The woman at the ticket booth glances down before tearing the slip of paper I hand her apart at its perforated edge. "Oh, that looks interesting," she says quite convincingly, as if she actually might go see it herself. "It should be interesting," I reply, prodding her to follow her gut and brave the hour and 42 minute documentary, The Hunting Ground, focusing on how college campuses have dealt with allegations of sexual assault.
I am prepared to deal with the aftermath of what I am about to put myself through but am unaware of exactly what is in store for me. Whatever this film throws at me, though, I am convinced I can take it. I wouldn't have considered seeing it otherwise.
I start crying within the first five minutes and there are more intermittent tears throughout the film caused by a myriad of emotions from solidarity to anguish, anger and heartbreak. It makes me glad I chose to sit alone. The statistics I encounter are not surprising but are shocking, nonetheless.
I wait until every credit has rolled and the screen is blank before I start collecting my things and putting on my jacket. I'm not the biggest Lady Gaga fan but hew new song that plays during the credits, "Till it Happens to You," written with Diane Warren specifically for The Hunting Ground, releases a new onslaught of tears. The song is spot on because it's hard to imagine what this is all like, until it does happen to you.
On my way out of the theater, the same woman is at the ticket booth and I see her see me as I am walking down the stairs to exit the building. We lock eyes as I pass her and she says gently, "Have a good night." I respond with a soft, "You too." I have a feeling this woman has a story or at least understands mine. I hope she gets to see this film.
Driving home in the rain, I am bombarded with feelings of invisibility. The cars on the freeway that don't want to let me merge or that cut me off give me the same feeling as the law officials or college presidents who swept rape cases under the rug and ignored survivors' feelings. "I'm here, too," I said while gripping the steering wheel. I said it to them, to myself, to everyone who refused to listen or who trivialized my experience. I'm here, too.
