I was driving home for fall break, on I-95 about 25 miles south of D.C. I was listening to the soundtrack of "Pippin", when, one lane over and two cars up, a white Explorer swerved off the road, hit the barrier, and flipped 15 feet in the air, landing in the foliage on the side of the road where the undercarriage burst into flames. The highway turned smoky with white dust and tire fragments, and although no one screeched to a halt, everyone slowed down.
It took a moment to realize that I hadn't witnessed a fender bender, but a Matrix Reloaded-worthy crash. I pulled over.
A truck pulled over behind me and two Marines in full fatigues jumped out, sprinting towards the wreck. I started to follow. I lost a shoe. Cars were still coming up the highway, slowing down, people poking their heads out of windows, asking what happened as they whizzed by, as if they would ever be able to hear the answer.
It turned out that I was running for nothing; the Marines had already gotten the driver out, somehow getting him to the side of the road while I was busy losing my shoe, and they told me that an ambulance was coming and I might as well get on my way. I walked back towards my car and found my shoe, lying precariously close to the edge of the shoulder. A trucker gave me a honk. "Hey baby." I flicked him off.
Here's where I'd write that I got back into my car, pulled carefully into the right lane, and stayed there doing 65 for the rest of the trip, radio off, reflecting on the unpredictability of life, the results of which I share with you now. But I didn't. If anything, I drove faster. I didn't even really think about it.
I realize that I witnessed a violent act, reacted, felt sympathy and then completely discarded it. Why? How does a strong conversation or arriving unacceptably late to class stick with me for days while flaming vehicles leave my head as soon as they leave my sight?
Trauma has entered our everyday lives. Fake trauma, too--we joke about it, in that "oh, that test was traumatic!" kind of way. Then we forget it. That's not what I'm talking about. I refer to the trauma of assault, rape, disordered eating and the constant peck-peck-peck of pressure and conformity that boxes people--students, us, kids and grown-ups at Duke--in. And although this is supposed to be a column about feminist issues, the list above applies to everyone. I'm frustrated: Bad Things happen on our campus, not to mention the world, and no one freakin' cares.
I exaggerate. People care--just not as many as we'd like. But efforts to reach out to problems get mired in campus apathy and indifference. Date rapists get to keep their friends; frats have good-natured fundraisers in which sorority girls tally fro-yos; and the highest premium is the right to get wasted. Columns like mine become redundant because everyone knows the problems. They stay redundant because the problems don't see change.
Last week I read two pieces attempting to inspire change, or at least make an impression. Both were moving, both anonymous. One was the guest commentary, "Effortless Perfection?" which ran in Friday's Chronicle. When I first read it I felt guilty for having criticized the term in a previous column. I stand by my criticism--Duke women get pigeonholed in a self-perpetuating sterotype, and that not all women define themselves by their looks, or in the eyes of others. But, those who don't get a bitchy or cold or slutty or strange label from the mainstream.
But as I began to wonder who wrote the piece, I began to feel more than uneasy--I could associate its content with too many people I know. Whoever wrote it is far from alone. In some ways, I wish she were. I wish her guest column had been not only moving, but shocking. It made me pause, but also think it was just more of what was already there.
The other has been a bit longer in the making. "Saturday Night: Untold Stories of Sexual Assault at Duke," a compilation of stories from Duke women about their experiences with sexual assault, began after the 2002 attack in Wannamaker and comes out as a full publication this month. One writer was raped the night before graduation. One described the uniquities of rape in the black community. Most described date rape.
I was glad that these women are able to share their personal stories, but crushed by the similarities between them--in someone else's car or bedroom, it's not bathroom keys and blue lights that will prevent rape.
"Saturday Night" is an important publication about a very bad thing at Duke, and I encourage you, dear reader, to pick up a copy. It raises burning questions. In it, I found questions that stuck with me. I may have become so jaded that fireball car-wrecks leave me steady, but I'm glad to find that at least I'm not so inured that the greater human problems leave me cold.
Meghan Valerio is a Trinity senior. Her column appears every other Monday.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.