The recent article in Rolling Stone magazine about sexual assault at UVA made me think about my experiences in college. I remember my first fraternity party, when I was a freshman at George Washington University. I am not a big drinker, and I wasn't drunk when a fraternity brother invited me up to his room. I can't say exactly what ruse he used to get me up there, but I have a faint memory of him wanting to show me his pet lizard.
I walked up the stairs, acutely aware that people who saw me might assume I was going to be having sex with that boy. He would get lucky, but I would not. I would be tainted. That's the way it worked. It made me self-conscious, but I didn’t want to seem like a high-schooler who couldn't handle a little hang-out with a frat brother in his room. So I followed him. After I was inside, he closed and locked the door.
It was the lock that alarmed me – a slapping switch and click that I heard in every cell in my body. Did I think he really wanted to show me his pet lizard? Probably not. But I didn’t think that whatever he did bring me upstairs for warranted a locked door.
I remember staring at that lock as he guided me to a sofa that faced the pet cage. I can’t tell you what the boy looked like, or even what the lizard looked like. I remember some details of the room – there were loft beds and it smelled like a hamper. I knew he wasn't a boy I wanted to be with in any physical way. There was awkward conversation and the whole time he spoke I was on high alert, sirens in my bloodstream warning me not to lay down my guard. I sat on the opposite end of the sofa from him. When he made his pass, I said no, stood up, went to the door, unlocked it and left.
That wasn't the only time I felt like I escaped something. There was another incident when I was studying abroad during my junior year in college. I met a friendly foreigner in a Zurich hostel. After talking for an hour or so, he invited me up to his room for drinks. He became agitated when I said no, then grabbed me in the hallway and tried to force himself on me. He was strong – I still have no idea how I got myself free. I shouted no, ran to my bunk, stuffed my clothes in my backpack and fled to the station in the early morning hours to catch a train to anywhere else. I am certain that if I had been just a little more trusting, a little more naïve, I would have gone up to that stranger's room and something very bad would have happened to me.
I have been fortunate. But I know women – more than one – who were raped while in college. I bet most women I know can say they have been violated or that they know someone who was. That is how common it is.
As a parent, the college culture of underage drinking, excessive partying and poor decision-making scares me. I can now see my experience through the eyes of my very overprotective father, who used to call my dorm room at 3 a.m. to make sure I was there. He used to tell me, "Boys only want one thing, and once they get it, they're done with you." Was it extreme? Maybe. Was it in my head in both situations? Definitely. Did it save me? Probably.
But it's not just on the parents of daughters to teach them how to avoid situations where they might be raped. It is also on the parents of sons to teach them not to violate women.
In Judaism, rape is considered a crime equal to murder, punishable by death. There are rules laid out for rape of unmarried and married women in Deuteronomy 22 – all in place to deter men from committing the act and ensuring they make amends for the rest of their lives. There is no "blame the victim" mentality in Judaism. Dinah wasn't asking for it.
Outside of the Torah, it is unfortunately very different. But I don't want my kids growing up thinking they can excuse themselves from a horrific act by shifting blame.
My 10-year-old, Maxon, saw the Rolling Stone magazine on the kitchen counter and asked what rape is. I told him what rapists do, and how traumatizing and damaging it is for the woman involved.
Maxon already knows about sex, I had that conversation with him a few years ago. From my point of view, the sex talk was anti-climactic (yeah, I intended that pun) and his only disbelief was when he realized how exactly he came to be in this world. "Wait, wait, wait — you do that with daddy? Ew. I am never doing that with any girl. Ever."
Ezra, who is 8, got "the talk" this year. He spent more time giggling and hiding his face, and a minute or so with his hands over his ears.
Since then I have always answered both Maxon's and Ezra's questions regarding sex very plainly and succinctly. This time was no different. Maxon listened thoughtfully. He didn't express shock or embarrassment, and he didn't ask any further questions, but I know he understood my message.
We also talked about the importance of treating women as people, not as things; to value what they say and always listen when they say no. I can’t imagine the depth of the shonda I would experience if one of my boys was accused of rape. It is my job to teach them how to respect women, how to care for women and how to speak up and intervene if they see something going wrong.
Eventually our conversations about this topic will become more sophisticated, more nuanced. But it's a lesson I will never shy away from, one I will continue to reinforce as they grow into men.