What Does 'Proper Consent' Mean?

What Does 'Proper Consent' Mean?

Let's end the "one in five women" statistic.

After the ruling in the Brock Turner sexual assault case, in the past week, sexual assault and consent are two major topics of conversations in person and on the Internet. People from all around the world, including Vice President Joe Biden, are sharing their feelings and opinions about the case and Turner's sentence.

As a nation and a society, we have made leaps and bounds in awareness of rape culture and recognizing the need to truly punish those who commit acts of sexual assault. However, college campuses clearly still need to improve and implement programs about sexual assault and consent. The statistic that one in five women on a college campus will be raped should shock the nation, but it is not until cases like these where we see the validity of it.

Rollins does a great job to provide students with many opportunities to educate themselves through programs and presentations. First semester, all of the Greek organizations at Rollins were required to attend a program about being safe with alcohol for yourself and your friends. As a woman on a college campus, I know the previous statistic exists, and I know I need to be an active bystander and not a passive one. That means, as a bystander, I step up and help instead of standing there with the hope that someone else will come to the person's rescue.

In my freshmen year, I was aware of the statistic from above, but I did not expect to ever have to intervene in a situation. That changed at one club night for Rollins students when I witnessed how misunderstood the concept of consent can be. One of my friends was dancing with a guy and I thought she was having fun jamming to the DJ and being surrounded by friends. At least she looked like she was until she attempted to walk towards me and then fell on top of me. I thought she just wanted to come over and see how I was doing and dance with her friends. It was then I noticed she was pretty intoxicated, and after I managed to stand her up, she told me the guy she had been dancing with was trying to do something that she did not like.

I knew she could not give proper consent, but apparently the guy she was dancing with did not understand. Shortly after that, the guy made his way over to us and they started to dance again. I kept my eye on him and soon noticed he kept trying to put his hand down her pants and my friend was pushing his hand away. As I realized what was happening, my adrenaline started pumping and I knew I had to act quickly. I grabbed her arms, counted to three, and turned us around so that I was now in front of him and my friend was standing in a circle with our friends.

He then said to me, "Oh, c'mon, we were just having fun!" and I seriously could have punched him right then and there, but instead I said, "No means no a**hole." Then I turned around, walked my friend to the door, gathered the friends we had come to the club with and went home.

After that experience, I knew something was really wrong with the concept of consent. Even though my friend was not saying, "No," out loud, her pushing his hand away clearly showed she did not want him to do that. Consent is a hard subject because most people think, "No means no," but what happens when the person cannot give proper consent? There is a grey area that needs to explained, and more education on consent needs to happen.

I stumbled across this British video about consent that was released by the Thames Valley Police in 2015. Even I have had trouble with figuring out the concept of consent, but this video makes it a whole lot easier to understand.

As the Brock Tuner case became viral, I have not been able to stop thinking about this night at the club with my friends. Because there many more girls out there with the same experience, except maybe a friend wasn't there to help.

We need to teach our future generations what consent means and to only accept proper consent. That means, if someone is drunk, high or their judgment is otherwise compromised, or if someone unconscious, then proper consent cannot be given.

Cover Image Credit: Zoë Hernandez

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Fiction: Whitewashed

In a world where racial roles are reversed, a white girl experiences what it's like to be a person of color.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This piece is inspired by photographer Chris Buck's "Let's Talk About Race" photo essay in O, The Oprah Magazine's May 2017 issue.

The white girl woke up to the sunlight streaming from her window and the distant noises of the television in the background. As she got ready for the long day ahead of her, she reached for her makeup and found her favorite concealer — but discovered, to her dismay, that the container of pale, eggshell-colored liquid was empty. Sighing, she added a mental note to buy more concealer this evening, if she could find the right shade.

As the girl headed down the stairs, the distant noises of the TV became louder and clearer. "Shooting Of White, Unarmed Man By Black Police Officer," blasted the headline. As the newscaster detailed the events of the shooting, the girl felt angry and frustrated. How long would it take, how many shootings before everyone realized that these were not coincidences or mistakes, and that these shootings were a result of preconceived notions about race?

The girl felt a sudden wave of sickness. Without eating breakfast, she headed straight for her car. The radio was on and was describing the shooting of the white male in extreme detail. The girl, her light-colored fingers gripping the steering wheel so that they appeared even whiter, could barely summon the energy to switch the radio knob off.

The girl barely managed the one-hour drive it took to get to her day job at a nail salon. As she entered the shop, she could see the beginnings of a long day — groups of Asian women, clutching their phones to their ears or gossiping to other Asian women in Vietnamese, cluttered the salon and waited for their nails to be done.

The owner of the nail salon, a short, middle-aged white man, greeted the girl. His eyes seemed sad, as if he had also heard the news about the police shooting. He directed her towards her first customer, a Chinese woman who looked like she drove an SUV and had three all-star athletic children. As the girl approached, the woman didn't even acknowledge her; instead, she seemed to be arguing in Cantonese on her phone.

The girl cycled through five customers before her lunch break. She moved to the back corner and opened her lunch box, which contained potato salad and half of a broccoli casserole. As she was digging into her food, she noticed a Vietnamese woman sniffing the air. The woman wrinkled her nose, leaned over to her friend and asked in a loud whisper, "What is that smell?"

The girl was embarrassed, but this wasn't the first time this had happened. She had brought some meatloaf a few weeks ago, and all the customers had stared at her until she moved into the back room of the salon.

After her lunch break, the girl went back to the endless stream of women needing their nails done. Finally, the clock chimed nine o'clock, the final few customers left and the girl was free to leave.

Remembering her promise earlier to buy some more concealer, the girl decided a quick stop to the local drugstore was necessary. She browsed through the aisles, but she couldn't seem to find her perfect shade. Instead, there were rows and rows of brown, yellow and black foundation, but almost no white or lighter-colored makeup. The ones that were closer to white were still too tan and dark for the girl's pale, creamy skin.

As the girl was reminiscing on her bad fortune, she caught ear of an argument a few aisles next to her. "Why are you speaking English? We're in America. There's no official language."

The girl peered over and saw a Hispanic man confronting a white man. The Hispanic man continued on: "Why did your ancestors come over here, two hundred years ago? I mean, you weren't welcome, and you aren't now either. The native Americans should have built a wall to keep you criminals and scoundrels out." With that said, the Hispanic man left the white man in the dust, gaping.

As the white girl drove home, she couldn't stop thinking about the unfairness of the world. Why did she have to live in a world where her every action, her every thought was dictated by the color of her skin? Why did she have to live in a world where preconceived notions of race played the biggest part in determining the future of an individual? Why did she have to live in a world where the phrase "equality and justice for all" were merely words every schoolchild said every morning and then promptly forgot? Why did she live in a world where her status in life and how others perceived her were all based on something that she couldn't control?

In no way is this fiction piece meant to offend or anger anyone. This piece was written solely to open the eyes and minds of everyone, white and non-white, to the struggles people of color face every day, because only through open minds and hearts can we progress as a society.

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