Open Scientist

There’s a movement within the scientific community called ‘open science’. The principle of it is that scientists should be 100% transparent about the entirety of their scientific process. Advocates of open science share their data, the code they use for their analyses, and every little detail of their methods, in the hope that their honesty and transparency will serve to advance the progress of science and reveal enduring truths faster than would otherwise be possible.

I think this could be taken a step further to include openness about our experiences in the lab and academia in general. If we seek to accelerate the progress of science, perhaps it’s important to also consider the context in which the science is being done. So, in accordance with those values, I would like to share with you my experience reporting rape at the University of Oregon.

It took some time to arrive at the decision to report. For a while I just wanted to pretend it wasn’t real. I hoped I could lock it up tight, bury it deep down, and move on as though nothing happened. I was paralyzed by a vague but visceral kind of fear; like if I said its name too many times, I might summon a poltergeist.

When Kavanaugh took a seat on the Supreme Court and the rich history of indifference to the violation of women was at the forefront of global consciousness, I no longer needed fear to keep me quiet; logic and reason did just fine for that. It was entirely sane to conclude that reporting would mean splaying myself open and exposing my broken pieces to a stranger who would ultimately give in to a rapist’s impassioned ‘nu-uh’ speech. That sort of thing wasn’t just possible, it was probable.

My mind changed when I came to realize that the decision to report might be much bigger than me. Maybe by reporting I could help protect more than 50% of the UO student body. Maybe if I stood up for myself, I could inspire someone else to stand up for themselves too. And maybe (just maybe) I could come out of it with a different narrative, a hopeful story that says, ‘things are changing, because this time it was different.’ This realization, unfortunately, didn’t deter the fear and doubt, but it did pit them against rage and righteousness; and these proved to be formidable opponents.

The process itself was pretty much what you might expect: recount the excruciating details to a callous stranger who responds to everything you say with stony skepticism, sit back while they interrogate your friends, then try to endure their silent indifference as they keep you in the dark for months at a time. I attempted to pretend that everything was okay, that I had made the right call and that I was strong enough to handle it if they decided not to believe me. But managing the weight of anxious anticipation and the constant fear of running into my attacker on campus while trying to uphold my responsibilities as a graduate student and maintain some semblance of respect for myself was absolutely debilitating. I felt like I was being ripped apart; like a black hole had opened up inside my chest and was shredding me into spaghetti from the inside out.

Same old story.

This, however, is where the typical narrative ends. Throughout the process, I was shown nothing but compassion, respect, and support from faculty and peers. The head of a department I’m not even a part of found a way to relieve me of my teaching obligations, in the hope that this would give me more room to heal. My mentor went above and beyond all expectations I had to make sure that I felt seen and cared for. I was given free access to an attorney, a counselor, and on-campus support groups. I was never more than a text away from a dear friend ready to hold my hand and offer me their strength.

Even in those moments when I thought I might be stretched into oblivion, I could see evidence of change. This juxtaposition of fear and hope forced me to recognize that beauty and devastation are not mutually exclusive. It changed me in a way I never could have anticipated. I discovered a new kind of courageous resolve that I will cherish forever. In showing up every day despite the liminal hell that was the reporting process, I found sufficient evidence to support the conclusion that I’m tough as fucking nails.

In October 2019, nearly one year after I filed the initial report, I finally got an answer.

It was decided that he would be held accountable for his actions. He has now been removed from the University forever.

The scientific context in which I operated over that long 11 months was characterized by anxiety, agony, and grief. But it was also characterized by self-discovery and by awe-inspiring displays of love and support from colleagues, friends, and strangers. In this little corner of academia, I was shown that I am worth protecting and that my well-being is valued by more than just myself. In the psychological maelstrom that was the reporting process, I was not alone.

This time, it was different.