TURNING EMOTION INTO ACTION: SURVIVOR SUPPORT BEYOND TITLE IX
Addie, Communications Fellow
When I stepped foot on Stanford’s campus this past fall, I was overcome with a sense of earnestness that only wide-eyed college freshmen possess. For the first time in my life, I was on my own—dropped off into an endless maze of redwoods, palm trees, and California sunshine. But as I made my way through the labyrinth that is Stanford, there was also an undeniable feeling of uneasiness that buried itself like a rock in the pit of my stomach. By and large, leaving home is terrifying—college is terrifying. And though I was surrounded by thousands of my peers, it often felt as though I was struggling to stay afloat above the sunny surface. Despite the fact that everyone appeared to be on a journey of smooth sailing—as if we were navigating the palm-tree-ridden web with ease—we were all furiously paddling our feet beneath the water.
The college experience is different for everyone, but I believe that generally, leaving home to embark on a new chapter can be a bit frightening. Additionally, college is often portrayed as a sort of perfect paradise in the media, despite the struggles that come with adapting to a new place as well as the experience of “duck syndrome” that is prevalent at countless universities across the U.S. And on top of that, we now have data that tells us that sexual violence is an all-too-common part of the college experience—it is estimated that 1 in 10 students experience sexual violence during their time in university: a horrifying and alarming statistic.
Before I arrived on campus in the fall, I spent a long Sunday afternoon completing a series of sexual harassment trainings. While they were informative, I couldn’t help but think about how easy it would be for a distracted student to carelessly click through the slides, and how such an occurrence was probably quite common. However, this problem is also deeply institutional—though students who mindlessly skip these trainings help perpetuate gaps in campus community knowledge, dedicating hours upon hours to pre-programmed orientation slides is often the last thing students want to do while packing up their entire lives.
Later, as I progressed through my freshman year and attempted to find my footing amidst the endless yet often overwhelming maze that is Stanford, I thought of the trainings I had completed on that hectic Sunday afternoon. It is not uncommon for students to suppose they will never come face-to-face with the issue of sexual violence, and though the trainings shared vital details about the Title IX process, I repeatedly thought about the lack of information that those who simply clicked through the slides possessed. Similarly, though the trainings led me to understand the Title IX process as the primary, institutional “solution” to issues of sexual violence, I soon came to see that the process in and of itself—despite however well-meaning investigators and Title IX coordinators may be—was deeply flawed, and that it re-traumatized survivors by forcing them to “prove themselves.” This is a problem across the country as well: usually, Title IX investigations are prolonged over several months, and it is not uncommon for students to graduate before investigations close. This, as well as the fear of victim-blaming and retaliation, is one of the reasons why it is estimated that 90-95% of survivors do not report instances of sexual violence; in fact, in a study done in 2016, 89% of colleges reported zero instances of rape. These statistics are similarly horrifying; after all, if 1 in 10 students are expected to experience sexual violence during their time at college, why are universities reporting otherwise?
Often, it is easy to feel overwhelmed by this information—in fact, there were many instances over the course of my freshman year where my own frustration and anger clouded my ability to think optimistically about the future. However, one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned over the course of the last year is that turning emotion into action is not only empowering but essential to creating meaningful change.
My frustration with the Title IX process, and the scarcity of students on my own campus who are aware of the institutional resources available to them—or the resources that should be available to them—led me to a larger reckoning: when we look beyond often flawed “solutions” such as Title IX, we are able to actually understand the issue at hand, and better learn how to support students.
Will Title IX Ever Be Enough?
In a numerical light, while collecting data on the number of students who have filed Title IX reports and experienced sexual violence on college campuses is crucial (and simultaneously a number that is typically inaccurate and filled with zeroes) it is not the only data that matters. Instead, what’s just as important, if not more so, is the number of students who sought supportive measures after their experiences, and how many of those were granted. For example, supportive measures such as opportunities to redo failed classes could keep thousands of students in school. In other words, in a flawed system that produces flawed data, we need to redirect our attention to providing unequivocal support for survivors.
This is where The Every Voice Coalition comes in: our holistic approach to the problem of sexual violence on college campuses solidifies the fact that Title IX is not the end-all-be-all solution to this issue, and that non-carceral, survivor-centered efforts centered around access to resources and support are critical. EVC’s “Core Five,” policy framework—free legal, medical, and counseling services; confidential advising services to clarify a survivors’ rights and options; anti-retaliation protections for reporting parties; transparent, public data through anonymous campus climate surveys; and annual, evidence-based prevention and awareness programming—ultimately deviates from the standard Title IX investigation route that we often think about when considering solutions to sexual violence. That is to say that we need to shift our focus away from simply perpetuating processes of retraumatization, and instead ensure that survivors are equipped with the supportive measures and services that they need.
During my time in this work so far, I’ve learned that the fight against sexual violence on college campuses is deeply multifaceted and institutional, and stems even from the moment I sat in my childhood bedroom completing a series of harassment trainings. Though the data we have today is astounding, and often a reflection of the flawed Title IX reporting process, we can work towards creating a future where students' needs are understood and met through data collection methods such as anonymous campus climate surveys. However, without holistic policymaking that supports survivors and seeks to prevent future violence, institutional stagnation will only continue. College—adjusting to a new life, and moving away from home—is hard enough as it is, and students deserve to have access to fundamental civil liberties, prevention programming, and support when it comes to the issue of sexual violence.
After completing my freshman year of college, I was left with a mixture of emotions: excitement and pride that I had made it through the year intact, but also frustration at the institutional issues I had encountered. Though organizations like The Every Voice Coalition are championing meaningful work to help combat these institutional roadblocks, this change not only relies on policymakers, universities, nonprofits, and advocates but also on students such as myself. By engaging with the EVC’s holistic, survivor-centered, and resource-oriented framework, we can help build a future where sexual violence is not a part of the college experience.
