Dear Brock,
   Congratulations on your recent release from jail. If the stereotypes are true, then prison must have been a terrifying place for you. As a Stanford student, an athlete, and a white man, I imagine it was a difficult three months for you. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have been in your shoes, to be the target of abuse, verbal and maybe even physical. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be judged. I can’t imagine what’s it’s like to live in fear.
   Except I can.
   As a woman living on a college campus, I know exactly what it’s like. Just as countless others, I am disgusted that you were sentenced to a measly 6 months, and horrified to learn that you only served three. You need to understand that what you did not only affected a handful of people, including the young woman you raped, but the entire nation. I live on the other side of the country, have no personal connection to you or her, and I am affected. My friends are affected. My campus is affected. Your story makes me sick, because if it was a reality for you, it’s a reality for other people too. Your unreasonably short sentence means that it’s possible for other men to get away with such a heinous crime.
   As a woman living on a college campus, I know what it’s like to be the subject of verbal abuse. The comments from guys at parties do not go unnoticed. They sit in my mind and rattle my senses. They leave me unsteady and they keep me alert. Because of you my heavy heart pounds in my chest with even the smallest of glances. Each smirk, each disparaging remark feels like a punch to the gut.
   As a woman living on a college campus, I know what it’s like to be judged. I get judged for what I wear when I go out, whether it’s too much or too little. I get judged for how much I drink, whether it’s an entire handle or nothing at all. I get judged for the people I am seen talking to, whether it’s a close friend or a complete stranger. There is judgment in their eyes and it does not go undetected.
   As a woman living on a college campus, I do know what it’s like to be afraid. I’m afraid to wear the outfit that makes me feel confident, even if it is a little revealing. I’m afraid to have a few drinks and let loose. I’m afraid of putting my cup down. I’m afraid of being separated from my group. Whenever I go out, I’m afraid that despite making those smart choices, I could still be a victim. I’m afraid that my friends could be victims, that I can’t protect them. These were fears I had even before I knew your name. After hearing your story, I have a new set of fears. I’m afraid that if, God forbid, I was ever the victim of rape, that my rapist would not know justice. I’m afraid that he would gain sympathy for his academic achievements or athletic record. I’m afraid that his father will refer to my rape as “20 minutes of action,” instead of calling it what it is. Rape. I’m afraid that the presiding judge will have the “boys will be boys” mentality. I’m afraid that my rapist will be sentenced to a miniscule six months in jail, but only serve three.
   Brock Turner, I’m afraid for myself, but I’m more afraid for my future daughter. I’m afraid that these things could happen to her. If this is how our society treats rapists now, I can’t imagine how they’ll be treated when she’s living on a college campus. And if I have sons, Brock Turner, I hope to God that they’ll be somebody’s guardian angels and rescue any woman they find in distress, as did those two young men who stopped you from carrying your crime out any further.
   For thousands of woman, you are the devil incarnate. You are the reason why her sister can’t breathe when she looks into her broken, empty eyes. You are the reason why her brother has a seething hate for men with baby blue eyes. You are the reason why her mother cradles her, wiping her hot tears from her face. You are the reason why her father holds her, and even though he holds her so tight, he can’t put his baby girl’s heart back together. You are the reason why she doesn’t love herself. In her letter to you, she said “I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.” I’m not sure you understand the immensity of this statement, I don’t think that three months drove it home for you. Do you understand what it’s like to hate your body because someone else played with it like a toy? You may not but one out of five women does. And it scares me to think that that one woman could be me, or my sister, or my mother, or my aunt, or my cousin, or my friend, or my neighbor, or my future daughter. But if I continue to live in fear, men like you win. On September 2nd, I made myself a promise that from that day on I won’t be afraid simply because I cannot waste time on it. Instead I will offer myself as a support system to victims of rape. I will hold my school accountable for the action they take or if they take none at all. I will focus on how I can make my campus a safer place. And you can be damn sure that I will not let monsters like you walk free after only three months in time out.
Sincerely,
A woman living on a college campus