Like many women, I have my own stories of sexual violence. Below is a lightly edited excerpt from my book, And Sometimes They Kill You: Confronting the Epidemic of Intimate Partner Violence, that tells one such story, which I am sharing as part of my discussion of criminal law, restorative justice and sexual assault.
Had restorative justice been an option in 1985, I might have considered reporting the sexual assault I was subjected to when I was a candidate in the provincial election that year. In order to become better known in the world of organized labour, I attended a labour convention as the guest of a union leader in my riding. Without any thought that I needed to be concerned, I headed to this man’s hotel room to meet him so we could go to the convention dinner together. We had known each other for years; I knew his wife and he knew my partner. He was a “leftie.”
Within seconds of being in his room, I realized I was in trouble. He took my coat, managing to brush my breast in doing so. He offered me a drink and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He gave me a union pin, but when I reached out for it, he grabbed me around my back and then undid my blouse and put his hand inside it so he could pin it on. He kept his arm around me as he refastened my buttons, even though I was squirming as hard as I could. I suggested we head down to the dinner, but he insisted on having another drink, during which he kept touching my face, back, and breasts. I felt like there was nowhere for me to go to get away from him.
No escape
When he was finally ready to leave, I tried to pick up my coat to take with me, but he wouldn’t let me. His unwanted and unconsented-to touching continued as we walked down the hotel corridor and during our elevator ride.
Once we were mingling with other conference attendees, he had an “excuse” to touch me, as he guided me around the room introducing me to people. When we were seated for dinner, his hands were all over my legs, while I tried to subtly manoeuvre my way out of his reach. I insisted on an early departure, but had to return to his room for my coat, where, finally, my sense of self-preservation kicked in and I waited in the hall for him to bring it to me.
Once I had it in my hands, I ran as fast as I could to the elevator, looking over my shoulder the whole way lest he decide to follow me.
Here’s what I was thinking while all of that was happening:
- I didn’t want to embarrass him or myself by making a scene.
- I didn’t want to interfere with the support of labour for my candidacy in the election.
- I needed to get my coat back.
- It was my fault; after all, my mother had told me when I was a teenager that I should never go into a hotel room with a man who was not my husband.
I was so embarrassed by what had happened, when the shame really should all have belonged to him, that I didn’t tell anyone about it for some time. Had I reported the incident to the police, I can well imagine what I might have heard: “Why didn’t you lock yourself in the bathroom in his hotel room?” “Why didn’t you insist on taking your coat with you?” “Why didn’t you tell someone once you joined those at the conference?” “Why didn’t you just abandon your coat and leave?” Indeed, I asked myself all those questions later that night and for weeks and months afterward.
I don’t think the terror I felt throughout that evening would have been acknowledged or my decisions validated as having been the best ones I could have made in the circumstances. It’s unlikely any charges would have been laid. The man who assaulted me would have been able to tell a good story that made me look like a crazy person. I would not have felt restored, and he would not have had to take any responsibility for what he had done.
It’s been almost 40 years since that happened. As I look back on those events, they all seem a bit banal in one way, but as I wrote this story, my heart rate escalated and my fingers trembled. This is one of the many truths about men’s violence against women: it’s not all dramatic, it’s not all the worst it could be, but it is still awful and it is still wrong.
A different path
The criminal law is not designed—and perhaps can’t be designed—to respond appropriately to the kind of violence I faced that night. That’s why we need restorative justice.
My experience could have led to a process that was restorative for everyone. I could have felt heard and believed, rather than silencing myself because I assumed I would not be. I could have felt safe. I could have healed from what had happened to me rather than squishing it into a little ball and tucking it away to fester.
The person who harmed me could have heard my story, not parsed out as responses to questions asked by a Crown attorney, but in my own words. Not worried about the possibility of a criminal conviction, he could have reflected and, perhaps, come to understand the wrong in what he had done. We could have talked about what he needed to do to right that wrong. Perhaps — if I want to be really hopeful — the conversation could have gone beyond the two of us to include the labour community and others so bigger changes could have happened.
So many positive possibilities. It’s time to make some of them real.