Cornell Breaks My Heart

“I am not what happens to me. I am what I choose to become.” —Carl Jung

Fraternity row was walking the gauntlet of men screaming at you, telling you what they would like to do with your body, suggesting you come into the frat house to party, something to be avoided if possible. Belonging to a fraternity at Rutgers marked you, at least as far as this hippie was concerned, as an asshole to be avoided at all costs. My scene partner in my acting class belonged to a fraternity. Despite this, he seemed okay, modest and prepared for our scene together, almost apologetic about his living with the bros, not your typical drunken idiot. So when he asked me to a party at his fraternity, I agreed to go, briefly was the plan, but I did not count on being drugged and apparently, since all was a blackout, raped.

Within a few minutes of walking into the rather beautiful but badly abused building of Sigma, whatever I knew, I had made a mistake. There were other girls there but few, and the men greatly outnumbered us. My scene partner apologized for a lack of food and offered me a drink from a punch bowl and because it was the mid-70s and the publicity about roofies and other hazards was not common, I accepted. Within minutes I knew the drink was drugged. I could barely see and the entire night took place in flashes, the underside of a sink, the stairs, a room, hands pushing me down and then blackout until I woke up, dressed, and ran home. Denial was a tool I happily used, so I decided I would pretend nothing happened and, until several weeks had passed, that seemed possible.

photo by Avansear

One evening someone knocked on the door of my house and he was standing there. Since we had seen each other in class since that night, I was prepared to tell him I wasn’t interested in a date. But that was not why he had come over. He was there to tell me I should go to the infirmary and get tested for VD.
“Why would I do that?” I said.
“Because you might have it.”
“How…“ I stopped and realized he had raped me while I was unconscious. “You motherfucker,” I screamed. “I have a boyfriend.”

This was true except my boyfriend had transferred to another school, far away, so we were doing our best to stay together through phone calls, visits, and above all remaining faithful to each other.

The infirmary was blessedly empty and the nurse asked me why I was there. When I told her the reason she asked for the name of my partner, and I realized I had no idea of his last name, so I made one up. I didn’t want her to view me as a slut. Of course, there was another student with that name and according to her he did not have a sexually transmitted disease. I waited while she checked his file and pretended to be relieved. I was filled with shame and rage, humiliated and hurt by the knowledge I had broken my promise to someone I loved so much. Incidentally, I was also seeing double, but that effect wore off within a day. I tested negative for VD and swore I would never tell anyone what had happened.

In acting class I asked my teacher for a different scene partner, and I never spoke to him again. Until this news from Cornell went viral, I had never told anyone. I felt responsible for allowing someone to treat me in such a despicable way. I was humiliated by my lack of fear and afraid that while I might hide the truth from my boyfriend, my body would betray me. After many showers and a few weeks, I was able to respond to him normally. But inside my head was the refrain, “You stupid, unfaithful whore.”  

Molly Moynahan