Note: This piece was written on the evening of Wednesday, April 27, 2016. Since then, Jezebel has published yet another piece detailing the situation at hand. In my opinion, the author, a Kenyon alum herself, attempts to treat the subject with as much respect possible. She even reached out to the affected parties and current Kenyon students for comment. This kind of careful consideration is a step in the right direction regarding the quality of discourse surrounding this sensitive topic. Jezebel's article has proven to be the best piece yet; I encourage you to read it here. President of Kenyon Sean Decatur has also released an additional statement, which can be read here.
My school, Kenyon College, is currently facing a tidal wave of administrative criticism. Two days ago, an alumnus published an open letter to the school. It discussed the school’s treatment of his sister, who, according to her brother, was sexually assaulted last fall. Though she brought the case to the attention of the Kenyon administration, no action against the alleged perpetrator was taken. As the alumnus writes, “the college concluded – both initially and on appeal – that there was insufficient evidence to conclude that it was more likely than not the college’s policy on sexual assault had been broken at all.” The letter went viral overnight. Students, faculty and community members started having critical conversations about Kenyon’s treatment of sexual assault. Everyone had an opinion; online forums blew up, and students began attacking one another based on 140 character snippets of emotionally-charged rhetoric. Clearly, the letter had succeeded in starting a dialogue. Whether or not this dialogue was productive had yet to be seen. Yesterday, The Thrill – Kenyon’s blog, which I help to edit – published an op-ed which sought to air the questions of a frustrated campus. Who can be held accountable for this potential miscarriage of justice? How did a policy meant to protect students fail? Who can we turn to for an honest assessment of the situation? On a campus this small, it is nearly impossible to avoid becoming personally invested in issues like this case. The article attempted to capture the spirit of a confused, frustrated campus, one which demanded the capital-T Truth of the case. As such, it wasn’t objective – it was emotional, mirroring Kenyon’s rapidly changing climate. And yet, policy dictates that most of our well-meaning appeals remain unaddressed – or, at least, that they not be directly addressed. In emails sent to the student body, both the president of Kenyon and our Title IX coordinators emphasized their inability to comment on the specifics of any particular case involving sexual assault. Of course, this is understandable – student privacy, especially in sensitive cases like this one, is essential – but it leaves the student body and the administration at an impasse. To his credit, Kenyon’s president has taken some action in order to rectify the situation. Earlier today, he announced that an independent board of reviewers is en route to Kenyon, ready to objectively examine the ways in which Kenyon has implemented Title IX policy in all previous cases of sexual assault, including that of the alumnus’s sister. This is due, in part, to the student body's massive, vocal response to the letter. It is also, in all likelihood, due to mainstream news outlets picking up the story. It started with Mic, a digital news outlet that covers everything from Ted Cruz to Beyonce. It’s popular, especially amongst millennials. This morning, without contacting the college, the blog or the alumnus, Mic published an article which was originally entitled “This College Just Dealt with Rape in the Worst Way Possible.” Its construction was sloppy at best; in its initial draft, the author continually referred to the alumnus responsible for the open letter by the wrong name. Numerous factual oversights coupled with the blatantly clickbait-y title made this article seem, at best, like a laughable excuse for journalism. Later, the inaccuracies were corrected and the title was changed, but Mic’s sensationalist intentions had already been revealed. Because of its aesthetic, the article seemed to be capitalizing on the “trendiness” of assault narratives. Facts and realism were secondary – by telling the story of a woman who had been abused, the article was sure to get views. Teen Vogue jumped on the bandwagon, too, publishing another article which contained almost exactly the same language as Mic’s. Though it provided a few more statistics about sexual assault on college campuses, it did little to contribute to the dialogue surrounding the case. As I scrolled through the article on my phone, a window popped up at the bottom of my screen. It read “RELATED: If You’ve Ever Ordered Pizza, Then You Already Unde…” The title of the “related” article cut off there, but the pop-up had revealed enough. Because I was reading about assault, I was sure to love an article about pizza. This media attention isn’t likely to end soon. Rumors are circulating that a third news site is currently reaching out to students for comment, and some students are saying yes. Kenyon will continue to be put on blast until something changes, or until some other crisis captures the Internet’s attention. Of course, there are good things about this kind of exposure. As I said, it almost certainly put pressure on the Kenyon administration to take concrete action to ensure the ethicality of their Title IX procedures. This is extremely important, and it constitutes a huge step forward in terms of administrative accountability. Additionally, articles like Mic’s and Teen Vogue’s continue to raise awareness about the prevalence of problematic attitudes towards sexual assault at Kenyon and beyond. Sites like Mic and Teen Vogue, especially those which reach out to students for comment, have the potential to influence large-scale change, perhaps even at the national level. If used correctly, this exposure could call attention not only to Kenyon-specific administrative issues, but to problems with federal-level legislation. A student recently published an article on The Thrill deconstructing the flaws of Title IX – imagine something like that appearing on websites which attract millions of visitors each day. Exposure, even if it is momentary, carries implicit power. But outside of all of these enormous positives, there are some substantial drawbacks. Teen Vogue and Mic’s willingness to take a story like this, slap on a radical title and brand it as “news” points to a larger trend of sensationalizing sensitive narratives in order to attract views. Mic’s original title is particularly disturbing – with so little information available, it is impossible to call our college’s reaction “the worst” without substantially inflating the narrative. This isn’t to say the student’s story is unimportant; on the contrary, it is too emotional, too raw and too gut-wrenching to deserve such casually reactionary treatment. Calling this sort of reporting “journalism” disrespects the website, the author and those involved in the narrative it conveys. Sexual assault is not a selling point. It is horrific, and it deserves more than it has been offered by pop culture sites which thrive on hyperbole. Journalistic enterprises which claim to publish “news” should treat their subjects more carefully.
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When you feel as though you've been wronged, even under the most arbitrary of circumstances, a few things tend to happen.
First, you feel trapped. Maybe you're stuck in your head, or maybe you're lost in the underbelly of Gatwick Airport's South Terminal. Maybe you've come to find yourself in a queue to speak with a customer service representative, and maybe you've realized you have no idea how you got there. The space you occupy, whether it's real or imagined, is getting bigger and bigger and bigger. You're bound to have a little difficulty finding the exit, even though the woman in the scarf and the stewardess hat who was sent to escort you out is pointing right towards it. Second, you feel entitled. You're entitled to address the airline steward at your gate as "dude" as many times as you'd like, no matter how fancy he looks in his little vest and bow tie. You're entitled to take up four seats on the train home, even though you have exactly two bags and one body. You're entitled to use cellular data to download some stupid iPhone app and place a call to the US Embassy, despite it costing approximately half your dad's last paycheck due to data roaming fees. And, most importantly, you're entitled to a pint at 11:30 AM. Someone has affected you emotionally. The sky's the limit, kiddo. Finally, you feel completely responsible for ruining your own situation and, simultaneously, utterly helpless in orchestrating its reconstruction. "It's the passenger's job to communicate with their final destination," the steward tells you. "You must go back to London to sort this out immediately." With this big ol' burden of responsibility sitting on your slouchy 20-year-old shoulders, it's impossible to resist pointing fingers at anyone who looks authoritative enough to deserve it. Unfortunately, these situations tend to make your eyes watery and your voice trembly, so "righteous finger pointing" often turns into "halfhearted squeaking." "Why wasn't this information provided on the website?" you quaver to anyone who'll listen. "Whom do I contact to make an enquiry?" The answer, if any response even qualifies as an answer, changes every time. It's Thursday, November 12th, and God knows I'm not getting to Barcelona anytime soon.
Sufficient or not, this is my way of saying deuces to all of y'all currently living in the U.S. of A. I'm moving to London for three months to study literature at University College London in Bloomsbury. If you'd like, feel free to keep in touch. Even if I don't write back, I guarantee I'll read every message you send.
Facebook ♥ Email ♥ Text Message ♥ Download WhatsApp It's hard for me to get comfortable.
Falling asleep is a war I unconsciously wage each night. It's always the same battle: My memory foam mattress pad versus the lumps, bumps, ridges and crags that are me. I flip over and over, as if I'm a pancake some impatient line cook is obsessively checking for doneness. I turn on my lamp, snatch my journal from my desk-turned-nightstand and scribble slanted notes to myself for my next counseling appointment. I perch my iPhone on my chest and turn on an old episode of This American Life, hoping Ira Glass's soothing monotone will lull me to sleep. I change positions. I groan. I straighten my sheets. I change positions again. After hours of this, I finally manage to drift off, legs splayed, arms bent at impossible angles, one foot sticking awkwardly out from underneath my unevenly fluffed comforter. This happens around 2 AM. My exhaustion keeps my morning alarm from registering in my brain, and I'm always up just a little bit late. My work techniques are pretty similar. My craggy, imperfect brain tosses ideas around like softballs but never manages to close its glove in time to catch one. I worry that my end product won't be perfect in the same way I worry that I won't get nine hours of restful sleep; my anxiety in both cases stops me from doing what I need to do in order to eliminate the possibility of total failure. And once I finally manage to come up with something to present as a result of my panicked procrastination, it usually has more than a few kinks that need massaging. But getting five hours of contortionist-sleep is better than staying up until dawn, and presenting flawed work is better than showing up to a meeting empty handed. I'm twenty years old, and most of what I'm doing is brand new to me. It's okay for me to come up short, just as long as I'm willing to make adjustments. My work is not a reflection of my worth; I am allowed to create imperfections. Working through these mental blocks is hard, but not impossible. I might not be able to hit the ground running just yet, but rest assured, I'll lace up my sneakers and start walking. About a week has passed since I last heard from the hiring manager at the only big chain retailer where I had a slim chance of getting a job. (Here's a hint: the retailer's name rhymes with Euphoria's Leaflet, which, coincidentally, is the name of the sexy new marketing firm I'm starting. Investments are welcome.) I'm trying desperately not to sleep in or watch more than six Family Guy reruns a day, but being a functional human woman without having something concrete to fill my time is harder than it seems. Cooking, stitching, running errands and taking daily I-hate-myself field trips to Planet Fitness only get me so far.
Fortunately, in the midst of all of this binge-watching and Panera Bread baguette, there's some good news – I just got cast in a musical! I've got a decently large part and I have a whole song to myself. I'm playing a New York seductress who falls for a cowboy while visiting Nevada. I know, I know, I was definitely typecast, but that aside, I'm pretty damn excited. The cast ranges in age from 13 to 23. I'm hoping to secure my place as the excitable, loudmouthed aunt of the bunch quickly enough to make myself seem charming rather than overbearing. The majority of the chorus parts were given to younger high schoolers, and I want to prove to them that college doesn't make you a totally lifeless, soul-sucking wet noodle of a human. (Also, I want them to like me. But the role model thing is most important. I think.) I've been too wrapped up in the audition process to absorb much else. I'll let you know when the summer actually starts to kick into gear. (Also, if you're in Midland come August, check out the show!) I've applied for twenty-one jobs since January.
At first, I set my sights high and my expectations higher. My search results were endlessly filtered, first through the word "internship," then by location, and finally, via a checked box marked "paid opportunity." I found three jobs that fit my criteria exactly. ("Sure things," my parents and I agreed.) After those didn't pan out, I panicked. Fast food restaurants sporting "Help Wanted" signs suddenly became precious to me. I became proficient in the online corporate application process, shelling out references and touting my limited job experience to any Midwestern franchise you could name. I went on walks through my town's tiny shopping district and 90s-stye indoor mall, stopping every employee I came across to ask, "Are you hiring? Can I speak to your manager? Is there an application process that I could explore?" Five interviews, one sleepless night and zero prospects later, here I am, back at square one. I used to be convinced that failure wasn’t a viable outcome for people who worked hard and smiled enough. Of course, that's not true, but I'm just now feeling the weight of that realization. My tiny, privileged body is buckling under the stress. (Poor me, blah blah blah, I know.) So, I'm back in my hometown, I'm bored out of my skull and I've got $50 in my checking account. I have the opportunity to earn a few dollars here and there by doing housework for my parents, but even then, my profits go towards the numerous parking fines I accrued while at college. (This is not to mention the cost of repairing a destroyed pair of Ugg boots which may or may not belong to my ex-roommate. My bad, Lauren.) I guess what I'm trying to say is this: I'm an up-and-coming freelance writer with a decent blogging portfolio. Here's my LinkedIn profile. Feel free to get in touch. |