No Longer Unspoken - Hill 2018 by Arkansas Traveler

HILL

2018 Edition

UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS STUDENT-RUN MAGAZINE

VIOLATED

18-37

A SERIES ABOUT SEXUAL ASSAULT LEFT IN THE SHADOWS Exploring the magnitude of sexual assault THE SLUT AT THE PARTY Reliving the night I was raped CAN I CLAIM #METOO? I thought I wasn’t raped. I was wrong. HOW SEDUCTION BECAME SLAVERY Inside today’s fight against sex trafficking

no longer

unspoken

The word on the HILL is... Welcome to Hill. The stories in this magazine reflect the best works of journalism by University of Arkansas students in the last year. Our writers delved into controversial topics and a theme emerged: No Longer Unspoken. They took life experiences that they or other people had suppressed or only shared in hushed tones and said what hadn’t been said before. Some spoke about their experiences for the first time in the process of reporting these stories. We hope that readers will take advantage of this opportunity to peek into someone else’s life and learn from it. We live in a messed up world, but dismissing wrongdoing and pain doesn’t fix anything. The views and opinions expressed in the stories are photo by Lauren Humphrey not necessarily those of the magazine as a whole, but we are proud to present an issue full of diverse perspectives. The incidents reported in the cover series include explicit detail and violent recollections of sexual assault because we want our readers to understand what is and isn’t acceptable. Essayists know that what they’ve written might be difficult for people to read, especially for those who have suffered similar violations or for those who personally know the survivor. For the first time, we asked students across campus to interpret the magazine’s theme through art and poetry. I hope you’ll visit our website to see the beautiful entries that didn’t make it in print. Our website also features “Alienated” rewritten in Spanish – the first Spanish version of a Hill magazine story. I must give a special thanks to my assistant editor, Ella Ruth Hill, whose job description might as well be to keep Andrea calm and provide opinions, wisdom and encouragement when needed most. I’m also incredibly thankful for my designers, Julia Nall and Sarah Young, and senior illustrator Raleigh Anderson who pulled together wonderful work, especially in the final days of production. And thanks to those of you who are supporting student journalism by picking up a copy of this magazine. We hope you enjoy Hill.

Andrea Johnson @uahillmag

ASSISTANT EDITOR Ella Ruth Hill

SENIOR DESIGNER Julia Nall

SENIOR ILLUSTRATOR Raleigh Anderson

WEBSITE EDITOR Katie Serrano

WRITERS Sebastian Diaz Alex Gladden Jake Halbert Andrea Johnson Rachael Krasnesky Bethany Osborn Katie Serrano Catherine Shackleford

PHOTOGRAPHERS Lexi DeLeon Jake Halbert Chase Reavis Kevin Snyder Devynne Diaz

ARTISTS Raleigh Anderson Ally Gibbons Claire Hutchinson

ASSISTANT DESIGNER Sarah Young

FACULTY ADVISOR Bret Schulte

DIRECTOR OF STUDENT MEDIA Robyn Starling Ledbetter Hill magazine is published by Student Media, Division of Student Affairs at the University of Arkansas, 203 Kimpel Hall, Fayetteville, AR 72701. P: 479-575-3408. All content decisions are made by the student staff of Hill. Views and opinions expressed herein are not necessarily those of the University of Arkansas faculty, staff or administration.

Andrea Johnson Editor-in-Chief

hillmag.uark.edu

EDITOR

Andrea Johnson

@uahillmag

@hillmagazine

Printed in the United States by Magna IV.

“Motherland” by Victoria Waters

about the contest winners Victoria Waters is a junior history major. Inspiration for her watercolor painting “Motherland” came from the exhibit “Art for a New Understanding: Native Voices, 1950s to Now” at Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. “Through art, Native American people refuse to be made silent,” Waters said. “As a student of American history, a fellow artist and someone with Cherokee heritage, I was inspired to create a homage of my own to the deserving voice of Native American people.”

Morgan Pritchett is a senior advertising and public relations journalism major and marketing minor. Inspiration for her poem “Hold It In! Hold It In!” derived from the struggle within herself and her circle of friends when it comes to opening up and talking about difficult life experiences. “Ultimately, holding everything in is exhausting, selfdestructive and it doesn’t allow people to get help or heal like they need to,” Pritchett said. Pritchett will graduate in December.

Justice Henderson is a senior studio art and public relations and advertising major. Inspiration for her self portrait art came from intentional use of color. She used white conte crayon on black paper rather than black pencil on white paper to show herself in a different light. “I am an African American woman, and this artwork allowed me to appreciate elements of my face that I overlook, including the texture of my hair,” Henderson said.

contents Contest Winners Jake Halbert Bethany Osborn

06 07 12

HILL MAGAZINE

2018

No Longer Unspoken Interpreting bravery

Odd One Out

What happened when I told my fraternity brothers I’m gay

The Digital Dating Dilemma Why some twentysomethings aren’t clicking with the latest matchmaking technology

Violated.

A SERIES ABOUT SEXUAL ASSAULT

Andrea Johnson

Alex Gladden Katie Serrano

Catherine Shackelford

Rachael Krasnesky Sebastian Diaz

20 26 30 34 38 41

Left in the Shadows

Amid hashtags and marches, some survivors still feel silenced

The Slut at the Party Reliving the night I was raped

Can I Claim #MeToo?

A few seconds. That’s all it took to become a victim of sexual assault

How Seduction Became Slavery ‘I found out firsthand what it was like to be enslaved.’

My Second Chance

The days following my suicide attempt

Alienated

Growing up with an undocumented mother

Raleigh Anderson

Lexi DeLeon

Raleigh Anderson is a senior art student from Fayetteville, Arkansas whose iPad serves as her canvas. If she could meet any fictional character, it would be the Tenth Doctor from Doctor Who, in part because he rocked Converse.

Lexi DeLeon is a senior journalism student from Kansas City, Kansas, who enjoys aesthetically pleasing coffee shops. Her favorite store is either Trader Joe’s for its amazing food or Target “for obvious reasons.”

Ally Gibbons

Alex Gladden

Ally Gibbons is a freshman journalism student from McKinney, Texas with an art history minor. Her favorite movie is “Marie Antoinette” because she loves historical movies with modern culture.

Alex Gladden is a University of Arkansas alumna and former Hill editor from Van Buren, Arkansas. She reports for the Arkansas DemocratGazette, and her dream job is to be a writer for The New York Times Magazine.

Claire Hutchinson

Rachael Krasnesky

Claire Hutchinson is a sophomore creative writing and classical studies student from Shawnee, Kansas. The best purchase she’s made is likely the tattoo she got with her best friend on their 12year friendaversary.

Rachael Krasnesky is a journalism student who grew up all over the country because her dad served in the U.S. Army. Her favorite holiday is Christmas because it represents family, and it’s magical.

Chase Reavis

Katie Serrano

Chase Reavis is managing editor of The Arkansas Traveler and a junior journalism student with a Spanish minor. He’s from Sapulpa, Oklahoma, and his favorite Vine is “there’s a bee?” because it’s entertaining and quotable.

Katie Serrano is a first-year journalism graduate student and chocolate ice cream lover who grew up in Ann Arbor, Michigan before moving to Dallas. If she could have any superpower, she’d want the ability to fly.

Sarah Young Sarah Young is a senior journalism student from Kansas City, Missouri and proud mom to her mixed breed puppy. She looks forward to working in marketing, graphic design or broadcast production after graduation.

con

Devynne Diaz

Sebastian Diaz

Devynne Diaz is a University of Arkansas alumna from Maumelle, Arkansas and a behavior technician for Arkansas Support Network. If she could grab lunch with any musician, she’d likely go with Frank Ocean.

Sebastian Diaz is an apparel production and product development student from Bryant, Arkansas with Spanish and music minors. If he had to choose his favorite fashion fad, he’d choose camo prints.

Jake Halbert

Ella Ruth Hill

Jake Halbert is a senior journalism student from Helena, Arkansas. Through his photography, he hopes to challenge ideas surrounding body image and sexual objectification, particularly within LGBTQ+ communities.

Ella Ruth Hill is a senior journalism student from Niceville, Florida. She’s passionate about deep conversations over cups of coffee, sunrise hiking with friends and food bringing people together.

Julia Nall

Bethany Osborn

Julia Nall is a sophomore international studies student from Bryant, Arkansas and proud mom of five geckos. Her true passions are peppermint mochas, Arabic and a nice cardigan, in no particular order.

Bethany Osborn is a University of Arkansas alumna from Fayetteville, Arkansas and is an account coordinator at a public relations agency in Colorado. If she could have lunch with any celebrity, she would choose Katie Couric.

Catherine Shackelford

Kevin Snyder

Catherine Shackelford is a University of Arkansas alumna and first-year graduate student at SMU. She grew up in Allen, Texas, has visited 18 countries and has a hidden talent of tap dancing.

Kevin Snyder is photo editor of The Arkansas Traveler and a senior communication student from Houston. If he could be a TV character, he would be Pat McAfee because he’s hilarious.

n tributors

06 NO LONGER UNSPOKEN

Hold It In, Hold It In! I

t builds, it festers, it grows

Silently you scream

Let your pain wonder astray

Never let it out, never let it show

Wishing on a dream

Let your strife light the way

You didn’t tell them why

Your words can no longer go unspoken

Keep it buried way down deep

You would hide away and cry

Don’t let them see, don’t let it seep

Now it’s written on your skin

Sharing them doesn’t mean you’re broken

You held it in, you held it in

Because healing can’t begin

Always fine through thick and thin Hold it in, hold it in

Now your feelings aren’t all you hide

It slipped through the cracks

Because you cut yourself open wide

Leaving torment in its tracks

How magnificent are your scars

They wanted the truth

Let them strengthen who you are

But they didn’t want proof

Because who you are isn’t forbidden

So you hear them again Hold it in, hold it in

Don’t keep them hidden, don’t keep them hidden

If you hold it in, hold it in

poem by Morgan Pritchett art by Justice Henderson

Odd One Out What happened when I told my fraternity brothers I’m gay

story by Jake Habert photo illustration by Chase Reavis art by Raleigh Anderson

he stage was set, and the timing almost too perfect. I didn’t realize I was making my way toward the center of the dimly lit room until it was too late. My stomach began to shrink as 50 of my Lambda Chi Alpha pledge brothers examined every step I made toward the only vacant seat in the middle of a wide circle of chairs. I could barely make out their faces in the candlelight. The exercise was simple, but the silence was deafening and complicated. If there was anything on our chests, we were supposed to put it out there in that moment. Any grudge, secret or shame was open for discussion. Brotherhood means complete honesty, after all. My courage was melting away like ice under a heat lamp. This was it. If I prolonged the confession any further, I wouldn’t have the strength to tell my brothers the truth about my sexuality. Twenty long, slow seconds crept by as I fidgeted around in the chair. I took a deep breath and whispered a silent prayer. Then I said it: “If you really knew me, you would know that I’m gay.”

08 ODD ONE OUT UNWELCOME

am not quite sure why I felt so strongly about joining an organization that had a reputation of rejecting people like me. Maybe it was because I felt like I had something to prove, that I was different from the stereotypical gay guy and just wanted to be normal. Or perhaps if I could just get a bid, I could be more like my brother Tripp Halbert, who always made fitting in seem so effortless. My father was a Phi Delta Theta, my mother a Zeta Tau Alpha, my sister Emily a Kappa Kappa Gamma and Tripp a Sigma Chi – all at the University of Arkansas. Everyone had a place to belong once they got to college, and I wanted one too. I had little idea of what to actually expect from rushing a fraternity. I’d heard things from people in my hometown – that it was fun, a good way to meet people and make friends, that it was a way of establishing oneself socially. But I was unaware of just how emotionally difficult it could be. Helena, my hometown in Southeast Arkansas, is in a region that the University of Arkansas’ Sigma Chi fraternity chapter, Omega Omega, Lamda Chi Alpha members gather on the balcony of the fraternity house Sept. 29, 2017, in celebration of their annual Watermelon Bust philanthropy event. photo by Jake Halbert

typically recruits from, so that’s the fraternity I decided I should join my freshman year. I’d known most of the active members since high school. Tripp was an involved member and former recruitment officer. Everyone loved him, and because he was a senior when I was an incoming freshman, everyone there knew of me by association. But as rush began to wind down, Tripp called me over to his girlfriend Lauren’s house late one night to double check that I was sure about going through with my decision to pledge Sigma Chi. He was more concerned about it than I was, which at the time frustrated me. I still listened to him as he told me with his arms crossed, leaning back into an old and creaky wicker porch chair, that there needed to be an official announcement of my sexuality in front of the entire chapter. He said that this was the only way for me to be accepted for who I was. It was the first time my confidence waned. As much as I wanted to believe it didn’t matter, I knew he was right. I’d hoped that people could look beyond my sexuality, but Tripp knew everyone better than I did. If he was worried,

maybe I was betting on the wrong horse. I agreed and suggested that he mention it at the next chapter meeting. He slowly and solemnly nodded. “Okay,” he said, as if he were bracing himself for the worst. Tripp delivered the news to the chapter with a heartfelt speech just before I was set to sign my preference card. He then stepped out of the room so that others could speak freely. Some members joined my brother in support, but just as many opposed. “In my four years, that was the most heated I had ever seen the chapter room,” said Jason Shelley, Tripp’s roommate and senior member at the time. “That night still comes up occasionally among our friend group and how we won’t ever be able to look at some people the same way.” After much deliberation, a quick show of hands decided my fate – the fate my whole family had feared. A gay man had no place in Sigma Chi. Tripp was quick to call my Rho Chi, the facilitator of my rush group, who pulled me away from a line of more than 300 rushees at the Arkansas Union to tell me that I would not be accepted, that I’d

“They didn’t know I was gay, and considering what had just happened, I intended to keep it that way.” be wasting my time if I signed on with Sigma Chi. He said I should sign on with my second choice, Lambda Chi Alpha, and hope for the best. They didn’t know I was gay, and considering what had just happened, I intended to keep it that way. Depressing thoughts coalesced inside me as the line slowly crept down to the last of the rushees. I couldn’t say a word as those around me were laughing and giving hypotheticals about their future memberships. I thought it was over. None of my efforts mattered, and there would be no appeal, because I’m gay. That’s all anyone could see. I blinked away my tears, and before I knew it, the hum of the room gave

way to silence. I was alone, and the proctors were urging me to make a decision. I numbly signed my bid card, “LAMBDA CHI ALPHA,” in all capital letters. The next morning, I felt a mix of anger, sadness and fear. But despite this, somewhere deep down, there was hope. My Rho Chi handed me a small envelope. My bid card was inside, stamped with a congratulatory note. I was chosen to be an associate member of the Gamma Chi chapter of Lambda Chi Alpha. COMING OUT

here’s no way of knowing how many people knew about my sexuality prior

to the night I confessed, but to my knowledge, only two people in my pledge class were aware. That night there was no conversation. We were all tired from our initiation activities, and I assumed that made people less willing to express their thoughts about it. A few of the guys would approach me over time and say that they were happy for my decision to come out, but an overwhelming majority never mentioned anything about it. Even before then, my peer mentor within Lambda Chi, Connor Flocks, said that some older members knew early in my pledgeship but didn’t know how to address the conversation because it was so foreign to them. Two weeks after I’d received my bid, Michael Fogleman, the president of Sigma Chi at the time, contacted Luke Crenshaw, president of Lambda Chi, to check on how I was doing and explain what had occurred. At the time, only one of my pledge brothers knew I was gay. I asked Luke recently if prior knowledge of my sexuality would have impacted my chances of getting a bid. He said there’s no way to know for sure.

10 THE LADIES’ MAN

ot a single house cut me from their list of prospects during rush. I’d say that made me a very eligible candidate. I grew up acting as boyish and nonchalant as possible in order to diverge from the stereotype most people have about gay men. Nobody suspects me to be gay, and nobody asks. Straightness is always assumed. If I do mention something about it, I’m most often met with an awkward contortion of the face followed by a wide-eyed, “What? No way!” Although deceiving people was not my goal, it was interesting to see how my potential to attract women was at the forefront of many fraternities’ concerns. “We have the finest bitches and the best parties!” was commonly boasted by some drunken keynote speaker at every fraternity house I visited. Members asked me if I had hit it off with any girls yet and knew what they were like. Sometimes it felt more like I was auditioning for a role on “The

Bachelor” than applying for brotherhood. Members gauge the success of a fraternity by their social standing. It’s measured by how many girls attend our parties and drink our cheap mixed drinks. We were explicitly told that male guests were not welcome because nobody wants to hook up with them. Members were expected to only bring women to the house, and in my case, people counted on it. Everyone thought I was

some huge player and had discovered a secret technique for attracting women. Ironically, the women I brought knew I was gay. Parties are all about hooking up. I’ve been groped, kissed and even stripped on one occasion when a girl followed me into a bathroom and pulled my shorts down. As macho as the fraternity system may seem from the outside, homosexuality is alluded to or referenced frequently. On many occasions guys joke about being gay and exaggerate stereotypes within conversations. It’s almost like people think reinforcing how straight they are makes them more masculine. If you look at Fayetteville’s Grindr feed, an app used by gay men to hook up, it will show there are many homosexuals within fraternities who mask themselves with anonymity. “Fraternities are one of the biggest closets,” said Ben Flowers, a 2014 Sigma Alpha Epsilon alumnus. “When I joined, I thought it was my last shot at being straight.” He said that introverted homophobia, or the denial of one’s own homosexuality, was the most common reason gay men didn’t speak out in fraternities while he was a student, and I believe that’s still prominent. According to University of Arkansas enrollment and Greek Life reports for spring 2018, approximately 24 percent of undergraduate men on campus are affiliated with a fraternity. As of 2017, about 8 percent of millenials i d e n t i f y as LGBT, according to a recent

Gallup report. If applied to fraternities on campus, that would mean about 190 men in these communities identify as LGBT. Personally, I don’t think that number is very far off. UNDERGROUND COMMUNITY

nfortunately, many gay men in fraternities have no desire to come out in college, and I don’t blame them. Those I’ve spoken with across multiple fraternities have similar responses as to why they don’t: “I’m worried for my safety,” or “My fraternity would abandon me.” Years of commitment and establishing relationships could evaporate into nothing. That’s terrifying. Every day they’re subjected to homophobic slurs and crude jokes that dehumanize them from the same people they call brothers. They deal with it because they still see virtue in these people – the same virtue I see in my own brothers. I’ll finish my college career as a Lambda Chi. There were instances where I thought it would be appropriate for me to abandon the fraternity because I obviously did not belong. But after four years and much consideration, I felt that it was important not to give up. There is a lack of diversity within our fraternities, and to abandon Lambda Chi feels like abandoning those who are too afraid to speak up for themselves. My fraternity experience was not perfect. I was denied the right to bring a boyfriend to summer formal my sophomore year. When I chime in to correct people from using offensive words like faggot or queer, they usually laugh. However, there are moments when being a Lambda Chi makes sense to me. Many older members looked out for me, making sure I was doing well in school and encouraging me to pursue my passion of photography. I was often allowed to photograph parties, and anytime I ever needed anything, my pledge brothers never hesitate to help. I met hundreds of people, some of which are friends who made my college experience worthwhile. I don’t think anything said was ever intended to be offensive. Many guys in fraternities just seem ignorant about diversity and don’t understand the gravity of what

ODD ONE OUT 11

Jake Halbert and Spencer George, openly gay members of Lambda Chi Alpha, pose for a picture at an event with Zeta Tau Alpha sorority at Starlight Skatium in Februrary 2017. photo courtesy of Jake Halbert

they imply with their words. The majority of them don’t worry about LGBTQ. struggles. Most University of Arkansas fraternities are groups made up mostly of straight, white men who surround themselves with straight, white men. My brothers who really know me know that I’m gay, but they also understand I am much more than that. I’m adventurous, spiritual and compassionate. I like traveling and meeting strangers. Like many others, I have fears and doubts, but I’m capable of overcoming them. We are all complex and beautiful in our own ways. Instead of emphasizing our differences, perhaps we should instead focus on the one thing that binds us all: our humanity.

“My brothers who really know me know that I’m gay, but they also understand I am much more than that.”

the digital

DATING DILEMMA

story by Bethany Osborn photo illustrations by Kevin Snyder art by Raleigh Anderson

Why some twentysomethings arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t clicking with Bumble

14 THE DIGITAL DATING DILEMMA

m i l y a s s u m e s she’ll meet her future husband in in real life, like a normal person. She said the words with a confident certainty, like meeting the person she was meant to spend forever with was an absolute but meant for later in life. In the meantime, she chooses to occupy the space absent of men she feels compelled to date seriously in the same manner as many of her peers: dating apps. Emily, 20, a senior at the University of Arkansas, whose last name has been omitted for her privacy, is one of the dating app Tinder’s millions of users. Emily compares her usage of dating apps to a business transaction. Oftentimes few words are exchanged between two people – practically associates – who have the same goal in mind: a hookup. Emily was on Tinder until she eventually tired of the innate hookup culture she’d fallen victim to. One of Emily’s friends mentioned she should try Bumble, a dating app geared toward women, because the guys were way hotter, which Emily said she discovered to be true after creating an account. Emily’s motivation to seek out a higher caliber of men was not exactly the intention behind Bumble’s creation, but made her one of more than 40 million Bumble users. Bumble was created as a way to amend the hookup culture perpetuated through its main competitor, Tinder. CEO Whitney Wolfe Herd, who was 27 when she founded Bumble in 2014, left Tinder, where she was named a cofounder for her key role in marketing the app, to create a dating app with women in mind. Her vision was to change the rules of dating. Bumble requires women to make the first move, giving the app an early reputation as the “feminist Tinder.” The app adheres to the same principles of Tinder – swipe right to connect, swipe left to pass – but once a match is made, only the woman has the ability to send a message. The company’s website is littered with their slogan, “make the first move.” In an interview with The New York Times reporter Jessica Bennett in March 2017, Herd said the reversal

in “old-fashioned power dynamics encourages equality from the start.” Bumble aims “to spread our mission of empowerment, kindness and equality for everyone,” and a lot of that starts in college, said Grace Weisiger, a marketing manager for Bumble who oversees marketing on college campuses. It’s branded as a lifestyle, rather than the means to securing casual sex by the end of the night. But users like Emily fail to use the app for its intended purpose. Among the college students I spoke with, there seems to be a disconnect. Students, including Emily, claim to use dating apps for entertainment, which can be defined ambiguously as “a joke” or for a confidence boost that stems from mutual physical attraction, rather than for serious dating. The lack of seriousness when it comes to dating apps suggests college students haven’t yet given up on traditional means of meeting their significant other. It seems Herd’s vision to change the rules of dating has yet to resonate among users who still hope for an organic connection.

he modern dating game continues to be everchanging as more advanced technology enters the scene. From the days of online dating through websites like Match.com, which launched in 1995, and Eharmony, which launched in 2000, an even more convenient way to meet people was born through the development of dating apps. Tinder was the first app to the scene. It’s popularity was the result of an innovative and time-savvy feature on which users could swipe either right or left on another user’s picture to indicate his or her interest. Since the app launched in 2012, more than 20 billion matches have been made,

photo illustration by Andrea Johnson

according to statistics released by the company. As of February 2018, women have “made the first move” on Bumble more than 500 million times, according to statistics on Bumble’s website. Bumble doesn’t publish any user information as far as who is using the app and where, Weisinger said. After multiple inquiries regarding the average age of Bumble users and the geographic location where the app is used most, I was told the app is globally available to anyone above age 18. It’s difficult to measure exactly how students are using dating apps and their intentions because the technology is relatively new and still below the radar of extensive behavioral research, said Jessica Strübel, an assistant professor at the University of Rhode Island. Strübel holds a doctorate degree in consumer studies and social psychology, and last year she co-authored the article “Love me Tinder: Body image and psychosocial functioning among men and women” for the National

15 said Cozy Brown, a University of Arkansas alumna who downloaded Bumble out of curiosity. “You don’t click with someone when your instant connection is appearance based, which is still what Bumble is.” With her friends’ encouragement, Brown began swiping through the faces of her male peers, connected with those she found attractive,

“

“I

’d rather have a more organic connection with someone instead of starting online,”

they’d be willing to let me interview them. I was shocked by many of the responses I got. One person informed me that my introduction “sounds like if I meet you you’re gunna kill me.” Another respondent was willing to be interviewed but continuously talked about his ex-girlfriend, the last person he’d met on the app, and how he was hoping for better luck now. I informed him that any meeting between us would be strictly for the article and he suddenly b e c a m e

You don’t click with someone when your instant connection is appearance based, which is still what Bumble is. initiated conversation and even decided to go on a date. Her experience was awkward, to say the least. Brown, 22, met the 31-year-old man from Northwest Arkansas at the Black Apple Crossing Cidery in Springdale. Immediately, she noticed he didn’t exactly resemble his profile picture, particularly his teeth. The date failed to improve as the conversation shifted to the feeding and hibernation patterns of black bears, when all she said was she occasionally liked to go hiking when the weather was nice. Barely able to get a word in, Brown sought refuge in the bathroom halfway through. When the date was finally over, the man asked if he could see her again, noting that “she was so easy to talk to.” Brown was shocked by this response and surmised that the other women he dated rarely let him ramble. It was the first and last Bumble date for Brown. The lack of a natural, candid connection deterred her from using the app again. When I had the initial idea for the story, I thought the best way to find sources would be to get on Bumble myself. I made a profile and swiped right on anyone who listed in their bio that they were a student at the University of Arkansas. Whenever I had a match, I messaged them introducing myself as a journalist, explained my article and asked if

“

Institutes of Health. Strübel’s research focused on what motivates people to use dating apps and how they affect a user’s self-esteem. “Think of the limited information about character and personality that apps like Tinder provide. It’s almost nonexistent. It’s about appearance, and there is no denying that,” Strübel said. Although the research was primarily from Tinder users, Strübel said it’s about the way the app operates based on appearance alone that affects one’s psyche. “Your self-perception may also be heavily dependent on validation from others who don’t know you as a person,” Strübel said. Her study concluded that entertainment was a common goal behind downloading a dating app. A similar study from 2016 on the goals of micro-dating, or dating apps, concluded that the primary motivation for usage among a group of undergraduate students wasn’t sex or dating: It was entertainment, again. In each study, entertainment was simply an option on a survey and was not explicitly defined. This conclusion aligned with some of my own small-scale research. I interviewed six students at the University of Arkansas who would talk with me, and only half had ever gone on a date with someone they had met through the app. None of the students said they downloaded the app with the intention of finding someone to seriously date. Through the rise of dating apps, finding a significant other online has differentiated itself from the traditional rituals of dating that occur in the real world. Students I interviewed mentioned the stigma attached to meeting someone online. To students like Emily, seeking a real relationship through an app is akin to giving up on finding someone in real life, especially in college, where students are already surrounded by their peers and sufficient dating opportunities exist. Claiming to use the app for entertainment keps the door to organic connections open.

defensive and confused. I realized that some of these men thought my inquiry to interview them was some form of an elongated pickup line, alluding to another factor in which online dating has differentiated itself from dating in the real world. Simply having a conversation with someone within the setting of a dating app had certain expectations tied to it. No matter what the conversation was about, the idea of a potential hookup was present, regardless of the fact that I was the one initiating the conversation. As the idea for the story buzzed around my head, I considered going on dates myself, comparing my experiences dating men I met on Bumble to men I met on Tinder. I decided to forgo the idea because my intentions would skew my perception. I decided it best to tell this story through the perspective of those who used the app, and I discovered it was difficult to find students using it as Herd envisioned when she created it. “I feel like college students don’t really take it seriously at all,” said Brendan Smith, a University of Arkansas alumnus. Smith has been using Tinder and Bumble for three years but said he’s never gone on a date with a girl he’s matched with. Being on a college

16 campus provides ample opportunity to meet people, Smith said, therefore he feels no need to use the apps other than for entertainment. To Smith, entertainment had a broad definition. He’d met with a few women from the app when convenient, but that wasn’t his motivation for having the apps. If they both happened to be out that night and talking through the app, they would meet up. He said he simply wanted to meet people with no expectations attached – meet who was out there and see if there was a connection. Smith never went on formal dates with the women he met through Bumble because that would suggest a more serious intention.

eisiger said the company recently conducted a survey among its users, and 94

percent claimed they were looking for a relationship on the app. Weisinger suggested the lack of seriousness on the app was unique to the University of Arkansas, but different environments may result in different usage habits. Luzi Watson, 22, moved from Tucson, Arizona, to Chicago at 18 to attend Depaul University. She remembers when many of her peers were using dating apps like Tinder during her freshman year, but no one took them seriously until two years later. During the summer, between her junior year and senior year, she began to see her friends use the apps more seriously. “Throughout my whole college career I feel like I’ve seen the evolution of dating apps go from not really serious to people hoping

to find their future spouse,” Watson said. She thinks that the dating pool at her school is small, and she doesn’t have any other choice but to go on dating apps. Watson’s college environment also differs from that of the University of Arkansas. Not only is Depaul University located in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the country, but their enrollment is different as well. In 2017, Depaul reported nearly 15,000 undergraduate students enrolled, compared to the 23,000 undergraduate students at the University of Arkansas. Watson found herself uninterested in dating other college students. “The type of people my friends and I tend to go for are young professionals in the city who

“

Everything else we do is in a digital space. This just seemed like the natural next step.

“

don’t have time to go out and meet people,” Watson said. Like many other students I spoke with, Watson said her environment certainly had an impact on how seriously she considered using dating apps. Watson said she never even considered going on Tinder because she couldn’t take it seriously. Upon graduation, many students find themselves alone in big cities, having moved for a job and displaced from the comforts a college town has to offer and the seemingly endless dating opportunities. Perhaps this is the gap in the online-dating market where 94 percent of Bumble users claim to use the app for seeking serious relationships. This was the case for Rachel Atterstrom, 27, who graduated

THE DIGITAL DATING DILEMMA 17

from the University of Arkansas in 2012 and now lives in Houston where she works as a brand manager for a marketing agency. Being the skeptic she is, Atterstrom only entered into online dating because she was bored. One evening after work, she realized the group of friends in Houston she’d spent many laid-back nights with had slowly dwindled until it was just her, alone in the apartment. With the realization that her friends were busy going on dates with people they’d met through dating apps, Atterstrom decided to give it a shot and downloaded Tinder and Bumble. After several months, she eventually got bored with the entire thing and the dates she went on were unsubstantial, as none of her relationships lasted more than a month, until she met Tony, her current boyfriend. Tony had never used dating apps before but lost a bet with a friend. His punishment was to download Bumble and use it to go on dates throughout the month of May 2017. They had their first date that month, and they’ve been dating ever since and now live together in Houston. Despite finding a successful relationship through Bumble, Atterstrom doesn’t think much about how the app impacted her life. To her, the cultural phenomenon of dating people through an app isn’t surprising to her, Atterstrom said. Her decision to use Bumble over Tinder was a result of mere convenience, and in her experience, men on Bumble acted the same as they did on

Tinder. Atterstrom, who proudly describes herself as a “ragey feminist,” doesn’t see Bumble as any sort of solution to the problems plaguing women in today’s society. “Just because women message first, it doesn’t mean anything. People will behave online how they behave. That’s not going to change,” she said.

our months after I graduated from the University of Arkansas and thought I had finished this story, I found myself as Rachel Atterstrom did: alone in a new city where I knew no one. Admittedly, I downloaded Bumble, swiped through hundreds of my fellow twentysomethings living in Colorado and even went on two dates with a guy. He was gracious and handsome, but we were ultimately looking for different things. He was clearly ready for a girlfriend while I was simply bored of staying in on Friday nights. There was never a third date. There’s no right or wrong way to use dating apps. Some people download them because they’re bored or looking for new friends while others have their intentions set. Some go in with little to no expectations and end up finding someone who changes their life, while others just download, start swiping and genuinely don’t know why. Bumble’s website highlights members who have experienced positive life changes from downloading the app. The success stories tab is full of pictures profiling engagements, marriages and even babies, all proving that dating apps work. But the formula to finding a significant other will never be black and white. Dating apps have simply provided the technologically savvy generation with yet another option.

Violated

Harvey Weinstein Charlie Rose Larry Nassar Bill Cosby Kevin Spacey

Left in the Shadows Y

ou might have seen the words a p p e a r in your Twitter feed for the first time last fall and wondered what it m e a n t . #MeToo. Maybe it was posted with a news article or on a verified account, or maybe it came from your friend’s personal account. Either way, that probably wasn’t the last time you saw or heard those words. The hashtag signified a refusal to dismiss sexual assault and harassment. It empowered survivors to speak up and say what they had never said before: “It happened to me too.” Some praised the survivors who called out their abusers, but others expressed pity for the accused. Some think the #MeToo Movement has ushered in a dangerous time for men because women can harm a man’s reputation, cost him his job or his freedom with their condemning words. A new hashtag, #HimToo, emerged in support of those accused men when U.S. Supreme Court nominee

– now a confirmed justice – Brett Kavanaugh defended himself against Christine Blasey Ford’s allegations. If a supposedly reputable man like Kavanaugh or an esteemed Hollywood king like Weinstein can be pulled down off their pedestals with a “me too” declaration, then no man is safe, critics say. But let’s get real: No one is safe from anything. We’re all potential victims, and we’re all potential perpetrators. It’s a matter of power, respect and dangerous misconceptions. ORIGINS he #MeToo movement picked up last fall in the wake of the Weinstein allegations when actress Alyssa Milano tweeted, “If you’ve been sexually harassed or assaulted write ‘me too’ as a reply to this tweet.” Responses flooded in, now totaling at least 66,000 replies. But the movement actually began before the hashtag in 2006 with Tarana Burke, a youth worker who wanted to help survivors of sexual violence, particularly women of color. She sought to address the scarcity of resources and form a community of advocates.

story and photo by Andrea Johnson art by Raleigh Anderson

When the hashtag erupted, it launched an unprecedented national conversation about the problem. Since fall 2017, we’ve seen men and women take to the streets in protest, speaking out against sexual crimes and demanding respect for their bodies. Northwest Arkansas locals led Fayetteville’s first #MeToo March on April 21, and approximately 75 people joined in support. That same month our University of Arkansas student newspaper, The Arkansas Traveler, organized a special issue dedicated to sexual assault prevention on campus. University officials deemed the coverage accurate and upsetting but necessary to see. After publishing that issue, I was told it needed a more diverse set of narratives, and as an editor on the project, I agreed. However, we were limited to telling the stories of a few women who agreed to work with us. The bravery some survivors feel as a result of #MeToo doesn’t translate to every survivor, said Anne Shelley, executive director of the NWA Center for Sexual Assault in Springdale. “We do see more awareness as far as the community, but when that person is coming to us who

Despite

e hashtags and marches, some survivors still feel silenced

Violated. LEFT IN THE SHADOWS

has just been raped, they’re not thinking about the #MeToo,” Shelley said. “They’re not feeling like ‘The whole world is behind me.’ They’re feeling the same thing most survivors feel, which is ‘I’m completely alone.’” Survivors are often unsure of where to go for support, Shelley said, so the center aims to provide a place of refuge and guidance. Staff help people compile a rape kit, walk through a medical exam and get counseling among other services. And because sexual assault affects all types of people, the center employs advocates who represent minority communities. “We see trans women, and gay men, and straight men, and undocumented people who do not speak English, and elderly women with Alzheimer’s, and the male clients who were assaulted as children,” Shelley said. Olivia Whitley, an advocate at the center for black survivors, thinks diversity among staff helps survivors find someone they relate to in some way, she said. “Seeing someone that you can identify with in some aspect is a comfort in traumatic experiences,” Whitley said. Jennifer Arana, the center’s bilingual advocate, has seen survivors who are undocumented

immigrants find some relief in knowing the center will not report them to immigration authorities, she said. “When you come in here, it does not have to be reported to the police department. That’s your decision,” Arana said. There are so many stories to tell, and journalists might never uncover them all, but this series is an attempt to broaden your understanding of a complex problem. And if you have a story you want to tell, I speak on behalf of University of Arkansas student media in saying we want to hear it. Help us educate our campus and community. ‘YES MEANS YES’

A Clinical Assistant Professor Christopher Shields, who holds a Juris Doctorate law degree, has taught criminal law at the University of Arkansas for 11 years, and each semester he reviews sex crimes in his class. He dreads the discussion but would never avoid it. It’s too important, and he makes sure his students know that. Shields has also spoken to campus fraternities about consensual sexual activity and how it’s much more than the absence of “no.”

“We all say ‘no means no.’ I think that’s the wrong attitude,” Shields said. “I think yes means yes. That’s completely different.” The UA Title IX Policy defines consent as a “clear, knowing and voluntary decision to engage in

LEFT University of Arkansas students and faculty walk in the annual Take Back The Night march April 19. photo by Jake Halbert, courtesy of The Arkansas Traveler BELOW During the #MeToo March in Fayetteville, Arkansas, a participant holds a sign April 21, condemning sexual assault. photo by Kevin Snyder, courtesy of The Arkansas Traveler

sexual activity.” It doesn’t count if a person consents by result of force, coercion, threat or intimidation. Consent is active, not passive, meaning mere silence should not be interpreted as consent. According to Arkansas law, a person may commit sexual assault or rape if the victim was incapable of consenting to sexual activity. Incapability can stem from being physically helpless, meaning the victim was unconscious, unaware or otherwise physically unable to give consent. A victim could also be incapable of consent if they were under the influence of drugs or alcohol, or the victim has a mental illness or defect that affects their ability to knowingly consent. A person may consent using

nonverbal cues, but affirmative verbal cues are best to avoid miscommunication, according to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network. And consent for one activity at a certain time does not give consent for increased sexual activity or for recurring sexual activity. Some students have confided in Shields by telling him about their own sexual assault experiences. For about nine years, only women came forward to him. In recent years, he’s talked to men who were victims of sexual assault too. Shields thinks men are more hesitant to come forward because of the increased shame they experience. “The few who do talk about it are mocked,” he said. “It challenges their identity. It’s something that isn’t supposed to happen to men.” Nine out of 10 rape victims are women, according to RAINN. People forget that women can assault men, and men can assault other men, Shields said. A male sexual assault survivor I spoke with agreed that people are less likely to acknowledge a man’s story. He shared his story with me on condition of anonymity, so I will use the pseudonym Jonathan. It happened to him about 10 years ago while he was a college student at Missouri State

University in Springfield. A friend drove Jonathan, tipsy but not incoherent, back to his dorm after a party. Jonathan felt tired and just wanted to crawl into his bed and sleep, he said. His roommate was awake. “One of my friends at the party said ‘Oh you should go back and do something with your roommate,’ and I might have come back and made a joke with him,” Jonathan remembers. His roommate was gay, and he knew Jonathan was gay. They were friends who met on Facebook and agreed to live together Jonathan’s sophomore year. “I thought it was well understood that the joke I made by no means meant that I was interested in

being sexually active with him,” Jonathan said. “The more I look back on it, I feel like he might have taken it more seriously.” He remembers it like a dream: His roommate slipped into his bed, but Jonathan wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing or why he was on top of him. Jonathan woke up the next morning and discovered his underwear on backwards or inside out. He doesn’t remember exactly, but he realized that his memories weren’t from a bad dream. Physical clues led him to conclude he had been anally assaulted. Raped.

“I don’t think I initially labeled it sexual assault,” Jonathan said. Maybe it was an intoxicated misunderstanding – the result of a bad joke, he reasoned. The friends he told afterward brushed it off, laughing at the situation like someone might laugh when reminiscing on a moment of drunken karaoke. “I kind of laughed it off with them like ‘Oh, maybe that wasn’t a big deal. Maybe this happens all the time to people,’” he said. But then it happened again. It didn’t feel like a misunderstanding

anymore. He thought about reporting it, but multiple reasons deterred him, such as his sexuality and underage drinking. He feared that at that time, in the fall of 2008, authorities might make a spectacle out of such an incident between two young gay men, he said. “I was afraid of retaliation,” Jonathan said. “I was afraid I was going to be retaliated against by my rapist because he had a lot of friends there at school, and I felt like my life would’ve been hell if I would’ve gone and done something like that.” Jonathan, who now lives in

I Didn’t Say No T

Why silence does not e

here’s been a huge push over the past year to listen to survivors’ stories and to believe them. Women are encouraged to speak out against their male abusers and to unite their voices so they can’t be ignored, motivated by an undercurrent of feminist support. But where do I fit into that? I’m a queer white guy from a nice middle class family, and, yeah, I was raped when I was 17. But I’m a guy, so I’m not welcome in the movement, right? I’m the abuser, the opponent in this fight. I feel like my experience does little to push the #MeToo Movement forward, and actually, it kind of undermines it. Because of that, I’ve struggled to fully accept what happened to me and talk about it without feeling like a whiny white guy. For about six months, I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I had a right to speak up about it because I’d put myself in that situation. On July 17, 2015, I got in a car with the guy, got in the backseat with the guy, kissed the guy, and was raped by the guy. It was hard for me to

distinguish when it stopped being my fault. It was my choice to hang out with him. It was my choice to let him drive and to stay in his car once we parked at Walmart. It was my choice to follow him into the backseat when he asked me. It was my choice to climb even further back into the trunk when he asked me to. And it was my choice to kiss him. That’s when things get fuzzy though. I know I didn’t say yes to him taking off my clothes or helping him when he took off his. I remember the sounds of the shoes hitting the floorboard, I remember the rocking of the car that made me feel sick and I remember “Disco Heaven” by Lady Gaga playing, but I don’t remember ever outright saying ‘no.’ I’d dated him for three months before this happened, so for the first six months after he raped me, I just convinced myself that it was a misunderstanding. Before that day, I had told him where not to touch me because it made me uncomfortable. For God’s sake, I’d told him I was a virgin and I didn’t want to bottom for my first time having anal sex, but he went against everything I said and ignored all the boundaries I set. It was a bloody and violent ordeal that felt

like it lasted forever, though I’m not sure how long it actually went on. All I know for sure is that there were a lot of people at Walmart that day. I remember watching a mom load up her car with groceries, her two little kids hopping around her all happy and smiley while I was getting raped in the trunk of a car. I remember when I stopped feeling the rocking of the car, stopped feeling the dry stabbing and just stopped feeling altogether. So, I was confused. Now I know that it wasn’t my fault that he raped me, but then, it was hard to understand how I could consent to getting into the trunk with him yet not consent to what happened there. Add on the fear of my parents finding out I was naked in the backseat of an FJ Cruiser in a Walmart parking lot at about 2 p.m. in my hometown, and I had a perfect recipe for someone who didn’t want to report their sexual assault. I was a closeted guy in a small town whose sister was kicked out of our house for being gay a few years prior to me being raped, so how was I supposed to tell anyone? How could I justify the risk of being outed and cast out with the reward of being validated? And even then, would it have really been a reward to get

Violated. LEFT IN THE SHADOWS Northwest Arkansas, wishes he knew about resources like the NWA Center for Sexual Assault in his college town, he said. A month or two later he confided in his mother who didn’t dismiss the incident. She called it assault, and so did Jonathan. He knows that he never consented. He now knows it wasn’t his fault. THE UGLY REALITY

“I

think the myth is that it is the straight, pretty, young, white woman, but rape and sexual assault is not about beauty

and attraction,” Shelley said, speaking from experiences at the NWA Center for Sexual Assault. “It’s about power and violence and control.” Sexual violence isn’t a new problem. What’s new is the level of openness regarding such intimate crimes. More survivors are sharing their painful stories to raise awareness of the problem, hoping that what happens in the dark will not remain hidden – that people will hold each other accountable. And it’s not just a problem

t equal consent questioned by police, therapists, and maybe a judge, and to top it all off, I would’ve had to get my butthole swabbed, too? None of that really sounded appealing to me, so I just sorta existed for the next couple years, hoping the pain of everything would fall away as I got older. I didn’t spend much time at home the next year because any time I was alone, I was left with this big mess of feelings that I wasn’t willing to deal with. I’d feel hands all over my body, start shaking and crying, and cut my thigh open to try to distract my brain from whatever pain I was feeling. I thought I was losing my mind. I thought if I just didn’t talk about it and tried to spend as much time with people as possible, those thoughts and feelings would stop coming. But the pain didn’t go away. And it’s taken me a while to accept that it probably won’t. Last fall, I hit the lowest point of my life. I was drinking or smoking myself to sleep every night, trying to keep myself in a deep enough sleep that I wouldn’t wake up shaking and crying. I remember my roommate looking at me one night, drunk on the couch, rambling and telling me that I needed help. So, I made an appointment with

UA Counseling and Psychological Services, waited about three weeks for an appointment, went in and was told that they did not have enough staff to treat me. The clinician also said I had long-term issues that CAPS didn’t have the resources to treat. She helped me look for a suitable therapist in the area, and I’ve been going to that therapist – a trauma specialist with a PhD – for about a year now. It’s helped, but those lasting scars still hang around – both literally and figuratively. I can’t really be with anyone intimately and enjoy it. I can’t get a good night’s sleep most nights. And I’m not a fan of FJ Cruisers. I guess what I’m getting at is that I was raped more than three years ago, and no amount of movements, speeches or teary accusations broadcasted on the news have ever helped me anymore than a couple shots of vodka.

This essayist has requested to keep his name confidential. art by Raleigh Anderson

among powerful public figures. The perpetrator could be your ex, your roommate, that guy you’ve been crushing on or that stranger on the bus. It’s a problem in families, in churches, among teenagers and college students and within workplaces everywhere.

Reliv i I was

story by Alex Gladden photo illustration by Devynne Diaz

The Slut at the Party v ing the night raped

led him back to the bedroom, and my friends watched. We lept upon the bed and began kissing furiously. I took off my top and my bra. He tasted like Taco Bell, and I didn’t like the way his mustache rubbed against my mouth. He threw his praises at me. “You’re so fucking hot.” “God, I love your body.” He began unbuttoning my shorts and shoving his hands in my underwear, stroking my vaginal area. I pushed his hand back and giggled my refusal. I was drunk and horny, but all I wanted

to do was make out with him. He begged me to let him continue. “I just want to make you feel good.” On the bed, he repeatedly touched me, forcing me to physically remove his hand again and again. He eventually got mad at me and left. He told me he couldn’t stay in the room with me if I was going to be that way. I curled up on the bed alone and drunk. I don’t remember if I cried, but I remember feeling a gaping sadness. I left the house in the wee hours of the morning, too embarrassed to face my friends. IT’S A MAN’S WORLD

I didn’t realize I had been raped at 19 until a year and a half later. In Arkansas, rape is a first-degree sexual assault and a felony. The law states that people commit rape when they force their victims to engage in sexual intercourse or deviant sexual activity when the victims are incapable of consent, the victims are under 14 or the assailants are the victims’ relatives. Arkansas lawmakers determined that deviant sexual activity is any penetration of the mouth or anus of another person by a penis or any penetration of the labia majora or anus of another person by any body member or foreign instrument. I now know I was raped, and I didn’t come to this conclusion until researching Arkansas’ legal interpretation of rape. We can debate whether I was drunk enough to be

incapable of giving consent, but because the man who raped me repeatedly touched my vaginal area after I removed his hand and after I repeatedly told him no, by Arkansas’ legal parameters, he raped me. Hearing about a friend’s rape spurred me to question my own experience. A man raped her when she was blackout drunk and incapable of consent. I hadn’t yet made the connection to that night my sophomore year of college, but I think it sparked something in me. I eventually realized that that night linked me to the 1 in 6 women who are victims of attempted or completed sexual assault in their lifetimes, according to the Rape, Abuse & Incest Network, also known as RAINN. At the University of Arkansas, campus officials organized the Campus Climate Survey, which polled 2,830 students and revealed that about 15 percent of respondents had been assaulted since enrolling at the university. I think that number, and most statistics relating to sexual assault, are frighteningly low. Of my friends, 21 of them have been sexually assaulted. These people make up most of my closest friends. I can’t help but think that if most of my close friends have been assaulted, and if I alone can name 21 PEOPLE who have been assaulted, then the probability is high that so many others have been assaulted than numbers support. Our 22 accounts don’t even acknowledge the assault and harassment that women endure daily. At my first job at a fast-food

restaurant, a manager in his early 30s trained me alone and repeatedly made sexual comments about my breasts. I was 16. Last fall, a man grabbed my face and violently kissed me at a club. On a road trip this summer, a man with white hair made eye contact with my friends and I while he masturbated driving a red truck. In January, Stop Street Harassment, an organization dedicated to ending this cycle, reported that 81 percent of women and 43 percent of men have been harassed. Verbal sexual harassment is the most common at 77 percent of women and 34 percent of men. But an alarming 51 percent of women and 17 percent of men have also reported being groped, which is assault. So the idea, one that I’ve heard often repeated, that most men have not assaulted or harassed women makes me sick. I think, at the very least, most men have catcalled women on the street, made unwelcome comments about their bodies or just made them feel uncomfortable through the power men have as a result of centuries of oppressing women. This p r o b l e m c o n t i n u e s because we’re not talking about consent. We’re not teaching boys that they can’t pop girls’ bra straps. We’re teaching them women’s bodies belong to men. Three women among the 22 reported our assaults. They were forced to repeat accounts of their rapes over and over again. Even then, only one of my friends found justice. My friend group reflects the national numbers, which show that less than 1 percent of perpetrators face prison time. Our reporting averages about match up with national stats, as RAINN reports that 69 percent of people who have been assaulted don’t report. So why don’t we report? It’s something I’ve struggled with since I realized I was assaulted. I decided not to report because a friend who

“

went through the system said it wasn’t worth it. She said it would only cause me more harm than good. I’ve always been under the impression my case would not result in the arrest of my assailant. It’s my word against his. We were alone. I was drunk. His friends saw me flirting with him beforehand. Really, my experience is so open to victim blaming it’s laughable. And in a society like ours, where Brett Kavanaugh can reign in a lifetime appointment to the Supreme Court after sexual assault allegations, and where our president eloquently advises men to “grab ‘em by the pussy,” I don’t believe I would receive justice. THE GOOD ONES

few days after one of my friends was raped, the one that made me think, I was with Eli La Salle, one of the men who has always treated me and my

I really don’t want to say them, these thoughts, but I can’t keep them tamped down. He turned his head to me. “Yeah?” I asked him if he remembered that joke – the one about the blow job. Then I said that’s never happened to me. I began telling him the story about that night, the first Friday of my sophomore year at the University of Arkansas, the first house party I ever attended. The one where I was so excited when that guy, who would later rape me, showed up. I’d thought he was so cute. I’d had such a crush on him all summer, ever since I’d met him. The one where I was even more excited when the friend who invited me rounded all of us up to go back to her boyfriend’s house, and she’d rounded him up too. The one where a man, who is four years older than me, raped me. Eli was silent after I finished the story. I said it quickly. I stammered it. It was hard to get it all out of my mouth. Before that exact moment, I’d never told anyone about the part of the night that included the rape. I laughed with my friends about the hookup, leaving out the one detail that would let them conclude that I was raped. I didn’t know why I left it out. I just told myself it didn’t count. It made me feel slutty and gross. So I didn’t bring it up to anyone until that night with Eli. “What does that sound like to you?” I asked him. I still wasn’t sure. Eli told me gently. He spoke the words out loud, the words that dangled behind my question. He said sexual assault. I asked him if he was sure. “Are you sure I’m not just overreacting?” I repeated this question over and over to Eli in countless later repetitions and to friend after friend. And they told me no. Something for which I am forever grateful. No,

I eventually realized that that night linked me to the women who are victims of attempted or completed sexual assault in their lifetimes.

“

1 in 6

body with respect. I made a tasteless joke about rape, the specifics of which I can’t exactly remember, but I insinuated that I’d been forced to give a blow job. Eli shut me down. He didn’t think the joke was funny. Really, I didn’t think it was funny either, but something in the joke rang true. I’d never had a penis forcibly shoved into my mouth. So why did it resonate with me as familiar? Later that night, Eli and I lay in bed talking before drifting off to sleep. It was like it just popped into my head. “Eli?” I said his name long, “Ellliiiiiiii,” and with a question, the way I always do when thoughts get jumbled in my mind, when I can’t keep from spewing them out any longer, when

Violated. THE SLUT AT THE PARTY I am NOT overreacting. And their reassurances have been constant. I asked my friends: If I would have just let him fuck me, would I feel this way? Am I just stupid for not realizing earlier that he raped me? Would I be ruining HIS life by pressing charges? And they again and again told me no. Weeks after I realized I was raped, the nightmares began. Most of the time my assailant wasn’t in them. Most of the time, my nightmare rapists were male acquaintances. And then I would gain consciousness as Eli shook me awake, stroking my hair, whispering in soothing voices, “Cutie pie, cutie pie, it’s just a dream.” I felt so stupid that I hadn’t even realized I had been raped. But Anne Shelley, the executive director for the NWA Center for Sexual Assault, helped me realize that I’m not alone in this experience. She told me about how trauma affects the brain, causing many women to repress their experiences. She shook her head and gently corrected me when I called myself dumb. “Our brain doesn’t work the same way in trauma,” Anne said. Anne offered me tissues when I cried and called me brave for writing this article. Before I left the office, she asked if they could help me in any way. She spoke of the center’s free counseling sessions. Anne helped me set up an appointment and hugged me goodbye. At the session, I felt like I was given a place to share my feelings with someone who is specifically trained to help sexual assault victims. The NWA Center for Sexual Assault offers services to survivors at every step, from forensic rape exams performed by professionals who have received sexual assault training to individual counseling. It’s a good place. If you need help, you can go no matter when your assault happened, be it years or hours ago. I still feel panicked anytime I see the man who raped me. When people post pictures with him, I shut down the app and avoid social media. When I hear he’ll be at a party, I refuse to go. But part of why I wanted to write this article was to make sure he knows what he did to me. So, I texted him and requested an interview. I wanted to know exactly what was

going through his mind both when he raped me and in the aftermath and write about it. He responded back with a lengthy apology. INTERVIEWING MY ASSAILANT He rode his bike up to the W day. picnic table where I waited.

e met on a warm, breezy May

I put my hands under the table so he wouldn’t notice how shaky they were. He recounted the rape back to me from his point of view, matching my memories of the night. Because I took my top and bra off, because I so enthusiastically made out with him, he kept touching me. In his mind, he said he thought I would eventually come around to pursuing further sexual activity. “I was thinking ‘Maybe the next time I try this she’ll be cool with it,’” he said. He told me that the next day he thought about what happened a lot. So he texted me to get lunch. When I seemed okay, he put it behind him. But our experience was something that he thought about in the midst of the #MeToo Movement. Every time another woman came forward, he said he thought about me. He spoke with friends, asking them what they thought his actions meant, receiving mixed answers. Some thought his actions were OK, and some didn’t. When I texted him to arrange an interview, he said that, while it was a shock, he wasn’t completely surprised when he read my account of the night. “I can’t say that that text came from out of the blue,” he said. I asked him how it impacted him, and he said, “Fuck, this thing that I did has affected this woman,” leaving the sentence to trail off, letting the silence speak for itself. “I still don’t know how to be OK with myself,” he said. And so now I’ve been struggling with what his apology means to me. I want closure. I want to forgive him so that I can heal. I looked him in the eyes, sitting at that picnic table and told him I forgave him. But forgiving him doesn’t mean that his actions are in any way acceptable. I still think he should be held responsible, and in an ideal world, that would mean he would face jail time. Unfortunately, we don’t live there. We live in a place

where people don’t believe victims of sexual assault. Regardless, I want to hold him accountable in the small ways that I can. Through this article. Through telling my story. Through holding all the men responsible who have not treated my body with respect. Through refusing to accept that kind of treatment anymore. And it’s difficult. It’s something I have to do all the time. I do believe that every perpetrator should be prosecuted, including the man who raped me. And I struggled with a lot of guilt for not reporting. Am I contributing to the problem? At the NWA Center for Sexual Assault, Anne said no. Assailants contribute to the problem, not victims. She heralded any choice I make in my time of healing. When he raped me, he took away my decision, and in choosing not to report, I’m taking my decisionmaking power back. But, I think I will always debate whether to report the man who raped me. Maybe one day I will choose to do so. Maybe I will be ready to face the consequences I might have to confront in that decision: public backlash, threat of being arrested under allegations I made a false report, mental health concerns. The hardships of reporting a rape go on and on. For now, I’m choosing to do good things for myself. I want my story to be told. I want to make a difference. But I don’t want to be questioned by the police and prodded by lawyers. I don’t want to be doubted. I already doubt myself enough. This rape is something that will always affect me. It’s not going away. There is no happy ending. It’s there in my nightmares, in my interactions with men, in the way I think. And it is not OK.

Victim or survivor? Both terms apply when referring to those who have experienced sexual assault. Our reporters and editors upheld the wording requests of essayists and sources. When reporting generally about the problem, we followed RAINN suggestions. Alex decided to use victim in her essay because the effects of being raped never dissipate. “It’s not something I’m really surviving,” Alex said.

Can I Claim

#MeToo?

story by Katie Serrano photo illustration by Lexi DeLeon

Violated. CAN I CLAIM #METOO?

Outside the entryway of Katie’s apartment in Rome, she could see the top of St. Peter’s Basilica. photo by Katie Serrano

he ding of the requested stop echoed through the narrow aisle and through my ears. Termini to Piazza Venezia. Not more than a few blocks. As quickly as it started, it ended, and the man got up, never looking at my face, and exited the bus. Still paralyzed, I let out a deep breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. A local woman pushed past me, mumbling a curt “scusi.”

had been in Rome for four weeks, studying abroad in the summer of 2017, and had finally built up the courage to explore the city alone. I promised myself that I would be back early enough and that I would be fine thanks to the dozens of guards posted on every

street corner, protecting Vatican City. And in hindsight, I was fine. I made it back to my apartment that night, and I didn’t have a scratch or external scar on my body to prove otherwise. I was riding bus 64, “sessanta quattro.” The night was still young for the Romans, which meant that the busses were packed and I was wedged between locals and tourists, hanging on to the metal handlebar directly to my right. It was sudden, quick and shocking. The man was sitting in the seat to my right, his upper body parallel with

my standing torso. His hand went up one of the loose fabric pant legs of my Under Armour athletic shorts and entered my body. Paralyzed, stuck in place as if the metal handlebar and I had become one, I let it happen. People have asked me why I didn’t force myself away, start yelling or defend myself. I try to tell them that until they have been taken advantage of in such a way, until they have been paralyzed with fear to the point that their bones go stiff and the air stops flowing through their lungs and they feel the calloused, foreign hand of

A few seconds. That’s all it took to become a victim of sexual assault.

an invader, they will not be able to understand why I let it happen, or more importantly, why I couldn’t stop it.

n the midst of heinous revelations about men assaulting women and covering it up for years, it’s hard to figure out where victims fit on what I’ve come to terms with calling the #MeToo Spectrum. Just because you weren’t raped, domestically abused or locked in an office with Matt Lauer, doesn’t mean your voice doesn’t deserve to be heard. But does your voice, telling the tale of a lesser crime or violation, take away from the more “extreme” cases? Does it quiet another voice that has silently been suffering for years? After the Harvey Weinstein allegations, then the Al Franken allegations, then the Louis C.K. allegations, then the Roy Moore allegations, then the Kevin Spacey allegations and everything in between, the chorus of “me too” proves that the problem extends far wider than anyone could have imagined. Harassment and assault have become such a norm in society that women aren’t even aware that yes, it has happened to them too. The Twitter hashtags and polls exist online, celebrities pose on the cover of magazines telling their stories, but it doesn’t always make it any easier for us “normal folk” to speak up. A few seconds. That’s all it took to become just another statistic.

Just as society treats women as objects, we treat masses of women as just another number. I became part of the 15 percent of the population who have been assaulted in an open, public place, according to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network. I am now part of the 54 percent of American women between the ages of 18 and 34 who have experienced sexual assault. I joined the 1 in 3 women worldwide who have experienced some sort of sexual violence. A few seconds was all it took.

knew what happened to me was more than just a flippant catcall, but it took me a while to acknowledge that it was a form of rape, by it’s legal definition. Yes, a man had penetrated my body without my consent, but I never thought about associating what happened with that word. And so, I didn’t tell anyone for months because, to me, it wouldn’t have made a difference. I didn’t feel like I was at liberty to tell my story because I was, in every sense of the word, “fine.” When I did decide to talk about it, I was met with a variety of answers. “I want to kill him, whoever he is.” “I’m so sorry that happened to you.” “That doesn’t really sound like a big deal. Just be thankful you got to go study abroad.” “I had a similar experience when…” “My roommate studied abroad last summer and the same thing happened to her on the same public transit!” “Oh, me too.”

Before the assault, they were... Sleeping or performing another activity at home: 48% Traveling to and from work or school, or traveling to shop or run errands: 29% Working: 12% Attending school: 7% Doing an unknown or other activity: 5%

Source: Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network

...minding their own business.

decided to tell my 23-yearold sister, who is out in the “real world.” She works on Sixth Street in Austin, Texas, the

notorious bar-lined party street in the city, where every time she walks from the parking garage into her building she gets sexist remarks thrown her way from men. Her response to my recollection was quick, almost curt. “Oh, me too,” she said casually, sharing her experience with her own nameless and faceless man. It was almost as if it were a contest or the next big trend that everyone wants to say they knew about before it was cool. She didn’t mean to minimize my story. In fact, she helped me realize the importance of it. And the importance of hers. And of all the other girls who use a casual tone when talking about

Violated. CAN I CLAIM #METOO? Katie wore this outfit, a pair of Under Armour shorts and a tank top, that night on the bus when she was assaulted. photo by Lexi DeLeon

these experiences. These stories are so common, but they shouldn’t be. I waited a few more months to tell my boyfriend at the time because I was afraid it would make him feel worse than it ever made me feel. I didn’t want to see the look in his eye. I was sitting at the head of my bed, and he was sitting at the foot. I almost felt silly, like I was making way too big of a deal out of this. Again, like it didn’t even matter, and why bother? Yet when the words finally reached my throat, my heart was right there with them. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” were the first words out of my mouth, before I even went into detail about what had happened. Why had I adhered so quickly to putting more blame on myself? And I was right to think that it would just make me feel worse. Not that he looked at me any differently, not that he felt ashamed of me or disgusted with me, but the pain in his eyes made me feel like I should have done something. I shouldn’t have let this happen to me. Not only did it hurt me, but it hurt him. And then another thought popped into my head. Why do I care what he thinks? He didn’t go through it. Why does he get to feel bad about it? Why do I feel bad about him feeling bad? And finally the root of this problem started solidifying in my head: Women are so quick to blame themselves, and I was worried about how my problems would affect others or how it would make them feel, completely disregarding my own experience and healing. After the awkward few minutes of silence, him mumbling some obscenities about the stranger on the bus, and me assuring him I was okay, everything went back to normal. I went back to being a number in a statistic. It took me over a year to tell my

parents. I’m not sure why I waited so long. Maybe it’s because I knew the first thing they would do is lecture me on going out alone in a foreign country. Or that I was worried that they would put the blame on me. And maybe I should have been smarter, maybe I was naive to think that those guards, who stand guard day and night protecting The Lord’s temple, would be able to protect mine.

e live in a world that tells young girls to take a friend with them to the bathroom, to never drink out of a cup that they didn’t see poured, and to walk to their car with their head down with their keys sticking between their fingers, “just in case.” Sure, these things help women, and it’s important to be smart and alert. But are we lecturing boys at a young age to not rape or assault someone? It doesn’t seem that hard to shift the focus to respecting women, instead of trying to enforce a set of guidelines for girls and women to follow to make it safely through the night. Boys are not ridiculed by their father if they forget their pepper spray. We live in a world where I am still asked if I knew that the bus route I took was notorious for sexual assault – if I had looked into it, read any warnings, looked up any statistics – being told that I should have

known, that I should have expected it, even accepted that it was going to happen. We live in a world where the Brock Turners are locked away for a shorter period of time than it takes for a victim’s bruises to heal, and the Aziz Ansaris aren’t even aware that they are violating a woman. I have learned not to put the blame on myself. I was violated, and that is enough to speak up. The constant Why did I let it happen? is slowly becoming Why does this happen? I have realized that change begins with a whisper, and that a few whispers can turn into a voice, and that a few voices can turn into a choir, and that choir can turn into a roar that can’t be dulled. Even a whisper that tells the story of assault, no matter how insignificant it may seem to the outside world, is a million times louder than the catcalls men throw at women every day. I made it back to my apartment that night in Rome. I went to sleep. I got up the next day. I made it back to the U.S. before the summer ended. But that sudden, quick, shocking violation has always left me wondering, how many “me too”s are we missing? Who didn’t make it back? And how much louder could we be? We may never know how many voices have been lost. But what we do know is this: We are louder together. We do not drown each other out.

art by Ally Gibbons

Violated. HOW SEDUCTION BECAME SLAVERY

en short blocks. It took Kathy Bryan 10 short blocks to reach her friend’s house in Virginia Beach. They were the kind of steps a 15-yearold takes when she’s walking to a friend’s house to study. Innocent. Unassuming. They definitely weren’t the kind of steps a person takes when expecting to meet a man outside of some townhomes en route to her best friend. A man who, six months later, would sell her body for sex. “I found out firsthand what it was like to be enslaved,”

Kathy said. “In our country. In America. In my day and time.” She wasn’t enslaved immediately. All they exchanged at first were mere “hello”s. The relationship slowly progressed over time. The greetings grew longer, more frequent, and once he knew she trusted him, he shifted gears. 1981 | VIRGINIA BEACH

he had plans to go dancing with him one Friday night. Kathy was excited. They’d kicked off a friendship the past six months, talking, hanging out and a few times, holding hands. The man picked her up from her house, and on the way he said, “Oh, I forgot something at my house.” She thought nothing of it. She’d been to his house before. His real home, crappy and crammed, wasn’t on the way to her friend’s place, by the way. He’d intentionally sat outside of some townhomes where they first met, hoping to strike up a “relationship” with someone like Kathy. His real home, where the trafficking began, was a mile or two away. Once they parked, Kathy and the man went into the living room. He stopped her by the fireplace and kissed her. It was their first. He deepened the kiss, holding her as a man walked down the stairs. Naked. Then, for two or three hours, they raped and sodomized her. Once they finished, the men left her on the ground, walked into the kitchen

and made sandwiches. Kathy lay on the floor in shock. Scrambling to her feet, Kathy made a break to the bathroom, locking herself inside and hoping for a window. She looked around. No window. No way out. Kathy grabbed a towel, wrapping it around herself. She planned to open the door slowly, without it squeaking, and run for the front door. But as soon as she stepped into the hallway so did he. It was like she was underwater, barely hearing the muffled voices around her. Kathy could not hear what he was saying. That is, until he said her sister’s name, “Cassandra.” Now she was listening. “From this point forward, you will be where I tell you to be, when I tell you to be there. Or else, Cassandra,” he said. No. Not her 5-year-old sister. And just like that, for approximately two years, Kathy became very familiar with the residential trafficking world. Residential trafficking isn’t the kind you see in movies like “Taken” that involve a kidnapping. That’s rare. Only 5 percent of U.S. sex trafficking is that kind – someone chained to a bed or locked in a house. Residential trafficking is the subtle, underyour-nose type. No changes from the outside. Just a deadening from the inside. Kathy couldn’t, no, wouldn’t, escape. “Or else, Cassandra.” 2018 | ARKANSAS

ore than 40 million people worldwide are victims of human trafficking, according to the International Labor Organization. In the 2015 fiscal year, U.S. attorneys prosecuted 1,049 suspects for human trafficking offenses, indicating a 44 percent increase from 729 suspects in 2011, according to a 2018 report from the Bureau of Justice Statistics. Eighty percent of human trafficking cases worldwide are sex-trafficking cases. The U.S. Department of Homeland Security defines sex trafficking as modernday slavery that uses force, fraud or coercion in exchange for sexual exploitation. In 2017, there were 147 phone calls from Arkansas to the National Human Trafficking Hotline

How Seduction Became Slavery and 33 sex trafficking cases in the state, but this includes only reported incidents. “There’s typically only one reported trafficking case in Northwest Arkansas a year because 9 out of 10 victims don’t want to testify,” said John Ahrends, a retired Fayetteville resident agent for the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. Lack of education and awareness contribute to this problem. At a dinner party, I mentioned to some women my findings on sex trafficking in Northwest Arkansas. One woman stared at me, appalled. “We have that here?” she asked. “No, seriously, like we have that here?” She moved from Los Angeles to give her daughter a safe environment, free of danger. But no city is immune. Arkansas trends on the lower side of trafficking in the U.S., but there has been an increase over the years because of population growth, according to a Fort Smith FBI agent, who requested to speak anonymously to protect his undercover identity. He argues that people in the Northwest Arkansas area still have a small-town mentality when they approach sex trafficking, meaning they think trafficking happens in big cities, sure, but not here. “Trafficking is hidden,” said Jenny Sorey, founder of Hub of Hope, a local organization helping sextrafficking victims. “It’s rooted in the darkness.” The lack of established organizations and education to the public caters to this rising problem in Northwest Arkansas. Sorey says that before 2015, there wasn’t a nonprofit organization for trafficked victims in the area. That’s why she stepped up and started Hub of Hope, which began meeting as a coalition in 2015. “There’s no way we’re immune to this issue,” Sorey realized. “I

began diving into this issue here in Arkansas, asking, ‘Do we have a response to this? What does it even look like here domestically?’” 1983 | VIRGINIA BEACH

athy made her first D ever. School was harder in Virginia than it was in New York, where she lived previously, and life was busier. In New York, Kathy was a straight A and B student. She was a year ahead in class and already looking at college applications and scholarships. But now, she woke up, went to class, fixed dinner with her mom, went to bed, snuck out and was sold to men who paid her traffickers for sex. She often skipped class her senior year just to catch up on sleep. Kathy stopped hanging out with her best friend. It was imperative no one figured out what was going on, and she worried her friends would be forced into trafficking too. Her trafficker embedded himself in her inner circles. He would tell Kathy what meal her mom would cook that night or how her brother got a bike for his birthday. These were little ways to remind her that she was being watched. She wasn’t in control. Sorey explains that oftentimes trafficked victims don’t testify because of fear but also because many don’t associate “trafficked” or “victim” with themselves. They’ve been trained – brainwashed really – to believe this is their family. “They look at their pimps as, ‘daddy,’” Sorey said. Many pimps threaten violence on parents, siblings, cousins and friends. Sorey noticed

story by Catherine Shackelford art by Ally Gibbons

this play out while serving meals to women in a motel one week. She noticed a woman with downcast eyes and silent lips accompanied by a man. He answered every question for her. “Would you like a salad?” “Yes, she’ll have some.” She had the word bitch tattooed across one side of her cheek. Women serving with Sorey started whispering to one another, subtly pointing to the image. “Do you really believe she chose to have that on her face?” Sorey asked, stunned. Branding names with tattoos of barcodes, cash signs or a name shows that the woman is that man’s property. “Traffickers will exploit any vulnerability they can find,” Kathy said. “They’re all about power and control and greed.” That’s why Kathy’s trafficker chose Cassandra as a threat. He knew Kathy’s vulnerability. Choosing Cassandra out of her five siblings was strategic. When Kathy was 6, she had a younger sister who was born with half a heart. After a failed heart transplant, her sister died.

Kathy climbed into bed every night and prayed for a little sister. About five years later, Cassandra was born. They shared a room, even when Kathy was a teenager. “He picked well,” Kathy said. “I would’ve done anything for her.” To protect Cassandra, Kathy never mentioned being trafficked to anyone, especially not to law enforcement. Like most trafficked victims, she was trapped. She remained obedient for about two years, until something odd happened. One night her trafficker randomly dropped her off at a shopping center and said he never wanted to see her again. He warned her against going to any of the places she’d been or talking to anyone she’d met. It was the only way he could protect her, he said. With that, he was gone. Kathy is not certain why or what he was trying to protect her from. She doesn’t remember how she got home that night, but she did. She was free, sort of. “Rescue does not equal freedom,” Kathy said. “Healing brings freedom.” Kathy didn’t tell a soul what happened, not even her husband, who she married about a year and a half after the incident. She held in the secret for 27 years. 2018 | NORTHWEST ARKANSAS

ost conversations with advocates like Sorey leave gaps, so it can take time to figure out a victim’s story or what they

2017 Sex Trafficking Cases

551

Source: National Human Trafficking Hotline

33 80

Fortytwo human trafficking cases were reported in Arkansas in 2017, 33 of which were sex trafficking cases.

need. Gretchen Schmeltzer, a licensed psychologist, member of the American Psychological Association and leader of Into the Light, a prevention and rescue non-profit in Mountain Home, argues they need a support system; they need more than just escaping. “They need you to try not to fix them,” she said. “They need to be seen. They need you to believe them.” Ahrends knows trafficked victims tend to keep their secrets hidden.

John Ahrends, a retired resident agent for the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, sits at the head of the Homeland Security Investigations conference table in Fayetteville on Sept. 26. photo by Jake Halbert

He’s worked with Homeland Security Investigations for more than 22 years. Because most victims don’t want to take the risk of talking to the police, Ahrends team relies on relationships with nonprofits in Northwest Arkansas, establishing trust and letting those groups serve as the initiators. Northwest Arkansas’ Homeland Security waits until women like Sorey and Schmeltzer, founder of Into the Light, develop relationships with the victim. Then Ahrends enters the scene and questions the victim, creating leads without putting the victim in danger. He’ll conduct his own investigation and create sting operations, which are undercover operations designed to nab a person committing a crime, or in this case, traffickers. “We’ve all gotta work hand-inhand,” Ahrends said. “It’s the most successful way.” Schmeltzer, Sorey and Ahrends agree that this area has a unique relationship between law enforcement and nonprofits. When Ahrends worked in Lexington, Kentucky, he couldn’t

Violated. HOW SEDUCTION BECAME SLAVERY develop trust or a relationship with nonprofits. They wouldn’t allow Homeland Security agents to talk to victims and eventually uninvited them from meetings. Yet the nonprofit leaders remained frustrated at the city’s trafficking issue. “If you don’t give me anything, I can’t do anything,” Ahrends told them. In Northwest Arkansas, the nonprofits construct weekly meetings, inviting law enforcement and anyone interested to come. Schmeltzer realized the importance of the community unifying their efforts with this issue, a large reason why she and 15 others started Into the Light in Mountain Home, which became an official nonprofit in 2015 and was one of the first sextrafficking nonprofits in that area. After Schmeltzer’s team started Into the Light, many residents jumped on board. “We’ve been really supported by the community, by the church and by areas that surround Mountain Home,” Schmeltzer said. But with the rise of the Internet, there’s been an increase in trafficking, largely due to pornography. The industry helps traffickers attract more clients with photos and films of the ‘product’ because most exchanges are now online. The Internet has also created more complexities in dealing with trafficking. Thousands of websites devoted to prostitution don’t allow anonymity, said Sgt. Jason French with the Fayetteville Police Department. It’s a lot harder for the police to create sting operations that will catch traffickers in the act. “In order to go through these escort services, the website requires you to be verified,” French said. “They want to know who you are before they’re even willing to meet with you.” As these complexities arise, there is a greater push for more education reforms in Arkansas so that parents and teenagers can begin to make boundaries online and prevent sex trafficking from happening. On March 8, Homeland Security Investigations and the Arkansas Department of Education partnered together and created new legislation requiring all Arkansas educators to have 30 minutes of sex-trafficking

education every year, including a four-part video series that introduces the issue, shows what signs to look for in a victim and outlines options available to victims. Officials expect about 40,000 teachers and faculty to view the videos. However, the Arkansas Department of Education and Homeland Security representatives I spoke with could not explain which department will enforce the training nor define what would happen if an educator failed to take the 30-minute course. APRIL 30, 2018 | SPRINGDALE

he Springdale Rotary Club’s Day of Awareness ended its lunch with a standing ovation as hundreds cheered for Kathy sharing her story. Back in 2011, Kathy felt led to write a book and tell people about her experience as a sex-trafficking survivor. At first, she was hesitant. She wrestled with the idea of writing a book. But one day, while praying, she told God she would do what He wanted, that she was all in. Fifteen minutes later, her phone rang. A friend asked if she was okay, said that God told her to call and see if she wanted to share anything with her. Kathy told her friend her story during that phone call. Quickly after, her friend invited her to speak at a women’s retreat. After the retreat, she spoke again and again. Now Kathy is working on her book and has counseled hundreds of trafficked victims. She is a consultant for the U.S. Department of Homeland Security’s Blue Campaign, an antitrafficking program started by the United Nations, director of Elevate Academy, self-proclaimed the world’s largest online resource for human-trafficking survivors, and is a consultant for the National Survivor Network, a network for

Kathy Bryan escaped her own trafficker about 35 years ago and later became an advocate for sex-trafficking victims. photo courtesy of Kathy Bryan

human trafficking survivors. She also helped pass the Arkansas Trafficking Act of 2013, which allows human trafficking victims to file a lawsuit against their traffickers and also imposes tougher consequences for traffickers – up to 40 years in prison instead of the previous 20 years. “It’s been amazing getting to work with other victims – to see them own their life and to let what was stolen have an end,” she told the audience. Ten short blocks. Or 15. Or 20. They aren’t slow steps, though sometimes it feels that way. They aren’t trepid steps. They are the kind of steps a trafficked victim takes with Kathy, venturing into the unknown. “The unknown is scarier than the known, even when the known is terrifying,” Kathy said. But maybe it’s a little less terrifying if you join hands.

National Resources For victim support from the National Human Trafficking Resource Center, call 1-888-373-7888 or text HELP or INFO to (2333733). To submit a tip online to federal law enforcement, go to www.ice.gov/tips.

My Second Chance The days following my

“

suicide attempt

Okay, I need you to lift up your breasts for me,” the nurse said to me while she gently searched my shaking, naked body for contraband. Then she took my picture, which I would get to see every time I stood at the medication distribution window in the adult ward of Vantage Point Behavioral Health Hospital. Tucked behind trees and a sloping driveway off Crossover Road in Fayetteville, Arkansas, Vantage Point serves as one of two psychiatric facilities for adults in the Northwest Arkansas area. It provides short-term mental health care for patients to undergo detox from drug addiction, psychosis and suicidal ideations. Before my strip search, I was seated in a light-green waiting room. It was around 2 a.m. and no one else was in any of the adjacent waiting rooms. The headache I felt from overdosing on Xanax, a drug I’d originally been prescribed to treat Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which was diagnosed as the root of my panic attacks, had started to wear off. The chairs in the green room were too heavy to scoot comfortably up to the table. All the chairs in Vantage Point were like this, which I learned were designed for the safety of patients and others. The mirrors in every bathroom were bolted to the bathroom walls and were made out of semi-reflective sheet metal that couldn’t be broken into harmful shards. We weren’t allowed to use floss without a doctor’s order and had to turn in our toothbrushes and toothpaste after each use. All of our garments were inspected for strings, and if any were found, they were removed or cut out. I made-do with wearing a sports bra, as the underwire that provides support to most bras posed a potential risk if a patient removed them. These precautions existed to make sure that patients like me didn’t try to hurt themselves again.

had only been in therapy for about a month before I overdosed and ended up at Vantage Point. I’d seen a guidance counselor once in high school, but I never made any attempts to see a therapist after that until my thenboyfriend’s mom mentioned that she went to a therapist every week and that it might be beneficial for me. My perception has always been that I feel and respond to emotions more dramatically than others around me. I would make friends quickly but had trouble keeping them. My romantic relationships were usually characterized with an initial, whitehot intensity that fizzled out in a matter of months or ended explosively. When my high school boyfriend ended our relationship my freshman year of college, I soaked my heartbreak wounds in alcohol and self-harm. Multiple people told me that my inability to handle everyday life was exhausting to them. My coping mechanisms had always been to sleep away pain or to self-harm. This was curbed somewhat in high school when my parents were there to force me out of bed, but once I entered college, there wasn’t anyone

there to force me into making responsible decisions anymore. Looking back, I slept away much of my college years, which extended beyond the standard four years it takes most students to earn their undergraduate degrees. I’ve changed majors twice and spent nearly seven years so far trying to graduate. I still have about four classes left. By August 2016, the depression and anxiety began to outweigh my will to fight back. A nurse told me that I just needed to run more and get out of

MY SECOND CHANCE 39 bed in order to solve my problems, which left me feeling like all of my shortcomings were preventable and my fault. It wasn’t until later that my psychiatrist taught me that it wasn’t that simple. Coping skills like exercise don’t always work without routine psychotherapy and medication. One of the most important facts about suicide is that there is no singular cause or sign. Individuals living with depression or anxiety and other related disorders have a higher risk for suicide, but that’s not necessarily criteria for someone who is suffering from suicidal ideations. The Centers for Disease Control reports that suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. across all ages and is the second leading cause of death among people ages 10 to 34. Suicide is a heavy problem for many people, but I learned there is always hope, and there is always help.

spent the first half of August 4, 2016, shuttered inside my house, groggily stumbling to the kitchen and back to bed. It was the third day of a depressioninduced binge. I called in sick to work and didn’t leave my bed. The previous Saturday, I’d agreed to temporarily foster four, 2-dayold kittens for my local animal shelter. The tiny, bean-shaped, fuzzy cats needed to be bottle fed, and I had some experience as I had three cats of my own. Sunday morning, however, I returned them to the shelter. Two of them wouldn’t take a bottle, and they weren’t moving very much anymore. I called a few hours later and found out that one of the kittens had died. It probably wasn’t my fault, but the monster that lives in my brain whispered greasy words a b o u t failure, sliding into the

story by Rachael Krasnesky photos by Lexi DeLeon

hinges of my already unsteady psyche. My dad called me a few days later to talk about a class I’d failed that spring semester. It wasn’t the first time he’d called to talk about it and an argument ensued. He was tired of my inconsistent grades and s p e n d i n g thousands of dollars on my education. It was time, in his opinion, for me to either get my life together or to get out into the world on my own. All of this was too much – the dead kittens, the flood of guilt I felt for letting my parents down again, my ever-decreasing GPA. I tried calming myself down with the usual coping skills my therapist and I had practiced. I vacuumed the house because cleaning always made me feel better. I watched something happy on Netflix that usually distracted my mind. Nothing gave me comfort from the dark, looming cloud of self-hatred that had formed within me that day. I texted my aunt, Leslie Alexander, saying I felt like there was nothing left for me, that this day was too hard to handle. She didn’t respond. My house was spotless and all of my cats had been fed. I turned off my television, unplugged the internet modem and shut off all the lights. I turned off my phone and my computer. I opened the orange pill bottle I’d kept in my purse that was full of Alprazolam – Xanax – poured them out, lined them up and started to take them. My aunt Leslie hadn’t responded to my text because she had immediately gotten into her car and driven to my house instead. She felt like something was different and more alarming than my usual kvetching about life’s hard knocks. She knocked on the door but didn’t wait for me to answer before unlocking it to get inside. Looking at the note and the line of pills on my coffee table, Leslie asked me what I did, realizing things were worse than she’d originally anticipated.

“You told me you’d taken a lot of your Xanax. I called poison control and they said that if you were awake, you didn’t need an ambulance but needed to go to the emergency room anyway. I loaded you up into my car and did my best to keep you awake on the way to the hospital,” Leslie recounted. When we arrived at the hospital, Leslie helped me out of the car. Most of what I know is from Leslie’s retelling of what happened once we got to the emergency room. I fell in the parking lot and eventually ended up in a wheelchair. At some point I was taken to a room in the back of emergency room, where I saw a nurse and a doctor. I was asked if I wanted to stay the night at a special emergency hospital for suicide patients – at the time I thought it would be temporary and I could go home when I’d sobered up. Most of what happened from that point is fuzzy. My time in Vantage Point began later that day. It was a Thursday, and it was the beginning of a long weekend. Being at Vantage Point over the weekend only added to the monotony, as there weren’t any family visits or doctor’s appointments on Saturdays and Sundays. There were coloring pages but only felt tip markers or an occasional Sharpie, and sometimes the markers went missing. The flat screen TV in the recreation area of the adult ward sat behind thick, somewhat foggy plastic sheeting bolted to the TV stand. The only chance to get outside was during smoke breaks, which were in a fenced-in yard covered in dying grass and cigarette butts. Group therapy was surprisingly uplifting, despite my desperate desire to fall asleep. We discussed the things

39 MY SECOND CHANCE in life that made us feel worthless, and we all chimed in to each other’s stories with advice and words of hope, reassuring one another that we weren’t alone and that there is always a reason to keep trying. Like little kids learning to understand the world, we were given coloring pages with meaningful quotes about recovery, and we kept journals to write down our feelings – something the therapists encouraged as a way to keep track of our day-today struggles and successes. While my stay at Vantage Point was relatively short, the staff and other patients’ honesty and kindness impacted my view of life. There was no judgement from these strangers, and this environment allowed us to find strength and hope in each other’s brokenness and vulnerability. When my aunt brought me home from Vantage Point the following Monday, I got out of her car and stood barefoot on my front lawn. I wiggled my toes in the cigarette-free grass and let the sun soak back into my skin.

o this day, I haven’t forgotten the smell of sanitizing cleaner vaguely scented like lavender mixed with the lingering aroma of all-in-one combo soap. I haven’t forgotten the panic of being unable to call my mom because the ward’s phones shut off during group

therapy, or being told to walk quietly in the hall on the way to a 30-minute lunch like a second-grader. I also haven’t forgotten the tattoo-covered patient who introduced himself to me and asked, “So what got you here?” I told him I’d overdosed the night before. He said, “Damn, that sucks. I’m glad you’re here because that means you’re still alive. We’re still alive and tomorrow can only get better.” I haven’t forgotten the way my dad cried when he told me that it didn’t matter if I took 20 years to graduate college, because if I was trying, it meant I was alive. And that’s what mattered. My mom, who I have always been very close to, echoed similar reassurances. However, something I’ve worked on in therapy is learning that part of my self-care includes forming opinions of myself based on what makes me happy rather than what might make someone else happy. Basing self-worth on another person’s opinion is a dangerous path. What is good for you may not fit the image of someone else’s vision of your life. My parents gave me the reassurance I needed, that I am loved regardless of my educational and career path, but that wasn’t what ultimately led to the healthier mental state I am in today. GeneralizedAnxiety Disorder, OCD and ADHD will always be the monsters that whisper words of self-doubt and failure to me in my most vulnerable moments. The dayto-day struggles haven’t changed. I struggle with school, and I struggle with relationships. Sometimes my mental fragility makes people take me less seriously.

Some days I still feel vulnerable and worthless, almost as deeply as I did in 2016. But my time in the hospital, as well as the subsequent therapy and psychiatric care I’ve received since then, have given me much better tools to work with than I had before. I have learned to communicate my pain before it’s too late. I’ve allowed myself to relax into uplifting friendships and familial relationships I had neglected before, mostly out of shame. I’ve made new, healthy relationships with people who lift me up instead of focusing on my failures. I’ve managed to keep a journal since leaving Vantage Point. It helps me sort out the disorganized mess of feelings that constantly run hot and cold. I keep the ADHD and OCD monsters at bay by keeping to-do lists, and I can look back at what I discussed with my therapist every week. My goal is to someday become confident enough in my own mental-health journey that other people can look to me for support when they can’t support themselves. Some people don’t get a second chance. I did, and I wiggle my toes in the grass every chance I can.

‘ I’m glad you’re here because that means you’re still alive. ’

remember s e c r e t l y playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas in my bedroom the night before my first driver’s test. Given to me by a neighborhood friend, Mom thought the game was too dirty for me and my siblings to play, especially at my tender age of 16. I sped through the virtual city. Various head-on collisions, driving in the wrong lane, the occasional drive-by shooting, all while listening to the mediocre in-game rock radio station. Now, if I do exactly this, I’m bound to pass my test, I jokingly thought to myself. This was how I practiced. All games, no real action. Neither of my parents have driver’s licenses. It is difficult to legally get behind the wheel

Alienated

Growing up with an undocumented mother because my parents don’t have any U.S. documentation like a birth certificate or a green card. So, the idea of me, 16 and uninsured, driving with them around town for practice was out of the question. I had only driven within the parameters of my grid-shaped neighborhood, where the speed limit never exceeded 15 miles per hour. But even that was still illegal. I was ready to get the driver’s skills test over with. I had passed the written exam without studying. How much harder could the driving part be? The morning of my driver’s exam was relatively calm. I went through my routine as usual: showering for too long, fixing my hair as if I were in the salon and hearing Mom yell at

story by Sebastian Diaz art by Raleigh Anderson me so we can leave on time from our humble little mobile home. I grabbed all my proper documentation: my birth certificate, my state ID card and my learner’s license. Mom drove me to the state police headquarters in Little Rock in the Honda Odyssey she bought with cash some five years ago. “Te sientes listo?” Mom asked while driving. Yes. I told her I was ready, but I could feel my heartbeat accelerate while I tapped my foot nervously.

42 ALIENATED When we arrived at the police headquarters, my mom looked happy. If I succeeded, everyday tasks would no longer be illegal. By driving, I could remove my parents’ fears of breaking the law every time we went out. After about 10 minutes, I made my way to the front of the line, mother at my side, head high and body relaxed. The officer who attended the front desk asked for my paperwork, which I kindly handed over. She reviewed it and then asked for Mom’s driver’s license. Mom rummaged through her purse for her wallet and handed the officer her national identification card from Mexico, her only real form of identification. I looked at my mom and saw her face fall. I tried not to show any emotion so as not to make a scene. When I applied for the learner’s license, no one asked my mom to show a driver’s license. From that point on, our optimism clouded our doubts. But part of me expected this to happen, for us to be questioned. Deep down, I think my mom kind of expected it too. My mom is an undocumented immigrant from Mexico, which is problematic when living in Bryant, Arkansas, a small, predominantly white suburb in the South. There are not many people we can confide in with this information. If we trust the wrong person, they might threaten to expose my mom or hold her status against us somehow. Each of my siblings, my mother and I carried out our lives meticulously, ignoring the reality at home, directing attention away from Mom not being a citizen. Growing up, I hardly questioned my mom’s status, and she never really discussed it with the family. Why would I, as a kid, worry about my mom’s legal status when all of the family’s basic needs are met? Mom has a job; we have a home, a place to sleep, food on the table when it needs to be, minivans for transportation, clothes to cover us – all the things normal people have. It wasn’t until I grew up and took civics courses in high school that I realized the danger of being considered an “undocumented immigrant,” or worse, “illegal alien.” The current administration presumes that migrants are invading the U.S., and President Donald Trump has pledged to protect the American people from this supposed threat. A migrant caravan

from Central America of about 3,000 people is traveling toward the U.S. to escape the poverty and violence in their home countries. Meanwhile, Trump wants to deploy thousands of troops to handle migrants at the border. Between Jan. 20, 2017, to Sept. 30, 2017, officials from U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement deported 61,094 people. Under the Trump administration, a zero-tolerance policy calls for the prosecution of all individuals who enter the U.S. illegally. As a result, if parents crossing illegally are accompanied by children, the children will go into the custody of U.S. Department of Health and Human Services while the parents are sent to officials from the U.S. Department of Justice. In Sebastian poses for a photo with his mom, whose June 2018, officials from U.S. Customs and Border face we removed to protect her identity. Protection acknowledged art by Raleigh Anderson separating 2,053 children from their families at the border. Officials later reunited 522 children with their with a valid license who could pick us up from the station. She pulled her parents. No one would guess I am an anchor phone out of her purse, desperately baby, meaning I was born to a foreign, scrolled through a list of contacts and undocumented mother in a country then messaged one of her coworkers. “Humiliated and degraded, that’s that offers birthright citizenship. Because of the 14th Amendment, how I felt,” Mom told me recently my four younger siblings and I are when reflecting on that morning. U.S. citizens, but Trump is seeking While we waited for Mom’s coworker to defy the Constitution and remove to come get us, sitting on beige seats near the entrance of the building, I birthright citizenship. In this age of families being looked over and saw tears streaming separated solely because someone in down Mom’s face. I wanted to console the household is an undocumented her but didn’t know how to convey immigrant, I am more than okay my feelings. I had my arms crossed living under the assumption that I tightly, my face contemplative while have a “normal” family – a mom looking around the room. I couldn’t and dad who are citizens that provide say a word. “¿No vas a decir nada?” Mom asked comfortably for the family. In my case, wrong assumptions equal more bitterly. “¿Vas a sentarte aquí callado security. But standing in front of a mientras que esto sucede? ¿No te police officer at the Department of importa?” My silence implied that I didn’t care Motor Vehicles in Little Rock, there about the situation, which frustrated was nowhere my mom could hide. The officer confiscated Mom’s keys her. What am I supposed to do but sit here until she could get ahold of someone

“Mom does not want to be here illegally. She wants to be a citizen . . .” quietly? I thought. Mom rolled her eyes and continued to stare down at the ground, resting her head on her hands. I was annoyed but not at my mom. Never at my mom. I was annoyed with the government. I didn’t choose to be born an anchor baby. Mom does not want to be here illegally. She wants to be a citizen, but being undocumented in the U.S. makes the lengthy process of naturalization risky. One wrong move could lead to deportation. The morning of my first driver’s exam resulted in failure. Mom’s coworker arrived after an hour or so at the state police headquarters to pick us up. I went to school as if nothing happened, and Mom went to work that evening, wanting to forget the whole ordeal. A DIFFICULT PROCESS

n the last few weeks of this summer, Mom and I finally sat down at the dinner table to discuss her story for this article. Mom paused often when speaking, and at certain points, she wiped a tear from her eyes, smearing her mascara. She was only a teenager when she crossed the border. In Tijuana, Mexico, Mom got in touch with some acquaintances that would help her immigrate to California. A U.S. citizen who looked like my mom ended up not going with the group, but she gave my mom her identification card to help her cross the border. When it was time to go through customs and border security, the border patrol officers did

not question my mom, and she was able to cross the border with relative ease. Acquiring citizenship or naturalization is not as simple as signing a piece of paper and pledging allegiance to the flag. The process starts with acquiring a green card or lawful permanent resident status. Approximately 264,000 people obtained lawful permanent resident status in the first quarter of the 2018 fiscal year, according to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. The applicant must then wait at least five years before applying for naturalization or three years if the person is married to a U.S. citizen. On average, it takes about 10 months for officials to process a person’s naturalization application, according to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. Anyone seeking naturalization must meet certain criteria to be considered, such as being 18 or older and having permanent resident status. If the applicant indicates any statement – such as the applicant supports the U.S. Constitution, is literate in English or has basic knowledge of U.S. history – as “Not True,” they are not eligible to apply. If the person is eligible, then they fill out a 20page form and submit it to U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. Afterward, officials schedule an interview with the applicant, and if accepted, the applicant receives an invitation to the Oath of Allegiance ceremony and is then granted citizenship. During the 2017 fiscal year, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security processed 986,851 applications for naturalization, according to the agency’s website. About 8 percent were denied. Because Mom came to the U.S. without

any authorization, she cannot apply for permanent residence on her own merit, but she has me. When I am 21, I can start the sponsorship process to help Mom obtain legal immigration status. But there’s no guarantee the process will work. My brother and I talked to Jose Aguilar Salazar, a representative at the Consulate of Mexico in Little Rock to discuss how the process of my mom obtaining citizenship would play out. For my mom to obtain U.S. citizenship, she must have resided in the U.S. for at least 10 years, have a sponsor, demonstrate good character and experienced extreme hardship, Salazar said. The criteria are vague, so Salazar said we would have to consult a lawyer and present information like income tax returns and express that her status has affected those who live with her. My difficulty obtaining a driver’s license is likely to qualify. We could build a case for obtaining citizenship from there. Mom is optimistic and believes she will be able to obtain citizenship, but she still doubts, she said. “It’s a complex situation with several prerequisites,” Mom said. “I’d feel more confident if I had enough

of naturalization applications were denied in the 2017 fiscal year.

money for a lawyer that could take on my case. I’ve heard of some cases falling through that don’t end well for the person.” If her petition were rejected, my mom would likely have to attend immigration court for removal hearings and possibly face deportation. MASK ON, MASK OFF

live in deception. My skin is pale enough to pass as white, and my English is refined a bit more than most native Spanish speakers who use broken words and speak with heavy accents. When I speak Spanish, people ask questions or make jokes. “Where’s your green card, bro?” “Did you jump or swim?” “You’re too pale to be a Mexican.” At times I would play along and give into people’s microaggressions – even laugh with them. At times, I joked that I really am an illegal alien. I received a giggle here and there, maybe an annoyed eye roll or a “Shut up, man,” with a chuckle. Every joke in regard to legal status hits me personally, but I have to play along. I must act neutrally or vehemently against illegal immigration so as to not arouse any suspicion. Through all of the crude jokes and musings made, I find myself frustrated, not so much toward others but at myself. I did not grow up with a strong sense of Mexican identity within the home. I still feel like an American white boy inside a Mexican body. Because I hardly hang out with people of the same ethnicity as me, I lack that sense of Hispanic

community. I only experience that community at home, but even at home, there is not a strong sense of Mexican tradition and culture. On an average day, we came home from school to see my mother getting ready to leave for her waitressing job at a Mexican restaurant. Mom cooked dinner for everyone, usually carne asada with rice and beans and warm tortillas from the stovetop. My siblings and I filled our plates and sat down at the table. By this point, Mom would have said the “goodbyes” and the “I love you”s. My dad, who didn’t live with us, came by to babysit us while she was away. The rest of the evening was spent doing homework, playing music or passing time with friends outside until it was time for bed. That is the Mexico I know, housed in a little area of white America. At home, I don’t recognize the Mexico shown in the media or relate to the stories I hear from friends who have been there. All I know is that my mom is from there. All I know at home, in the humble little mobile home where my culture resides, is that my mom’s lifestyle is illegal in this country. I had gone all my life without telling anyone that my mom was undocumented. Even my best friend Noah, who I’ve known since the third grade, had no idea. Noah, like all of my friends, was under the assumption my mom just had a green card like any other immigrant waiting for citizenship status. It was not until this previous summer, when I started working on this story, that I told him. He did not show a face of surprise or disappointment but simply of understanding, as if my behavior at

home and in public finally made sense to him. A sense of relief came over me, and I felt at peace.

WAITING FOR CHANGE

week after our failed attempt, we returned to the state police headquarters so I could take the skills test. This time we were a little more prepared. Mom asked another friend of hers to help us out, and he was willing to let me borrow his car. Mom parked at a nearby Waffle House where we met with up with my mom’s friend, who gave us a ride to ensure that no one at the headquarters saw my mom behind the wheel. This time around, the officers approved Mom’s friend as my guardian because he had a valid license and insurance. So I was off. An officer walked with me to the vehicle, and I drove with caution, radio tuned to a rock music station on low volume,

“Where’s your green card, bro?”

ALIENATED 45

just as I had practiced while cruising through San Andreas in Grand Theft Auto a week ago. Mom and I had a celebratory breakfast at Waffle House. We looked at my fresh license, still warm from the printer. A young boy with swooping, jet-black hair smiled back at me from the plastic card. A peace came over us as we enjoyed our syrupy waffles in the crowded diner. “It was a relief,” Mom said in reflection. “If anything, it brought me joy that there was finally someone in the family who had a license.” Twenty-one is still two years away for me. Between now and then, there is not much I can do for Mom other than focus on my academics so I can get as many scholarships as possible and lessen her financial burden. And Mom? Well, she’s still a waitress at the Mexican restaurant. Much to her dismay, it is the only kind of job

my mom can People gather Sept. 17 at the intersection of Dickson Street and work, and it College Avenue in Fayetteville, Arkansas, to protest the removal pays the bills. of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals. DACA is a program Current events established to grant legal status for eligible immigrant youth. and talking photo by Kevin Snyder, courtesy of The Arkansas Traveler with Salazar at the consulate reminded me that my mom is not alone in her a little plastic card just like her son. struggle. He told me that people Despite all the struggles of living as like her work seven days a week, an undocumented immigrant, Mom taking the odd hours that no one else maintains her optimism, trying to wants to assure that they keep their see the big picture. “Thanks to my children, and good jobs. They often work to support a family, to have food ready on the people I have met along the way, I table at dinnertime, like in any other am able to stay positive,” Mom said. My mom has two more years to save household. They just want to live money so she can hire a lawyer that another day. My mom still dreams of owning a will take on her case for citizenship. house, going to school and moving up Her optimism, though sometimes the social ladder. This license not only shaken, never leaves her. I can help gave me the legal ability to drive, but her accomplish her dreams, just as it gave my mom a sense of validation she helps me accomplish mine. It is – that someday she, too, could have just a matter of time.

“Did you jump or swim?”

“You’re too pale to be a Mexican.”