Translator: Fatemeh Shirani Reviewer: Rhonda Jacobs
So, in 2017, I was at this swanky after-party for a conference in Atlanta.
The country band had the whole crowd singing,
and I was dancing along with my husband, Mike.
During a break in the music,
this obviously drunk girl comes up to me,
kind of swaying to a song nobody else could hear.
She smiles, introducing herself as a part of the organisation and says,
'It's such an honour to meet you!
I actually got to ghostwrite your story for our fundraising letter,
and it ended up being, like, the highest grossing campaign of the year.'
The air caught in my throat.
I excused myself and navigated through the sea of strangers
until I found Mike.
He immediately recognised the look on my face,
and we left.
I felt like I had been punched in the gut.
This woman had just casually admitted
how this organisation had used me and my story,
without my permission, for their own gain.
Their own political gain.
That story actually began 11 years earlier, in 2006.
I was 20 years old
when I slid down the bathroom wall
of our local police station, sobbing.
'Mommy, I don't want to be this girl,'
I cried as I collapsed in her arms.
That morning, a stranger had broken into my apartment,
held me captive for two hours,
and raped me.
I had to lay there,
among my stuffed animals from my childhood,
believing that was how I was going to die.
What was the last thing I had said to my parents,
to my brother, to my friends?
I've heard the calls,
because I immediatly called 911 when he left me alive,
and it's the shrill scream,
begging officers to please hurry.
It's me, but it's like it's someone totally else, totally different.
In the months that followed,
I suffered panic attacks, PTSD,
depression, and seizures.
I slept in between my parents,
like a five-year-old scared of monsters under her bed.
But my case is atypical
because they caught him.
He was convicted at a jury trial,
and sentenced to prison.
And that's something that only happens
about six out of every 1000 sexual assaults
in the United States.
Yeah.
When I decided to publicly release my identity,
it was for a simple purpose that has always remained the same.
I didn't care if people remembered my name,
I didn't care if they remembered my face,
I just wanted them to remember my story.
I had transformed myself from a victim to a survivor,
and I wanted other people to know that they could too.
(Applause)
So I started speaking out to basically whoever would listen,
it's like free therapy, amazing. (Laughter)
But what was great is that I was comfortable,
and I'd share my story
when I felt like I was able to maintain ownership over my narrative.
I was treated with dignity.
I was treated with respect.
And then in 2013,
politics comes along, like hold my beer.
Growing up completely disengaged and apolitical,
the idea of campaigns or lobbying
made me want to puke.
Oh, and debates? No freaking way.
I hate debates and yet I married a lawyer.
Yeah, you can imagine what disagreements are like in our house.
(Laughs)
So you could say,
getting me to participate beyond just casting my ballot each year
took something pretty damn important.
My personal safety.
I'd taken safety courses,
and eventually applied for my concealed carry permit.
Now, this wasn't a decision I took lightly.
It took years,
of feeling educated and physically proficient enough with a firearm
to make this choice.
And besides, I wasn't doing it out of a fear of what could happen,
I was carrying because I already knew.
But when my home state of Colorado introduced legislation in 2013
to ban lawfully concealed firearms on our college campuses,
as a grad student, it caused me to get up off of my couch
and go down and sit in front of our state representatives.
With a shaky voice but a solid purpose, I told them my story.
And so did plenty of others.
A bunch of regular everyday people came together to voice their beliefs,
and it worked.
The bill was killed before a final vote.
Afterwards, life pretty much went back to normal.
I was working in the criminal justice system;
I was raising a family;
and I was continuing to vocally advocate for victims of crime.
Then I got a call.
The lobbying arm of the National Rifle Association
had noticed my local efforts
and reached out ahead of the 2014 midterms
to pair up for an ad.
Holy crap!
I mean, I have been sharing my assault advocacy message for years,
but now, the NRA wants to help me do even more?
I agreed and jumped right in.
But it wasn't until 2016 that things really changed.
In January,
I was invited by CNN to attend a live town hall debate with President Obama.
I should have known
when I was going through the third Secret Service pat-down,
something big was about to happen.
When they unexpectedly handed me the microphone though,
I found myself standing alone, kind of like I am today.
Once again, with a shaky voice but a solid purpose,
I told him my story,
and I confronted him about his executive actions on gun control.
The intersection of rape, firearms, and the most powerful man on the planet,
yeah, it went viral.
And here I was, face to face with the President of the United States,
who's the one person elected to serve me and my fellow Americans equally.
When I got done, I had hundreds of text messages,
and it was like it just blew up right away.
My social media timelines were at odds.
It was victim support versus Second Amendment support.
You had people chiming in from all over the world,
offering extreme praise or utter detest at my very existence.
Seriously, there was no middle ground.
Now, before I go any further, let me be clear.
There are millions of people in this world who passionately believe in causes,
who believe in listening to others with opposing views,
who support those who need that support,
and who just want to protect their families and their individual liberties.
You guys, I met extraordinary and compassionate people
from all walks of life.
This isn't about them.
This is about the select few at the top.
Carly Fiorina said it best, 'Power concentrated is power abused.'
This is about the creative director who rewrote my political op-ed,
basically to sound polarising when I intended it to bridge the political gap.
When I asked why, he said,
'We want those who love us to love us more and those who hate us to hate us more.'
It's the public affairs director who kept pushing me to support their candidate
despite my intense objections.
'He just kissed someone without their permission.
You were violently raped.'
As if that made it any less appalling.
It's the petite blonde ad executive
with the thick accent who was such a cheerleader
until I started asking questions,
threatening to end my career
and chastising my concerns about my family's well-being
because they weren't part of this 'arrangement'.
'You're either with us, or you're against us.'
It was the strategic use of my story - an incorrect version of that -
in the wake of a mass murder on national television.
I never gave my permission.
I never got so much as a phone call asking for my consent.
It had gotten out of hand.
And that party that I told you about in Atlanta,
is just one of many moments that I can look back on with full clarity.
My story had been officially hijacked for political gain.
And the missing piece was my consent.
We think we've got someone all figured out
once we know how they vote or where they stand on a certain issue.
I mean, be honest, did you guys make some assumptions about me?
'Haha, yes we did, but you can't see us!'
(Laughter)
Did you kind of tune out, maybe,
when I didn't fit the narrative you expected?
Well, let's just go ahead and get this out of the way then.
I am fiscally conservative, and socially awkward.
(Applause)
I'm never going to fit into some political party's neat little box.
Most people won't, but that's not the point.
The point is I'm watching sexual assault become a politicised weapon,
meaning both sides are using the real life stories
of survivors like me to gain money, power, and votes.
My examples are not unique or isolated incidents.
Let me give you an example.
You guys remember the alleged assault victims
that some senators demanded
come forward and testify in publicly televised hearings.
Just a grandstand with their own sound bites,
leaving everyone who watched and listened at home with their own vicarious pain.
Or what about the time the highest sitting public official
simply brushed off credible accusations of sexual assault.
His administration manipulating the facts,
out to ruthlessly destroy the victim's credibility, reputation, and life.
I mean, how dare she speak out against their guy.
So, I'm guessing you know these were the actions of conservatives, right?
Or, were they liberals?
Did these things happen in the last couple of years,
or in the 90s?
Actually, all of the above.
If you're only interested in calling out one side while defending your own,
it's time for a gut check.
This culture won't get better
if we are looking to lay blame based solely on how someone votes.
I don't know who wins, but I'll tell you who loses.
It's victims and survivors like me.
(Applause)
Re-victimisation comes in many forms,
but the political weaponisation of sex assault may be one of the worst,
and it's stopping survivors on both sides
from getting the help and support they desperately need.
Here's an example.
In 2016, I was speaking at a Young Woman's Leadership Summit.
I had quoted the CDC's recent findings on the prevalence of rape,
and before I even stepped off stage,
the organiser was denouncing the stat as a misleading 'liberal myth'.
Afterwards, countless attendees approached me in tears,
saying this is exactly why they don't want to come forward as survivors.
Somehow, internalising their pain
was better than being publicly vilified as accepting victimhood.
Or another time, I was speaking on a Midwest college campus.
Before I even got back to my hotel,
I had received an email from a woman who was in the audience.
She said she was a senior, and as she put, an outspoken liberal.
But after she was assaulted as a freshman,
she had begun training with a firearm for her safety.
She went on to say, 'Given my politics, I don't want my friends to know,
because they'd automatically group me in as some "in-race supporting Nazi"
and attack my feminist identity.'
You guys know what I'm talking about, right?
The name-calling.
This girl couldn't speak up
because she couldn't bear having her reputation destroyed.
Can you blame her?
It's scary to speak out when the subject of your experience
is powerful, well-connected, and loud.
And for the longest time, I didn't say anything,
because I'm just one person, and I'm nowhere near perfect.
I will be the first to tell you,
I've stumbled throughout the years, and I've said things I regret.
But if we spend our lives waiting for someone perfect to come along
to speak truth to power, we will die waiting.
(Applause) (Cheers)
Look, we can all agree sexual violence is bad, right?
Holding offenders accountable is one way
that we make sure they don't create more victims,
but the only way more victims are going to speak up or reach out and report
is if we create an environment, a culture,
where people feel safe enough to do so.
When victims choose to speak, we can listen to them,
and we can start by believing them.
(Applause) (Cheers)
Even if you don't agree on anything, it doesn't matter.
You can believe in due process and support survivors at the same time.
But when we see politicians and organisations
weaponising the stories of victims,
we can call them out.
(Applause)
Because using someone's story to push forward your own agenda is wrong,
no matter how gracefully it's done.
We're not talking points.
We're not pawns.
We're people, and if it's not your story to share, don't.
(Applause)
Look, there's nothing consensual about what happened to me
for those two horrific hours in my bed,
but there's also nothing consensual about stealing someone's narrative.
Because sexual assault is not a political issue,
and it never has been.
It's a human rights issue, and we better start treating it that way.
Thank you.
(Applause)