To the Karen of My Life — Your Silence is Loud
By: Maryann Samreth
Tags: Women, Feminism, Black Lives Mater, Intersectionality, Sexual Assault

After weeks of revolutionary moments igniting this nation, I take a moment and submerge into the hell of last summer’s past. I cry. Deservingly. Grievingly. Painfully. I swim in the pool of rejection of the ones I fought tirelessly to be seen, to be heard, and to be believed when I spoke up about my sexual assault.

As New Yorkers were walking into Summer Fridays, I was walking into the aftermath of publicly condemning my perpetrator. My worst fears came to life — a breakup, betrayal, rejection, character assassination, and an unfollowing parade of my Instagram account. My quickly turned ex’s narcissistic rage drove these painful events after shedding light on the character of his best friend.

There was one woman who crushed my heart when she unfollowed my Instagram. She was someone in my ex’s inner circle that I was always drawn to. It was her energy, her strength, and her kindness that made me believe she could take down my oppressor.

On the day I exposed her friend, she and her husband reached out to my ex instead of me, the victim. They had no idea that they sought out information from a man that victim-blamed me back into silence for years after confronting him about his best friend. The convenience of protecting his bromance was brought to him on a silver platter, as his friends and family only chose to reach out to him.

To this day, I occasionally creep on her Instagram account in hopes she’ll miraculously wake up to the false narrative fed to her. A few weeks ago, I peeked at her account again, and as I read her recent post in support of Black Lives Matter, my inner dragon summoned from her hypocrisy.

Captioned under her photo was a list of white privileges formulating the ultimate composure of white guilt and performative allyship:

“My privilege is being able to own a fancy bike/car/home without people thinking twice how I got it. My privilege is being able to walk in the woods or a store without being watched closely. My privilege was showing up to work this week and not having people look to me for my response or how to help while I was still processing traumatic events. My privilege is being able to embrace so many beautiful things in Black culture without any downsides. I’m sick of only seeing my Black friends and role models speaking up. Black Lives Matter. My Black friends matter! I’m sorry it took so long for me to use my voice. I plan to keep doing so moving forward.”

As my mind began racing with questions and comments backed with my well-deserved rage, I realized who this woman was. She was the Karen of my life.

She failed to mention these additional privileges:

Her privilege was turning her back on a woman who sought justice. Her privilege was siding with two oppressors: a white man accused of sexual assault, and a white man that throws victim-blame daggers left and right. Her privilege was neglecting the victim’s side of the story. Her privilege was her complicity. Her privilege was her silence.

Her silence was deafening.

Her public support of the Black Lives Matter movement contradicts her complicity towards my sexual assault allegations. By her convert abandoning of intersectionality, she threatens the momentum of this movement. Her continued silence of her friend’s unjust behavior perpetuates a system that fails to protect victims of sexual assault, especially when the oppressor is a white male.

According to RAINN:

39% of sexual assault victims know the perpetrator.

Her friend was my perpetrator and my ex-boyfriend’s best friend.

50% of perpetrators are 30 or older. 25% of perpetrators are 21–29.

Her friend was 27. Now he is over 30.

57% of perpetrators are white. 27% are black.

Her friend was white.

These statistics are from reported cases. Unreported cases like mine and many other women would drive these numbers up. I now understand why women fear speaking up about their perpetrators. The fear of rejection and not being believed is a women’s worst nightmare. My nightmare came to life after I exposed my perpetrator and was faced with heart-wrenching silence by people who were friends with him. I am one of many victims that have experienced the silence that frees our oppressors from the chains of accountability.

If Karen wants to be a faithful ally to the Black community, it starts with acknowledging her biases that allowed a white man to walk free from acts of sexual assault. Breaking down systemic oppression starts with disempowering men who benefit from it, including the ones in her inner circle.

“We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. The opposite of love does not hate; it’s indifference.” — Elie Wiesel

Karen’s silence protects my tormentor.

Karen’s silence justifies victim-blaming.

Karen’s silence makes her no ally to the Black community.

I hope she can someday bring awareness to why she felt more comfortable asking my ex, a white male, about my sexual assault, rather than me, the victim, and a person of color? I am aware that my ex can win an Oscar in calculated storytelling and withholding of information to continue his walk of victim shame. Still, I often wonder why she never reached out to me.

I hope she builds the courage to ask me what happened that summer night in 2014. A crucial detail that I am confident my ex neglected to tell her was I was one of two women sexually assaulted. The act itself was without hesitation or remorse. I am haunted to this day because I know down to my bones, this was not his first time, and it will not be his last.