Tough Questions, or, how the university of iowa completely and utterly failed me

"The point of these investigations isn't to uncover the truth or keep students safe; it's to figure out who is more likely to sue if they don't win." -Aline Sandouk (a marvelous comedy pal and a fierce advocate survivors of sexual assault)

I don’t know where to start and I don’t know what this story means. All I know is that I need to tell it. Right off the bat, I need to clarify that this is not just a story, but the truth of what happened to me while I was a freshman at the University of Iowa. The people pleaser (and ex-tour guide) in me wants to wax poetically about how I loved college, how the University is wonderful, and most of all let you know that “Calvin Hall actually made an appearance in the hit TV show Friends!” It’s season 10, episode 11, about two minutes and 49 seconds in- for those of you who are curious. I was a tour guide at the University for three years, and I probably gave close to 200 tours of campus.

On these tours parents wanted to know as much as they could about what their kiddos’ college experience would be like. They needed details about everything from dining halls to facilities and amenities, and even which restaurant had the best pizza in town. But of course, we also got what we referred to in training as Tough Questions - that’s when parents asked us about understanding “foreign” teaching assistants or had inappropriate questions about which bar was our favorite to party at. I was prepared for all of these: I could school a parent on why their questions were actually xenophobic and their student’s ability to learn had nothing to do with whether their TA was from Nebraska or Nigeria all while keeping a smile plastered on my face. The theatre girl-religious studies combo meant I was never asked about my partying habits (believe me though, those sunglasses I wore on morning tours weren’t always just to keep the sun out of my eyes). Regardless of my patented Parent Fear Quelling abilities, there was always one question I was never prepared to answer: “How safe is campus? How many sexual assaults are reported each year?”

Bracing myself every time this question was asked, I rattled off my answer. “Safety and sexual assault is something the University takes very seriously. Students are encouraged to report blah blah blah, blah blah blah. Here are some measures we take to help keep us safe on campus! Blah blah blah, chatter chatter chatter, blah blah blah.” Parents would always thank me for calming their anxieties and I would say “Of course! That’s what I’m here for.” In reality I was always shaken, rattled, thrown off-balance. The answer I always gave had been rehearsed in my bathroom mirror time and time again. I had it down to a science. Look thoughtful about their question for max five seconds, thank them very sincerely for asking it, and then give my answer followed by a comforting and reassuring closed mouth smile. It worked like a charm every single time, which made me feel so guilty I would think about it for the rest of the tour, if not the rest of the day. Every tour I thought, “today is the day I tell the truth.” It never was. So today it finally is.

When I started my freshman year at the University of Iowa I was as green as a spring sproutling. And about as innocent, too. It wasn’t until my senior year of high school I had my first serious boyfriend, my first casual fling, or even had my first mixed drink (Dr. Pepper mixed with UV Cake- would not recommend). During my four years of high school I had never even been to a party... unless we’re counting the welcome receptions at the many science fairs I attended. So, when I walked through the doors of the theatre building on my first day of classes and immediately heard a student say, “You know, I think I should try cocaine- it might make me a better actor,” I knew this was a whole new world. Sans an off-handed cocaine comment that left me terrified and embarrassed for my own lack of rebellious exploits, it turned out to be a world that I was wonderfully suited for. I fit in quite well with my new cohorts and college seemed to be what I had waited my whole life for... what I had trudged through high school and its bullies for. I felt lighter, freer. Making friends was suddenly possible and infinitely easier than it had been before. I even landed a fantastic role in a show my very first semester.

The easiest way to describe college theatre productions is, in essence- a shit show. They can be wonderful, marvelous, freeing, and beautiful shit shows; but, they are certainly messy and time-consuming too. This almost always means that the cast and production teams become incredibly close. Sure, there are tiffs and messy showmances, but some of my very best friendships have been the result of spending upwards of 20 hours a week rehearsing together in a small, humid room. The show I was in my freshman year, The Girl Who Came Out the Wrong Way, was just the fuel I needed to launch myself into my new life and identity. The director, playwright, and lead actor were three out of the four roommates at the famous party house in our department- The Habitat. The director of the show, Taylor, also happened to be my school-assigned theatre mentor, which was simply an upperclassman designated to help guide a new sproutling on their path to putting down roots. I couldn’t have been luckier. A new friend group that I clicked with almost instantly, friends who I knew would keep me safe and never, never once made me feel insecure about my naivete. Despite all that happened in the months to come, I am still eternally grateful they were in my court and always had my back.

If we fast forward a couple of months, we land the week before our show opens. Tech week is a notoriously stressful time, but with a bright shining light at the end of the tunnel- opening night and a raucous cast party to follow. The stars had aligned and God looked favorably on our production, placing it on none other than Halloween weekend. After a week of tech and our show came to a curtain, it was time to get ready for the party. A fellow cast member, Lily, and I had decided to go the goofy route this year, dressing up as the fourth Habitat roommate, Marc. We made the trek from Lily’s dorm to The Habitat and anxiously speculated what the party would be like. I could never have guessed in my wildest dreams what the night would bring- people wanted to talk to me, hang out with me, and sit next to me. It bolstered my spirit. I drank with new friends and mingled with folks who weren’t even in the theatre department.

And that’s when I met him.

Now as any dutiful tour guide would tell you, The University of Iowa has an amazing study abroad program alongside a fantastic program for international students interested in studying in the USA. Which is exactly what Stephen did. He hopped over from the United Kingdom where he was studying physics to none other than the University of Iowa. He had come to the party dressed up as Harry Potter complete with the rest of the Golden Trio, who were both his roommates and castmates working on the show with me. Not knowing yet he was an international student, I immediately commented on how great his fake British accent was, and he spent most of the party (the moments we weren’t kissing anyway) trying to convince me that it was real. In a moment of shy imbibed boldness, I whispered in his ear “should we get out of here?” and he spent the rest of the night proving to me his accent was real. I could see everyone at the party watching us as we left. Despite many of my classmates meeting Stephen for the first time that night, he was already a whispered sensation amongst those in the department. The rest of the night is blurry, but I have flashes of kissing in his bedroom, looking at his rugby trophies, seeing pictures of his little sisters pinned to the wall. It felt like a movie, having a whirlwind romance with a gorgeous man with a gorgeous accent. Most of all, I felt so special. He had picked me. Me. Awkward Clara, the girl who had shown up to a Halloween party wearing all black, dressed in a spoofy costume that had zero sex appeal. Me. Me.

I walked back to my dorm the next morning, with his number in my phone and pounding in my chest. That night after the show he gave me a quick hug and whispered in my ear that we should “see each other again soon.” Goosebumps stayed on my arm where he had rubbed his thumb across my skin and I blushed. Later that night one of his roommates who was in the show with me took me to get ice cream and I gushed about how fun the night before had been, about how safe I had felt despite never having a one-night stand before. She smiled and drove me back to my dorm, telling me she couldn’t wait to do our show one last time together the next day. I was floating.

But what I know now is that the bruises on my breasts and thighs mirroring his fingertips that showed up in the days to follow weren't the symbols of passion I thought they were.

In the weeks following this first encounter, Stephen and I flirted, like all young adults do. He made it very clear that he didn’t want a relationship and I was fine with that. I had just ended my first serious relationship and wasn’t ready to jump into anything new. However… if friends with benefits meant we could get coffee and hang out and have sex every now and then… perfect! We were both open to that. But our schedules weren’t super conducive to actually seeing each other. So, to keep the friendship alive until we could explore the benefits, we kept up with each other by texting, asking what each other’s weekend plans were and trying to find a time to see each other.

Finally, we saw a potential opportunity. We were both going to be at a party and we planned that I would go home with him afterwards. Unfortunately, my freshman lightweightedness cockblocked me and I was far too drunk to have sex. Plus, I had vomited on the ground, which isn’t exactly cute. But because my friends had already left the party, Stephen still took me home with him and let me sleep on the floor of his bathroom. Complete with a pillow, a blanket, and a glass of water- I was set for the night! In the wee hours of the morning I walked into his room and attempted to cuddle in bed with him. He insisted I still smelled like “sick,” as the Brits say, so I slept on the floor next to his bed. When we woke up at a more reasonable hour he wanted a blowjob in the shower and then made me a poached egg afterwards. Although disappointing, we were still waiting for our chance to consummate the friendship with benefits.

The real opportunity to actually hang out didn’t present itself until November 8th. In 2016, November 8th would be the day that Donald Trump was elected president, and would be one of two reasons my world stopped spinning that night. No one was doing homework, no one was studying. Instead, the bars were packed with students drowning their anxieties in booze and overpriced pizza slices. Stephen, however, was at his apartment and I, however, was in my dorm room. A few texts later we decided I should walk over to his place to track the election results with him. Not exactly Netflix & Chill, but at this point we were both becoming impatient.

I threw my textbooks for class the next day in my backpack and threw on a cute pair of undies. By the time I had walked all the way to his apartment, the night was drawing to a close and the election results were looking grim. We sat on his mattress on the floor and paid some attention to the results but mostly to each other. He could sense my nervousness about the election and told me that it wasn’t worth worrying because Hillary Clinton couldn’t win, it wasn’t worth worrying about something I couldn’t control. In hindsight, maybe he was hoping I would take this advice more literally.

Just a head’s up, this is where it starts to get graphic. I’m not going to beat around the bush here (unlike Stephen). So if you’d rather skip ahead- I don’t blame you! If you skip to the following line break after this one the most graphic portions of this story will be over and the fallout will commence.

As the night drew on and the election results simply needed to be verified, we knew that waiting to see the results would only keep us up until the wee hours of the night so we turned off the lights and went to bed. I remember the only light left in his room being the small table lamp on his nightstand beside us. He threw a red shirt over it to dim the lighting and turned to kiss me. I leaned into his kiss and he grabbed my waist. Clothes were tossed aside and as I laid next to him he rubbed his penis against the back of my thigh and told me he wanted to fuck me. I arched my back and pushed my hips against his. Reaching into the nightstand to grab a condom, I felt his hand on mine, pulling it back. “I don’t want to wear one of those,” he said. I insisted. He kept pushing, saying that condoms weren’t comfortable, they didn’t make sex enjoyable. Despite being uncomfortable, I felt pressured to agree. Who was I but a young 19-year-old, lucky enough to be in bed with the boy all the girls in my department were swooning over? As we laid there spooning, he started to have sex with me, pulling my underwear to side. I didn’t protest but simply stared ahead at the wooden veneer on the side of his nightstand and focused on the warm glow from the lamp, feigning enthusiastic moaning when the time seemed appropriate. Eventually it was over and he ran his hand along my side until we both fell asleep.

The next morning I woke up to Stephen kissing my neck. I was groggy but grabbed my phone to check the time. I can’t recall what time it was, but I knew I could hang out for a little bit longer before I had to walk to my 8:30am Spanish class only a few blocks away. I turned to face him and said good morning. Last night was fine, I told myself. After all, I was taking birth control and before we agreed to be friends with benefits we had a discussion about STDs and STIs. We chatted for a few minutes about our schedules and our school work before he kissed my neck again. I kissed him back enthusiastically, slid my underwear off, and he rolled on top of me. After kissing for a few minutes he touched my vagina, which was raw and sore from unlubricated sex the night before. Despite being uncomfortable I leaned into his touch, eager to see what we could accomplish before I had to leave for class. We began to have missionary sex, unprotected yet again. This time I didn’t say anything, I knew it wouldn’t be worth the argument. But something was different this time. There was a lot of friction, I could tell I was bleeding and I wasn’t enjoying myself. However, I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t until he put both of my legs high above his shoulders that I asked him to stop.

He didn’t stop.

Unsure if he had heard me or not, I let the sex continue. At this point we had been having sex for a while and I was beginning to get anxious about whether I would make it to class on time. I told him to stop a second time, this time not phrasing it as a request. “Stephen, stop-” I said.

He didn’t stop.

Floundering in my own pool of anxiety, I considered laying there until he was done. I thought about skipping class that day. I tried to tell myself this was fun and adventurous, that it didn’t matter if I missed another Spanish class and my grade dropped a third of a letter grade. As if I was floating outside my body, I saw myself push against his chest and heard myself say for the third time, “Stephen- stop. I don’t like this, I need to go to class, this hurts.”

He finally stopped.

The exact details of what happened next are fuzzy. I know he stopped and I got up quickly to leave. I pulled my jeans on and threw my underwear in my backpack. I hurried down the stairs from his attic room and stole a banana from the kitchen on the way out the door. Not being able to name exactly what had happened yet, I felt mischievous and triumphant for taking something from him too. As I approached the building where my Spanish class was, I threw the banana peel and my underwear in a trashcan, eager to distance myself from how uneasy I felt. I gingerly sat in my seat in class and looked down at my desk. I didn’t say anything that day. That day in the theatre building we all mourned the election of Donald Trump and I wept, for the country and for myself.

The rest of the semester trudged by at a snail's pace. Stephen and I continued to text each other but I made up excuse after excuse not to see him again. I couldn’t yet name what had happened to me, but the thought of accepting his invitation to go to a guest lecture together or grab a cup of coffee made my stomach turn. But I wanted things to seem normal and fine. So when I texted him the day my nephew was born, I didn’t know that it would later be one of my biggest regrets. It never registered in my mind that a cordial attempt at normalcy could be mistaken for bedroom eyes. He texted back his congratulations on my nephew and I said “thank you, he’s perfect.” Despite keeping up with friendly conversation, my life was imploding. My period was three weeks late, and although every pregnancy test I took was negative I was terrified I might be pregnant. When I woke up one morning to bed sheets stained red, I cried out with relief and joy, running to my friends down the hall to tell them the good news. Sadly, it wouldn’t be the only pregnancy scare on our floor due to rape that year, with at least one other girl experiencing something incredibly similar with equally disastrous fallout.

Finals came and went, and along with winter break came a nasty case of mononucleosis. It was a good excuse to spend the whole month-long break in bed, half-watching TV and sleeping through the days.

Despite all that had happened, I was actually excited to return to school for the spring semester. I had another role in a show I was excited for and had spent some of my time hiding in bed learning lines. Additionally, prior to the start of the school year I had added chemistry with a pre-med focus to my course load and had to take honors chemistry this semester. I was excited to be learning science again and I was confident I would be able to handle everything on my plate. However, once the semester began it was a whole different story. I kept having nightmares and would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Eventually I couldn’t sleep in my bed and spent most nights on the floor of my dorm room, convincing my roommate that it was a quirky character trait that I liked to sleep on the floor. A heaviness began to overtake me and I couldn’t figure out why. I started to fall into a deep well of depression and clawing my way out wasn’t an option. As hard as I tried, everything spiraled out of control. My grades were slipping, I wasn’t attending classes, I cried anytime someone touched me and I didn’t see it coming. The freedom and lightness college had given me had already been ripped away.

It wasn’t until February I realized what exactly had transpired the night of November 8th and the following morning. One of my few friends from high school had been texting me for the past few weeks about grabbing a coffee and catching up. While we sipped our coffee, he looked at me and commented on how tired I look. “What’s up?” he asked. This was the moment I broke. I told him about this boy I had a huge crush on first semester, how we hooked up on Halloween and decided to keep exploring it. I told him about the election night, how I thought it was funny I had such bad sex on the night the world started to fall apart. He wanted to know more and so I told him- Stephen convinced me to let him not use a condom and then the next morning he hadn’t stopped having sex with me until I told him a third time and tried to push him off of me.

“Clara,” he said, “that’s not a bad date… that sounds more like rape.”

At that moment, everything clicked. The sleepless nights, nightmares, exhaustion, constantly looking over my shoulder, fear, everything. I had been raped. Stephen was a rapist, and I had been raped.

In some ways, realizing I had been raped was a weight off my shoulders. Finally I could put a word to the event that had weighed so heavily on me for the past few months, and honestly still does. This relief was momentary. Soon I realized if I ran into Stephen on campus he wouldn’t simply be an ex-friend with benefits. If I saw him at the theatre building it wouldn’t just be a reminder of a hookup gone wrong, it would be a reminder of the night I was raped. Questions flooded my mind- did he realize what he had done? Did he do it on purpose, did he know he had even done anything wrong? What should I do next? What would everyone think if they found out?

After a lot of googling, a lot of digging through the University’s website, and a lot of urging from friends, I decided to make a report of sexual assault to the University. To this day I wonder if I should have done that. In the days, weeks, and months to follow, the process of reporting tore me down and left me questioning everything I had ever said about that night.

It would be helpful to understand how the reporting process worked at the University of Iowa when I filed my report. Initially, I filed an online complaint with the Office of the Sexual Misconduct Response Coordinator (OSMRC). This complaint laid out the date of the event, the nature of the event, and the names of all parties involved. After this first step, I met with the coordinator to discuss the different options I had. The coordinator was a lovely young woman with a haircut much like my own. I saw myself in her and she made me feel as comfortable as I possibly could. At this particular meeting I cannot remember whether an advocate from RVAP (Rape Victims Advocacy Program) was present or not. The options presented to me included not taking the issue any further and having them connect me with various supportive measures, filing a formal grievance, or trying to reach a resolution without filing a formal grievance complaint (i.e. asking for a letter of apology or having a mediated meeting to discuss what had happened). In the case of reaching a resolution, no official action would be taken by the University. Ultimately, I decided to file a formal grievance. Submitting a formal grievance can go one of two ways. If the respondent (aka rapist, abuser, perpetrator, etc.) of the complaint could be expelled or suspended for their actions, an investigation is launched and requires a live hearing. If suspension or expulsion isn’t a possibility, the investigation is performed without a hearing, however the fuck that works. Sound confusing? I know, it was. It still is, even after going through the whole thing. Maybe simplifying it will help.

Clara is raped by Stephen. Clara files a report and a formal grievance. Rape is a form of sexual assault, which under Title IX is considered sexual harrassment and is grounds for explusion. Therefore, a formal grievance results in a live hearing.

Caught up? Good. Although I don’t blame you if you aren’t. Essentially, the next month of my life would be engulfed by a long, tedious, and ineffective hearing. It’s worth noting that these hearings are not in front of a room full of people, as you may think, and are simply three to four people in a small room. I was assigned an advocate from RVAP and Stephen was entitled to an advocate of some sort as well, although I’m unsure if he decided to have one present or not. The coordinator from OSMRC was not present at the hearing and instead there was one older woman present and one older man. Although I can’t remember which, one of them sucked loudly on cough drops at every meeting.

This is the way the hearing process would work, according to my RVAP advocate. First, I would meet with the hearing facilitators and turn over any evidence I had along with telling them my side of what happened. Later, Stephen would meet with them to do the same. Additionally, any witness we decided to involve would have their chance to tell their story. Finally, I would meet with them one final time to add any details or refute any additional information Stephen had given them. I’m not sure if Stephen met with them one more time after that or not as well. After the hearing was over, they would make their decision on whether any school policies had been violated and what the following sanctions would be. Afterwards, either party had the option to appeal the decision. Sounds straightforward enough, I thought.

It wasn’t.

The day of my initial hearing I had come from a movement class in the theatre building, wearing all black per class instructions. This was not how I wanted to make my first impression- with rosy cheeks from hurrying across campus and an outfit that made me look like I was dead inside. I mean, I was dead inside but I would have preferred to present a more innocent looking version of myself. Despite believing the University would do its job and hold Stephen accountable, I was never under the assumption that this would be easy. For better or worse, I knew showing up with a fresh face and a cross necklace would only help me.

From the very beginning, we were off to a bad start. Initially they reassured me and praised me, telling me I had reported much earlier than most students do following an incident. I was optimistic, I thought I had done my job. But then they asked the first question. “This student is an international student, are you sure he understood you when you asked him to stop?”

It was like they had thrown a wrench into the gears of my mind. Everything came to a screeching halt and I couldn’t get the gears to start up again. I was rusty and slow, pushing words through my mouth in fractured bits and pieces. “Yes,” I said. “He understood me. He went to Oxford and is fluent in English?” They assured me they just had to check. From there, the process only went downhill. I told them my side of the story, everything that had happened the night of November 8th and the following morning. Unfortunately, they told me, refusing to wear a condom and coercing me into agreeing was not sexual assault or harrasment- and any repercussions or sanctions would need to be based on the following morning. I disagreed but said nothing. Before I left their office they asked me one last time if I had any evidence to present to them or any witnesses I wanted them to interview. There were no witnesses present and I had thrown my bloody and soiled underwear in a trashcan the following morning. No evidence either.

I waited, at most, a few weeks for them to call me back in. The whole time I was a bundle of nerves and anxiety. I looked over my shoulder on campus, I only ate with my back to the wall in dining halls- pushing myself as far away from everyone as possible. After seeing Stephen on a jog one day as I drove to a chemistry test, I broke down and retreated into myself. As a result I missed the chemistry test which accounted for approximately 20-30% of my grade. The OSMRC reached out to my professor and he allowed me to retake the test.

This professor sticks out in my head, like a moment of crispness in a few foggy months. I can’t remember his name (it might have been Russell?), but I will never forget the email he sent me following the test I missed. He expressed his sincerest, truly sincere sadness for my situation and had looked over all of my chemistry grades for the semester. He extended me the offer to make up for all of my missed work and even gave me opportunities to make up for missed discussions. He treated me with kindness that I continue to be grateful for and think about frequently. I loved having potential chemistry students on my tours- it was always easy to say, “yeah, I only took one chemistry class, but the professor was amazing. I love the chemistry building.”

Finally, it was time to return for my final hearing. During this meeting I realized they didn’t believe me. They had already made up their minds, and my case was over. They handed me a large document that detailed Stephen’s side of the story, along with what his witness had said as well. Immediately I was stunned. I looked at his account of what had happened- but it didn’t start on November 8th. It began on the night of the cast party, the night we first met. Even more- a witness? No one had seen anything. And then I saw who it was. My castmate, his roommate, who had taken me out for ice cream. Who I told, in confidence, that I had felt safe during our one night stand. She was his character witness. Had I known character witnesses were even a THING, this whole process would have gone so much differently. They might have felt more inclined to trust another girl in my same department who he had called a cunt for rejecting his advances. Or I could have called any of my castmates from my show who knew me and him and were there the night I first met him. They probably would have liked to hear from my roommate as well, who I would often wake up in the middle of the night with my nightmares. Not the castmate who I told a romanticization to after a one-night stand.

This hearing felt more like an interrogation. They asked me everything. Why would I tell Stephen’s roommate I felt safe with him when he could end up raping me? Why didn’t I leave after he refused to wear a condom? Why did you try to crawl into bed with him the night he took care of you? You actually made him feel quite uncomfortable, he said. You wouldn’t get off of him, he said. Are you sure you really just wanted to be friends with benefits?

Then in a moment of attempted levity, the woman said to me “Congratulations on your nephew!”

My heart stopped.