The Heart of the Matter

About a year ago, an acquaintance from college raped me at a reunion. I filed charges, but as is sadly typical in cases of acquaintance rape, the authorities chose not to prosecute him. I’ve gone through a lot of anger, fear and a spectrum of other emotions that will be familiar to any victim of violent crime. Then, last weekend, I ran into him.
I work at a college that’s in the same athletic conference as the one he and I attended, at this happened at an athletic event. Before, I went over the possibility that he would be there and decided that it was a long shot and not worth my anxiety. But now, there he was. First, I saw him from a distance. I flipped out and called my mom (one of the few family members who know about this). She told me that I probably wouldn’t run into him, but even if I did, not to be afraid. “He doesn’t have any power over you,” she said. “You’re the one with power over him.”
We finally crossed paths in a hospitality suite, of all places. As soon as I saw him there with his family, I ran out. Sure, I had fantasies of heading back in and dumping a plate of shrimp salad on his head, but that wasn’t going to happen. But still, something wouldn’t let me leave. Deep down I knew that if I left without confronting him, I would regret it. So I sat there in the lobby – heart pounding, hands shaking – waiting for him to come out.
When he did, I called his name. He turned, and when he saw me – okay, it took me until then to realize that, along with my fear that he would come after me or hurt another woman, the main anxiety I had was this: did he even understand what it was that he’d done? Would he know me if he passed me on the street? Did it affect him even slightly as much as it affected me? Did it matter to him?
He did recognize me. Now here’s the part that I can’t get my head around. He could’ve kept walking; he could’ve screamed “stay the hell away from me, you crazy bitch!” But instead he came over to me, and the look on his face was sad, ashamed – and scared. That’s right, he was scared of me, and scared of what I would say or do in front of his family and friends.
I said, “Do you remember me?” And he nodded. When I rehearsed this in my head, I’d been not quite screaming, but loud and firm, only now my voice was barely a whisper. “I just wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten what happened,” I said. Then he said, “I know, and I’m sorry.” I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. I told him that I didn’t think he was a bad person, but that when he drank as much as he did that night, he became something else. “Please, just please don’t do that again to someone else,” I said. He said that he wouldn’t, apologized again, and then I left.
I was telling all this to another survivor, and she said she didn’t think that she’d be strong enough to confront her abuser. I don’t think strength has anything to do with it. I realize how incredibly lucky I am to have had the opportunity to confront my rapist in a relatively safe space, and especially to have him respond the way he did. Very few rape survivors will have that chance. It answered a lot of questions for me – namely, that I feel he’s genuinely remorseful and (fingers crossed) will be less likely to get drunk and force himself on another woman. At least, it helps me to believe that.
I’m still not sure how I feel about it. Do I have justice? If one believes that justice is about restoring balance, than I have more than I’ll ever get under the law, certainly. Do I forgive him? My religious tradition teaches me that forgiveness is more about the person doing the forgiveness than the person receiving it. Part of me healed when I heard him say “I’m sorry,” and right now that’s what I’ve got.