my stomach out through my nose.

In the weeks and months after her birth there were suggestions that I sue the hospital. That my labor shouldn’t have gone on as long as it did. That they should have anticipated that my uterus would tear all the way across my previous c-section scar and then down to my pelvis. It doesn’t seem right. It is not what I want. For so many things that went wrong, so many things went right. I want to feel grateful. I do feel grateful. I have no regrets. My baby is beautiful and healthy… and alive. And I am alive to sit here and look at her in wonder every day.

Is Kelley Day Divorced?

Sadly, the number one search term for my blog is “Is Kelley Day divorced?” or alternately “kelley day divorced”. I think this is because one of my posts is entitled and refers to a firefighter’s kelly day. Can anyone tell me who is Kelley Day? Is s/he divorced? If you have come across this blog as a result of entering the above search terms please leave a comment and tell me who this is and why you are searching for this information. Inquiring minds want to know. Near as I can tell she may be a Portland news caster but I am curious to know why so many people are interested in whether or not she is divorced. Or maybe it is a different Kelley Day…?

Vacation Relocation

Summer is slowly slipping into fall. From my office window I can see the green embankment of trees across the river splotched with yellow and red.  The sun is still warm but the air is just a bit cooler. I am sorry to see this summer go. This was the first summer that we were ”out of the fog” so to speak. It was the first summer since we had kids that we were willing and able to take them on short family vacations.

My kids are little enough that I can still remember when vacation was sand between my toes, a good book, staying up late and sleeping in, sunshine, mountain or ocean air, a cocktail before 5:00 PM, someone else cooking and dare I say it, sex in the afternoon. I remember returning refreshed and relaxed, sometimes with a healthy bronze to my skin, although this likely tainted with a hint of nostalgia.

My aunt wisely calls vacation, “relocation”, which is an apt description. Once I had kids I no longer go on vacation, I go on relocation. You see, when I travel or head to the coast or head out camping I do all the same things that I do at home, just in a different location. I am just relocating my family and all the chores and responsibilities that go along with them. There are different beds, different schedules, different climates, different foods and sometimes different time zones. Other than that, it is really very relaxing for the five minutes that I get to sit down by the campfire before someone gets sand in their eye or a diaper explodes.

We spent this summer relocating around Oregon and Washington in our mini-van towing our shiny new pop-up tent trailer behind us. It was exhausting. At the outset I think my husband had a harder time with relocation than I did. He still expected vacation. He still expected to sit by the fire and have a beer, to have an entire uninterrupted conversation, to have normal bedtime and a full night’s sleep and he somehow expected that the kids would behave better than they do at home! He eventually came around, but it took a “gentle” talk about I already had three kids and I didn’t need another pouting child to deal with.

The truth is, kids don’t want to go to sleep in a tent when it is still light at 10:00 PM. But, they still wake up when the sun comes up at 6:00 AM. They still poop in their pants, but they do it in the woods when there is no running water. They still refuse to wash up even when they have sand in their ears, between their toes and in their nether regions. They still have tantrums and believe me, it is still embarrassing when people pack up their campsites and move to a different area of the campground just to avoid us.

Relocation is a lot of work. Maybe even more work than being at home. We definitely got less sleep than we do at home. Despite that watching my kids running on the beach with the ocean waves sparkling behind them, watching them laugh with their heads thrown back, watching their eyes light up when they got to eat something that I would never give them at home (a corn dog for example), watching them chase after the big kids on their little balance bikes and seeing the sand in their sweet little ears while they were sleeping was so worth it.

It was just a matter of changing our expectations. Relocation is pretty great, but it’s no vacation.