With all the chatter about the Women’s March, I’ve been feeling quite triggered lately. Specifically, when I hear people ask things like, “What’s the big deal about inequality?” or “Can you even explain how you don’t have equal rights?” It’s clear they aren’t genuinely seeking answers. Instead, they seem to be asserting that inequality is either non-existent or negligible—acting as if women are just being dramatic. After all, they reason, this isn’t a third-world country where women face severe abuse. They claim that gender equality is already a reality, and there’s nothing to complain about. I’ve seen comments urging women to just “stop whining” and be quiet. The reality is that inequality persists, even if not everyone has encountered it firsthand. We’ve made strides, sure, but we’re still on the journey towards true equality.
And now, let’s talk about something serious: rape.
This is my personal story, and it’s the first time I’m sharing it beyond my closest circle. It’s just one of many stories that highlight the injustices women face, both in America and globally. I have no shame in sharing it. Recent events surrounding the march have brought this experience back to the forefront of my mind, reminding me that I’m a survivor—not a victim. I’m proud of that.
I know this account may make some feel uneasy, and that’s perfectly okay. Even my husband became uncomfortable as I read my story to him; he requested I whisper so our young son wouldn’t overhear. The truth is, it’s a dark memory.
When I was about 14, my family relocated to Pennsylvania from Michigan. It was a tough transition. As a teenager, I craved my friend group to help navigate the tumultuous changes of adolescence. But starting over made me feel isolated. I was desperate for companionship, which made me vulnerable.
When a boy, whom I’ll call Jake, showed interest in me, I clung to that attention like it was a lifeline. We hadn’t spent time together outside of school, but he insisted on changing that. One evening, when my parents were out, he came over. What was meant to be a brief visit turned into something else entirely. He brought along a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. I wasn’t exactly a seasoned drinker, but I thought, “What’s one drink?” One drink led to another, and soon I felt nauseous and needed to lie down. He followed me to the couch and started making advances. I asked him to stop, but he didn’t listen. He dragged me upstairs to my bedroom, and despite my screams of “No!” he raped me.
In that moment, I felt powerless and strangely guilty for inviting him into my home. Society’s lessons rang loud in my ears: “Act like a lady, or you know what will happen.” I passed out after the assault and awoke to find him fleeing out my bedroom window as my parents pulled into the driveway.
My mother stormed in, furious at the sight of a naked boy escaping our home. But her anger shifted when I tearfully told her what had happened. We went to the hospital for a rape kit. I had never even had a Pap smear before then. The entire experience was horrifying. Alone in that sterile room, I felt ashamed and exposed, while tears fell down my cheeks. Afterward, I received some minimal counseling, where I was told it wasn’t my fault and that I needed to be strong. They provided me with the morning-after pill because, naturally, he hadn’t used protection—after all, my consent didn’t matter to him.
A week later, the police arrived. I was naive, expecting some guidance on what to do next. Instead, they stood awkwardly in my living room, taking notes while I sat there. They asked if I wanted to press charges. The weight of that question felt enormous at 14. They warned me that pressing charges could “ruin his life,” as if that was my responsibility. I was asked if I wanted to destroy his future, pointing out that I had invited him over and we had been drinking. Boys will be boys, they insinuated—I should have known better.
Instead of support, I was advised to get a restraining order. What a joke! Not wanting to ruin anyone’s life, I took their advice, along with the shame they placed on me. That shame followed me to school, where I was labeled a “slut” and a “whore” daily. I lost the few friends I had made, and I sat alone in the cafeteria while he laughed with his friends across the room. I had been branded as the victim, yet he walked around as if he had done nothing wrong. This is not equality; this is an injustice.
This didn’t happen yesterday, but things haven’t changed. One in six American women has experienced an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime. On average, there are 321,500 reported victims of rape and sexual assault in the U.S. each year, yet only 344 out of every 1,000 assaults are reported to police. That means about two-thirds go unreported. Why? Because perpetrators are often not held accountable. Out of 1,000 reported rapes, 994 offenders go free.
Recently, we’ve seen high-profile cases like those of David Becker and Brock Turner, where perpetrators received minimal consequences. This is a disgrace. Rape is not treated as a serious crime in this country, and women know this all too well. Many avoid pressing charges out of fear of retaliation or because they feel their assault isn’t “serious enough” to report. This should not be the case.
The critics of the Women’s March are mistaken. Women have plenty to complain about. We are not living in a perfect world. To suggest otherwise is to dismiss my experience and the experiences of countless others like me. There’s still work to be done, and progress to be made.
So, let’s keep raising our voices and standing up for our rights and the rights of those who are denied equal treatment, both in the U.S. and globally.
Summary:
Gracie Parker shares her personal story of surviving rape at 14, emphasizing that inequality persists despite societal progress. She highlights the shame and blame survivors face and stresses the importance of raising awareness about women’s rights and the ongoing struggle for equality.