When it comes to the topic of sex, we Colby students are willing to speak up. We loudly advocate birth control, joke about “sexting” significant (enough) others, stress protecting ourselves from STDs, and speak openly about pleasure. We do not, however, talk about all aspects of sex, especially those aspects pertaining to abuse and violence. Few mention shameful sex, passive (read “passed-out”) sex, or powerless sex (blissful and willing surrender of control aside). We rarely discuss sex that hurts years later, and sex we feel we cannot have because of the sex that was done to, rather than had by, some of us. We remain reticent to speak about sex that feels like a betrayal of our bodies, the kinds of sex during which our organs respond physiologically while our minds remain unwilling, or unaware. We do not articulate that some of us make sexual choices influenced, if not dictated, by the acquired understanding that our bodies our not our own, that they are designed for the pleasure of others. In short, as much as we Colby students love to talk about sex, some types of sex-talk are absolutely off-limits. It may be that we keep these types of sexual experiences silent because they are not so much about the sex itself as they are about the feelings of futility, uncontrollability, and fear that accompany the types of sex that are not consensual. Sexual assault—whether it is in the form of childhood sexual abuse, date-rape, stranger assault, et cetera—is a reality in the lives of students on this campus, and I see it taking its toll, especially on our bodies.
I see young people playing out emotional wars against the backdrop of their bodies, and why shouldn’t they? What better battle ground is there than one over which we think we can exert total control? I see students who struggle with eating disorders, pushing around food on their plates in semblance of nourishing themselves. As long sleeves and gloves disappear with the arrival of spring, I see telling scars upon wrists, and I know the marks are just too clean. I see the student with the serious alcohol problem, who drinks in excess because he feels he has every reason to do so. It’s easy for me to pretend Colby students are making wise choices with their bodies—the HR-distributed condoms disappear from the bathrooms, and the campus is vocal about safe sex. But why are we so quick to dismiss the student whose sexual promiscuity coincides with her parents’ marriage problems, her academic disappointments, or her uncle’s death. I see bodily manifestations of deeper issues, yet I do not speak.
I am most saddened by the fact that, because the issue of sexual assault and its toll on our bodies is deeply personal, we are unlikely to address it. How much harder it is and how much bolder we have to be to stop destructive battles so intensely personal that we are able to watch them from afar and remain unscathed. I sometimes wonder whether we, as a student body, would be vocal about these issues if they affected more of us individually.
How long are we able to keep the impact of sexual assault quiet, to pretend that the issue doesn’t exist here because its confrontation is painful, and, above-all, delicate? Perhaps a few of us address sexual abuse in the rooms of Garrison-Foster, but we certainly don’t speak about it in our dorms, in our classes, or over dinner at Dana. Our mind-body split seems to be serving us well for the time being, but when the neat divide disintegrates, what will we be left to work with? Scarred, buzzed, diseased, chemically imbalanced bodies upon which emotional wounds have taken their toll? I’d hate for us to awaken to the issue of sexual assault, only to find that the very resources we might mobilize to take action against it have been ravaged—our bodies themselves.
I see silencing on this campus when it comes to issues of sexual assault, and, candidly, it scares me. I am a part of the problem, because I see and do not speak. I hope we can all gather the courage to speak out on behalf of ourselves and on behalf of those here and at home whom we love.
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