Sunday there was an interesting segment on 60 minutes. Entitled “The Case of Beckett Brennan,” the story was about a gang rape that occurred on the campus of the University of the Pacific.
The television was on in my bedroom. I was on the computer working, Husband was relaxing and watching the show and my daughter, M, was sitting on my bed, texting, Facebooking and Twittering. The story began to infiltrate my consciousness, and I turned my attention to the tv. I had to repeat M’s name three times to remove the phonefog that surrounded her.
Beckett Brennan got drunk, took a ride from three guys she knew, basketball players just like her, who took her back to their apartment and then proceeded to rape her one after another in a closet.
Here is a staggering fact from the segment: 95 percent of sexual assaults on US campuses are never reported.
Here is a staggering fact from the evening: My daughter, going to college herself in 5 months, says, “Well, she shouldn’t have gone with them.”
Yea, I blew my top. First off, these were guys Brennan knew. They were athletes just like her, in the very same sport. Yes, she was admittedly drunk. But NO, DEAR DAUGHTER, A WOMAN NEVER DESERVES RAPE. Ever. I was truly astonished to hear this come out of her mouth. My daughter. Raised by me. Her-I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar-And-Don’t-You-EVER-Define-Yourself-By-Traditional-Roles Mother.
I don’t know how the line between my continual lessons of awareness and personal safety and “asking for it” got crossed.
I do know that my rants that night escalated to the point where Husband had to leave the room. He said he got uncomfortable when I said, “You can be giving him a lap dance in a Victoria’s Secret lace thong, and that STILL doesn’t give him the right to put his dick in you if you don’t want it there.”
Oh my god. Parenting is so hard.