Not Mad Enough

It is not all men, but somehow, it is always a man. No— not even men. Boys. Because real men could not imagine doing what they did. And still, we are not mad enough. Seven boys. Seven hours. Seven hours of torture. Of agony. Of misery. Of suffering. Seven hours where she could not make them stop. And their punishment? Fucking essays. We are not mad enough. So here— here is a fucking essay. We are not mad enough. It should not take two years. It should not take social media. It should not take thousands of strangers refusing to look away for the truth to finally be heard. There were 52 people in that group chat. Fifty-two. And not one said, “Stop.” Not one stepped in. Not one spoke up. They failed every single woman they knew that night. Seven participated. Fifty-two knew. Silence is not innocence. We are not mad enough. And this this is not about them. They are not worthy of these words. Not their names. Not their futures. Not their reputations. Not the consequences they received. This is about Jane Doe. Because while they were told to write essays, she was asked to describe her SA. To put her trauma into words. To explain what was done to her. To relive the memory while they carried pens. They wrote essays. She lived it. And somehow, we are still not mad enough. She says Cornell refused to let her go home. That reputation mattered more than their students. That the futures of boys mattered more than the safety of girls. And what does that tell every woman on that campus? That she does not matter enough? That her fear does not matter? That her voice does not matter? That her safety does not matter? Every. Single. Woman. We are not mad enough. And maybe one of the most terrifying parts is the silence. Not a single boy stood up. Not one. And you have to wonder what kind of culture makes silence that easy. What has to become normal for no one to say, “This is wrong”? How many times does something have to be ignored before people stop being shocked by it? We are not mad enough. Because seven is horrifying. But fifty-two should haunt us. Seven acted. Fifty-two knew. And she was the one who had to explain herself. She had to find the words. She had to tell the story. She had to carry what happened long after everyone else was allowed to move on. They were given essays. She was given memories. They were asked to write. She was asked to relive. So no— we are not mad enough. Not yet.