A Call For Campus Safe Walks To Protect Victims Of Stalking

The following blog post, by Dr. Meghan Krausch (bio at the end), is only being published on our site, ConditionallyAccepted.com rather than on our career advice column on Inside Higher Ed (IHE). Meg is one of multiple bloggers contributing to our ongoing blog series on sexual violence in academia who have been asked by IHE to publish anonymously or pseudonymously for fear of a lawsuit or retaliation from the bloggers’ colleagues, department, and/or university. (Some have obliged, while others refused and withdrew their blog post from the series.) Meg has refused, opting to publish the essay here without anonymity. In what follows, Meg reflects on being stalked by a student, and calls for campus safe walks to better protect fellow victims of stalking.

Stalking on Campus: Safe Walks, Not Security

During the last week of classes of the fall 2016 semester, one of my students did something that I recognized as a stalking behavior. In the two months that followed, I exchanged dozens of emails and had several meetings with upper-level administrators on my campus about the stalking. However, almost nothing has changed.

I told my Dean and department colleagues that I no longer felt safe going anywhere on campus alone because I was being stalked and did not want to be murdered at my workplace. I was not being dramatic; murder is a real risk for someone being stalked — something I confirmed with two nationally recognized experts as I constructed safety plans. I spent the first month of the spring 2017 semester fighting with my university for accompaniment by security officers at low traffic times on campus. The university never expelled or suspended the student who stalked me; on the contrary, the administrators responsible for working directly with the student have worked hard to encourage him to continue his studies.

Throughout the semester, he attended classes as usual. Upper-level university officials in charge of security repeatedly told me that, if I was “that afraid,” then I could feel free to carry pepper spray to work because it is legal in my state. Further, they said that there is simply inadequate security to guarantee any response for anyone at 7pm at night (when my class ended); so I should, in no way, have relied on campus security to escort me or otherwise.

In the midst of all of this, eight people in my life so far — all women — have mentioned to me that they have also been stalked at some point in their lives, including one of the administrators in this conversation. It is not as though this is an isolated phenomenon or that I am the only person who will ever face this problem on my campus. Indeed, 6.6 million people are stalked each year in the U.S. according to the National Center for Victims of Crime. Looking at these numbers, it is obvious that this has likely happened before and it will happen again on my campus. By refusing to make any institutional policies or changes, the university specifically avoided setting a precedent for a situation that will certainly occur again.

Is More Security the Answer — Especially for Feminists?

I am an antiracist feminist who believes de-policing is the only path to a just society. I am also an anarchist and sociologist who centers my thinking on populations who have consistently been marginalized by states and by police (which, after all, have their roots in slave patrols). As such, my understanding is that more police make a situation more dangerous rather than safer. However, the immediate need for escorting as a stalking victim put me in what felt like an outright contradiction: pushing for more security on campus. My fierce advocacy with the university on behalf of my own safety seemed to be just another example of “white feminism” — a betrayal of my previous work with the Black Lives Matter movement.

Make no mistake, the institution, as an employer, has a responsibility to guarantee me a safe workplace — one that is free from stalking. And, I do not think a prison-abolitionist feminist position requires me to relinquish that. However, it is important for feminists to recognize that we do not need to turn a call for safety into a regressive call for more law and order on our campuses, but can instead turn to another model which already exists on many campuses: safe walks. Stalking victims and others do not necessarily need a uniformed officer as an escort. All we really need is an additional person whose whereabouts are known to a central dispatch and who is equipped with a flashlight and a link to emergency services to walk us from place to place. Although it was easy for me to become caught up in the existing logic of asking for “security,” what is really needed is a proliferation of dedicated safe walk services like those that exist on many campuses already.

A safe walk service provides something closer to what a de-policed community looks like: community members connected to and looking out for each other in an organized way. And, there is no reason to wait until someone is actively being stalked to put this service in place because we can be sure that someone will need it in the future. If my campus had a safe walk service available, I could have begun using it immediately on the day that the situation began. This would have saved two months of meetings in which I tried to make plans for how I was going to get from class to class, to say nothing of the emotional toll I experienced during this period.

It is important to clarify that a dedicated safe walk service is much better than a system wherein the campus security suggest that they provide escorting to anyone upon request. One major difference is that campus security may not necessarily be prepared or staffed to provide the service (which is what happened in my case) and another difference is, of course, the one I argued above: one service is provided by a shadow police force while a safe walk is a community service.

Like most academic readers, when I imagined the challenges that I would face in my teaching career, I did not imagine stalking. I never imagined the sheer emotional exhaustion of having to make a daily safety plan with my department chair for accompaniment to each of my classes in order to be safe from my stalker in the halls of my building. In fact, I actually worked with stalking victims before I was an academic and had a sense of how common stalking is, but I still did not really think it would happen to me. I did not understand just how ill-prepared my institution was to deal with this situation. As a survivor, I am certain that if a safe walk service had simply been available on campus, then it would have been of invaluable assistance for me.

My story is one example, but I imagine that there are many people on campus in a variety of situations who could make good use of this service if it were simply available to them, without having to spend hours advocating for themselves and proving that they are in active danger as I needed to do. Safe walk services could be useful, for example, to students, faculty, and staff who are in fear when the threat of racist, xenophobic, or queer-bashing violence is on the rise on or near campus. (Think, for example, of the way some communities escorted women who wear hijabs immediately after the 9/11 attacks.) Advocating for safe walks is another case in which advocating for a service for “extreme” situations (e.g., stalking victims) would enhance the campus environment for everyone.

Author’s Bio:

Meghan Krausch is an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Wisconsin-Superior. Meg studies race, gender, disability, and other forms of marginalization throughout the Americas and in particular how grassroots communities have developed ways to resist their own marginalization.

Navigating Sexual Harassment In Academia As A Young Black Femme

Note: this blog post was originally published on our career advice column on Inside Higher Ed (here). Gabi Jordan (a pseudonym) is an assistant professor of sociology. She studies race, ethnicity, gender and intimate relationships.

“Oh, you have everything going on there, don’t you?”

The above question took me by surprise. I was going about my usual routine in the campus writing center, checking in with student athletes and their graduate student mentors about upcoming assignments. My questioner had appeared from around a corner just as I was leaving a study room. With a smile, he gestured toward my face.

I laughed, awkwardly. It was immediately clear to me that the “everything” to which he referred were my nose and septum piercings, as I had become accustomed to people commenting on them regularly.

As I prepared myself to make an excuse to turn and walk away, he said, “You even have one in your tongue; let me see it.” The awkward smile on my face fell, and I choked out a short laugh. I felt frozen, unsure of what to do or what to say.

This older man was not my superior, but a coach for one of the university sports teams for which I tutored at the time. Though I had been warned that coaches should not be asking questions about student athletes, little direction was provided for how to avoid a coach if they did try to chat. As I mumbled about having students to check on, he reached out a hand towards my curly hair and inquired as to whether I was married or had any children.

I was able to end this encounter by entering another study room and checking in with some other students. But I spent the rest of my shift at the writing center feeling extremely uncomfortable and questioning whether I had done something to invite the coach’s comments and questions about my appearance and personal life.

This moment remains vivid in my memory because it is not the first time that I experienced unwanted attention in my workplace or other professional spaces. Truly, it is not the first time in my life that I have had my appearance discussed in a way that made me uncomfortable.

I am a light-skinned, mixed-race black woman who is visibly feminine, with big curly hair and what is considered to be both a “voluptuous” and “fat” body. Consequently, I have been subjected to aggressive street harassment, followed by men in stores, grabbed by men (and women) in bars, had students write offensive comments about me in their course evaluations, and witnessed rape “jokes” being directed at student athletes in the middle of a writing lab.

I have even experienced sexual harassment at the hands of fellow academics. For example, at the 2016 American Sociological Association annual meeting, I had the unfortunate experience of having a male professor comment on my “beauty” in the middle of a conversation about my research, with him reaching out to caress my face.

A lifetime of men (and many women, too) feeling entitled to make lewd comments or touch me without my permission has, in some ways, made me numb to the ways in which my body is viewed as accessible. My research on the intersections of race, gender and sexuality has allowed me to intellectualize why such harassment often happens. Yet even with the minor protections that an intellectual understanding of these experiences lends me, I continue to struggle with being socialized to believe that I am somehow complicit. I often feel guilty about wearing makeup and dressing in formfitting clothing, even as I wear high necklines and hemlines that come to the knee. Despite teaching my students about how the notion that women are sexual gatekeepers is part of an oppressive gender structure, I have a hard time not blaming myself for the harassment I experience.

My physical appearance remains a factor in everything that I experience in the academy, particularly the ways that my students and my colleagues find it appropriate to speak on my attractiveness (or lack thereof). My experiences contribute to well-documented evidence of the ways that femme people are subjected to particular kinds of surveillance and, subsequently, harassment and violence. My membership in a discipline that recognizes and produces knowledge about various forms of sexual violence yet also fails to address harassment forces me to realize that there are still many gaps in how sociology departments and national organizations take steps to protect scholars.

I spent most of my graduate training unsure to whom to report these encounters and feeling awkward about discussing them with my (black, cisgender) male adviser. That awkwardness mostly stems from my own insecurities about admitting that I am vulnerable rather than deficiencies on my adviser’s part; in bringing up my harassment, I confirm that I am a sexualized body. Due to having had colleagues who are men of color tell me that the racialized and gendered harassment that runs rampant in higher education is something that I should “get used to,” I feel hesitant to bring up how my appearance impacts my ability to teach, to network with others or to conduct my research.

When I did report to one of my university’s human resources offices, I was told that I was not guaranteed any anonymity and, in the case of the coach’s unwanted attention that I described above, he would be let off with what they called a “positive confrontation” that I was assured would not enter his employee record. Instead, I was moved to another writing center and forbidden to work with student athletes who were members of that coach’s team. Essentially, this suggested that I was actually at fault, rather than the man who invaded my personal space and asked me inappropriate questions.

A Call For Change

Considering that women and femmes of color in academe already must anticipate that they will be viewed as less capable based on racist and sexist assumptions, what steps can they take to care for themselves amid a culture that fosters harassment?

To survive and thrive in the midst of these issues, I find it important to note that I am not alone. A 2017 report from the University of Texas at Austin found that 22 percent of students have experienced harassment perpetrated by a faculty or staff member. To this end, I have relied upon friends and mentors as a source of support while navigating these experiences. They remind me when something I have experienced is not OK and help me determine how to report or confront sources of harassment.

For women and femmes of color to thrive in the academy, and within sociology more specifically, there must be structures in place to support mentorship and community building. For instance, having multiple women and femme scholars and allies to reach out to redistributes the labor that often is placed on a single faculty member of color to provide all emotional support.

Further, faculty advisers need to be sensitive to the specific kinds of harassment that women and femmes of color may be subjected to. Advisers and department administrators must actively work to swiftly and effectively address harassment at the hands of faculty and other superiors, as well as between graduate students.

These interventions are just a few that can reduce feelings that there will be repercussions for reporting or that someone being subjected to harassment is at fault. Recognizing this issue, implementing clear and direct procedures for reporting and reprimanding harassment, and encouraging those with social and institutional power to intervene and quickly shut down inappropriate behavior are small steps that can be taken toward making the academy a safer place.

Does Title IX Silence Sexual Assault Survivors?

Note: this blog post was originally published on our career advice column on Inside Higher Ed (here). Cybill Rights (a pseudonym) works with victims of sexual and intimate partner violence domestically and abroad. She also teaches about victimology to students and justice professionals.

As a criminologist who studies sexual violence in colleges, I was surprised by the way that universities implemented changes in response to Title IX legislation over the past few years. Title IX is part of a U.S. civil rights law, created in the early 1970s to address discrimination on the basis of sex in public education. Title IX also deals with sexual harassment and other forms of sexual violence, as those actions impede a person’s (usually girls’ and women’s) opportunity to receive a quality education. Public universities must be in compliance with Title IX in order to receive public funding.

In 2011, the U.S. Department of Education issued a Dear Colleague letter in response to Title IX complaints. The letter seemed promising, as it began with research on how often sexual assault is perpetuated in college (which is often), and then provided very detailed suggestions on how to confront sexual harassment and assault. I agree with some of the letter’s suggestions and disagree with others. My main issue with the changes is that universities interpret and/or implement them in ways that go against the knowledge and research on sexual violence.

Scholarly literature continuously asserts that sexual assault is a crime of power. Sexual assault takes away a victim’s power and agency. To assist with healing, we need to affirm survivors’ agency and re-empower them. And we do so by creating an environment wherein the person who experiences sexual assault feels safe and is able to make their own choices.

What does re-empowering a person who was sexually assaulted look like? In advocacy-based programs, re-empowerment entails an advocate listening to victims and speaking on their behalf, but not making decisions for them. It is about providing the person with options and letting them chose their own path to healing. They need to make both big and small choices, and often it is best to start small, such as preference for a meal.

Then, of course, there are the bigger choices regarding the incident, such as whom they choose to tell. They may or may not choose to tell the authorities (e.g., law enforcement). They may choose to report it to the university officials as opposed to the campus or local police. Here is where it gets tricky within the recent Title IX changes, namely the issue of mandatory reporting.

Mandatory Reporting

Mandatory reporting requires many university employees (including professors, staff members and resident advisers) to report if a student tells them about an incident of sexual assault. Institutions define slightly differently which incidents must be reported, but one thing seems consistent: the employee must provide the name of the student who disclosed being raped or sexual assaulted to the Title IX coordinator or someone of equal position.

This means that the choice as to whom the student tells their story is taken away from them. Their agency in that regard is essentially removed.

In addition to removing the students’ agency (read: disempowering them), mandatory reporting yields another set of concerns. The sexual assault victim often makes their initial disclosure to someone whom they trust. On college campuses, that can range from a friend to a professor. It is less common for it to be an authority figure, such as an officer or an administrator.

Research suggests that the first person a victim of sexual assault tells is extremely important. If that person believes them and is supportive, it facilitates the victim’s healing. A positive, empathetic response from the listener is paramount.

But mandatory reporting is not training employees to respond empathetically or even to engage in active listening. It is a requirement for employees to report someone else’s personal information, a potentially painful, traumatizing and embarrassing incident.

Here, the criticism of this policy can then be extended to a broader criticism of the university in that it tends to be liability focused rather than student focused. Mandatory reporting supports the notion that the employee is liable if they choose not to or fail to report. Depending on institution and the position of the employee, they may have little protection from censure. Of course, it could be argued that it is meant to protect students, but that is a paternalistic perspective that is not necessarily supported by extant research.

Suggestions for Re-Empowering Victims

What is the best course of action to make Title IX policies genuinely student focused, then? I offer the following suggestions for policy makers and universities based on my research on sexual violence.

  • Allow anonymous reporting. University employees should still be expected to report any disclosed sexual violence, but they should not be required to mention names if the victims prefer to remain anonymous. That protects students’ agency. It is their choice to whom they tell their story, but the university could still gauge the prevalence of sexual assaults on the campus on an aggregate level.
  • Train all professors, staff members and other employees (including Title IX coordinators) how to respond appropriately. That includes how to listen actively to sexual violence stories and to reject victim blaming and rape myths. They do not need to become victim advocates, per se, but their institutions should train them to respond empathetically. Universities should also provide them with a list of resources to give to the student who has been sexually assaulted. This information would include the Title IX coordinator and information about that office, but it would be a victim’s choice if they want to go the formal route.
  • Inform and support a student who formally reports a sexual assault about the process. Universities should administer anonymous or at least confidential surveys to the people who report. They could ask them how they felt they were treated during the process or if they felt justice was done. They can ask if they felt listened to and believed. They could ask them about what programs and policies they would like to see on the campus. From a procedural-justice perspective, victims feel better about the outcome when they are informed and involved in the process.
  • Focus on creating a campus culture that encourages students to come forward when sexually assaulted. Universities should create more safe spaces where students can express themselves freely and without judgment or recourse.

These are but a few of the ideas that are research supported. There are more — regarding the legal processes that are currently in place at universities — but that is for another post. To conclude, it is my hope that we can create an inclusive campus culture for all genders, which is what Title IX originally intended.

Title IX And Your University’s Legal Counsel

Note: this blog post was originally published on our career advice column on Inside Higher Ed (here). Sara Matthiesen is a postdoctoral fellow in American studies at Brown University. She has worked to secure Title IX and labor rights for graduate and medical students since 2012. She will be an assistant professor of history and women’s, gender and sexuality studies at George Washington University beginning fall 2017.

As activists and legal advocates warned, the Trump administration has already done significant damage to civil rights designed to protect students. The news that the U.S. Department of Education is cutting back its investigations of claims is only the most recent example of just how little students and their advocates can rely on federal oversight. The withdrawal of Obama-era guidance on accommodations for transgender students and claims that gender discrimination in education is a matter of states’ rights have redrawn battle lines forged under the previous administration. While campus activists propelled that sympathetic administration to action through an unprecedented number of Title IX complaints submitted to the Office for Civil Rights, the blatant hostility of Donald Trump, Betsy DeVos and Jeff Sessions is forcing activism back to the local level.

While efforts to oppose the administration’s attacks on Title IX and other enforcements against sex discrimination are vital, I am also welcoming a renewed focus on local accountability. Now that many more colleges and universities have dedicated Title IX offices and staff, it is time for activists to take a hard look at what it takes to make this work successful. For activists working with (and against) relatively well-resourced institutions, I suggest putting the spotlight on an overlooked but exceedingly powerful entity: your university’s legal counsel.

Unlike the highly visible offices of presidents, provosts and even Title IX coordinators who are routinely the target of student demands for accountability, university lawyers are often spared this external pressure, and only the most seasoned student activists even know such an office exists. This invisibility is structural and deliberate; unlike administrators, lawyers do not hold office hours, and many legal offices have an unofficial policy of not meeting with students. Those of us pushing colleges and universities to act in accordance with their values must start fighting this invisibility or we will continue to misgauge where the actual levers of power reside.

So, let’s take a moment to power map. Institutions that can support in-house legal guidance receive counsel on virtually all decision making — think faculty governance, real estate acquisition, financial aid and student conduct, for starters. A legal office evaluates everything from demands for sanctuary to unionization efforts to Title IX-related policies, with the aim of mitigating the college or university’s exposure to risk, be it legal or financial (and these often go together). The senior counsel is likely one of the institution’s highest-paid employees, and this position usually has a direct line to the president. This powerful office serves the institution; its obligation is to the university itself.

Therefore, the legal office has a fundamentally different aim than a Title IX office, which serves students, administrators and faculty members affiliated with the institution. A Title IX office is charged with making sure that incidents of gender discrimination are addressed promptly and equitably. This means, in part, facilitating a complaint process that balances the rights of all parties while resolving alleged policy violations related to Title IX. Ideally, this process is within a college or university’s Title IX office.

Given that, it is not difficult to imagine how a Title IX office might find itself at odds with the university’s legal representatives. To be sure, legal counsel is responsible for ensuring that the institution is in compliance with all manner of federal and state regulations, including Title IX, and so, in that respect, the offices’ aims align. When it comes to the specifics of individual cases, however, there will undoubtedly be competing risks with which legal counsel must contend.

Perhaps most obvious is the student or faculty member who retains a lawyer and threatens legal action. This instantly becomes the competing, more immediately pressing, risk of litigation. Litigation is costly; well-resourced colleges and universities hire external litigators when they go (or are taken) to court, which means institutions are paying an additional fee on top of their in-house expertise. This “threat” does not incentivize a Title IX office to re-evaluate its aims in the same way; its responsibility remains equity, especially in the face of litigation. When confronted with such power imbalances, the Title IX office is required to work toward restoring parity. Legal counsel, in contrast, works to inoculate the institution from financial and legal harm. Equity — especially when it is clear one party will not or cannot attempt to rectify the imbalance of their own accord — becomes a secondary concern.

Beyond the specifics of individual cases, climate and legal trends also influence a legal office’s risk assessment. By now, the backlash to colleges and universities taking Title IX seriously is in full swing, as groups like Save Our Sons and the Foundation for Individual Rights in Education help popularize the argument that Obama-era guidance on addressing sexual assault often inherently violates students’ due process. Accused students with sufficient financial resources are increasingly lawyering up upon receiving a complaint, and lawyers are capitalizing on the narrative that Title IX protections imperil procedural fairness.

This climate only reinforces a Title IX office’s original aim to make sure that gender discrimination is resolved promptly and equitably, of which due process is a fundamental component. But for a legal office, this climate tips the scales towards one risk — legal action from an accused student or faculty member — and away from another — failing to uphold what is required under Title IX in every individual case.

Of course, all institutions must do the hard work of resolving competing aims. But when it comes to putting Title IX to work at the local level, numerous resignations of Title IX coordinators suggest which offices’ aims prevail when push comes to shove. While the documentary The Hunting Ground popularized a narrative about colleges and universities callously putting their brands and sports teams before their students, a far more mundane and inherently structural problem also necessarily curtails a robust implementation of Title IX. University legal offices and lawyers are not by definition malicious, but there will inevitably be cases that incentivize legal counsel to advise universities according to how best to avoid the immediate risk of litigation.

That can happen even when the law is on a university’s side, and even if it means sacrificing equity in a particular instance. And, because victims and survivors of sexual assault have largely turned to OCR for justice while respondents (the accused) have largely turned to the courts, avoiding litigation can mean bending a process for respondents and sacrificing equity for complainants simply because respondents are more likely to threaten suit. These are the instances in which a legal office — by virtue of its role within the university — necessarily imperils a Title IX office’s ability to ensure equity.

Thankfully, this problem is not insurmountable. Campus activists can take stock of their university’s legal representation to see whether campus lawyers have expertise in Title IX. This is a reasonable ask given that lawyers continue to play a role in Title IX implementation. They can work to make the relationship between legal counsel and the Title IX office transparent, to ensure that offices share a commitment to equity. Perhaps most important, they can call on presidents to weigh legal guidance and decide that weathering risk is worth institutional principles.

Campus activists have long made use of a vital tactic: holding the university to its stated values. For Title IX, this will mean ensuring that institutions commit to putting equity above risk even and especially in the face of legal action.

Campus Sexual Violence And The Adjunctification Of Higher Ed

Note: this blog post was originally published on our career advice column on Inside Higher Ed (here). Alexis Henshaw is a visiting assistant professor in political science at Miami University. She is the author of Why Women Rebel: Understanding Women’s Participation in Armed Rebel Groups and conducts research on gender and armed conflict.

Adjuncts as Allies?

In the United States, a major push to deal with sexual assault on college campuses has coincided with another significant change in the higher education landscape: the adjunctification of college instruction. In 2011, a study by the American Association of University Professors estimated that 70 percent of all faculty members were contingent faculty, with over half of all instructors being part-time adjuncts.

In this environment, it is increasingly important that institutions bring non-tenure-track faculty into the fold when developing responses to sexual assault. Yet that calls into question our assumptions about the role of contingent faculty members, who are often seen as a transient presence in campus life.

I have spent 11 years teaching in contingent positions: as a graduate student, an adjunct and, most recently, a full-time visiting professor. I have also experienced sexual violence. And as someone specializing in the study of gender issues in international politics, I teach and research in areas related to gender-based violence more broadly. As such, I have noticed the conflict between an academe that is increasingly populated by term faculty and one that pledges to do better by the victims of sexual violence.

The paradox of contingency is that those of us who work in these positions often find ourselves drawn into campus life beyond the classroom, even as we are simultaneously kept at arm’s length. Contracts that emphasize that we are instructors only — without research and service obligations — belie the intertwined nature of these concepts, especially for those of us whose teaching connects with the complex social issues that our students face outside the classroom.

For me, the challenge of being contingent is not simply that I want to be an ally to students who have experienced sexual violence but also that students at times look to me to play that role. One factor that is often lost in debates about the adjunctification of higher education is that students do not distinguish between tenure-stream and non-tenure-track faculty in the same way that administrators do. This means that the go-to resource for the student who needs someone in whom to confide will probably be the person they trust — not necessarily the person with the most seniority or who has long-term job security.

For full-time, non-tenure-track faculty members especially, lines become blurred when students look to us for informal advisement. More than that, as the ranks of contingent faculty grow, some of us find ourselves counseling student groups, overseeing independent studies, even chaperoning student trips. Such responsibilities take contingent faculty above and beyond the “instructor-only” role. They also potentially place contingent faculty on the front lines, setting us up to be the authority figures that students will look to in a crisis situation.

Being an ally to students in such cases is an aspiration fraught with challenges for contingent faculty. Making non-tenure-track faculty aware of the resources on the campus for those affected by sexual violence — and keeping them updated on relevant changes to campus policies and personnel — should be essential, but this may not always happen.

To the credit of the institutions I have worked with, responses to sexual violence have always been a part of new faculty orientations that I have attended. However, that may not be the case at all colleges and universities, and especially not for adjuncts or part-time faculty members, who sometimes receive little or no formal orientation at all. Even when contingent faculty members are aware of resources for victims of sexual violence, they may not be given the full picture of campus climate. As of 2016, the U.S. Department of Education was investigating nearly 200 colleges and universities for their (mis)handling of sexual assault reports. Since higher education institutions have a vested interest in keeping such investigations low-key, faculty members who are part-time or temporary may lack valuable insight into systemic issues that contribute to the overall campus climate.

That has a potentially negative impact on students, for multiple reasons. First, surveys on campus sexual assault have generally highlighted an elevated incidence of sexual violence during the so-called red zone between the start of the fall semester and the Thanksgiving break. During this time, new women students in particular are considered vulnerable to sexual violence. At the same time, non-tenure-track faculty members increasingly teach the high-demand introductory courses that new students tend to take. If new students affected by sexual violence are not referred to proper care (including both short- and long-term care) and if they do not receive meaningful accommodations from their instructors, the result can be that victimized students feel overwhelmed, ultimately transferring or withdrawing altogether. In this sense, preparing faculty members to be allies takes on a sense of urgency.

Beyond the red zone, campus climate studies have also found that there are other high-risk periods for sexual assault that vary by institution. At some colleges, reports of sexual assault are higher during rush periods for Greek organizations or during winter terms when students take fewer classes and engage in more high-risk behaviors. These connections to student life are the type of issues that contingent faculty are likely to be unaware of, given their limited time on the campus. But having the full picture can help faculty members recognize when the student who is suddenly struggling in class could have something more urgent going on.

The debate over mandatory-reporter status is also particularly thorny for faculty members without the protection of tenure. In recent years, tenure-track and tenured faculty have also raised objections to the idea of making faculty members mandatory reporters — largely out of concerns for privacy, respect for the victim’s willingness to report and struggles over the ethical choices between keeping students’ trust versus carrying out an administrative mandate. While these are hard questions for all faculty members, the stakes may be particularly high for those of us without guarantees of long-term employment. What is a lecturer, visiting professor or adjunct to do when approached by a student who has experienced sexual violence but is not yet ready to report? Should they keep that student’s trust, knowing it may possibly cost them their job? It is a risk tenure-track faculty members may be more apt to take but one that could lead to termination for contingent faculty.

Adjunctification in higher education is a concern for many reasons, but the concerns associated with putting contingent faculty in the position to become mentors to students are seldom considered. That is a shame, since many of us stay in academe not just because we love publishing or standing in front of a classroom. We stay because we also want to be a positive force in the lives of our students. In my case, being an ally has meant attending a faculty reading group on sexual assault, attending events organized by student groups focused on sexual assault awareness and making many calls to administrators asking for guidance on how to deal with a student in crisis — even when I do not know the particular nature of the crisis involved. But I am aware that such efforts are above and beyond what is expected of most visiting faculty members. I also know that some contingent faculty members would struggle to take on this sort of unpaid labor at every institution where they teach.

These are the types of concerns that administrators should take seriously. A system that encourages us to demand the best of our students without also fully preparing us to be there for them in their worst moments is a flawed system. It fails to meet the needs of both faculty members and students, and in the long term, it endangers the goal of better serving students affected by sexual violence.

Listening to Survivors of Sexual Violence

Source: Trauma and Dissociation

Most of you reading this blog post know someone who has been raped, sexually assaulted, sexually harassed, stalked, and/or physically harmed by an intimate partner — unfortunately, it might even be yourself. But, I would venture to guess that most of you who know a survivor of sexual violence do not actually know the survivor status of these partners, relatives, friends, coworkers, students, neighbors, etc.

In large part, this potential ignorance is the result of rape culture: the silencing of survivors; the blaming of victims for the violence perpetuated against them; the downplaying of predators’ actions; the willful ignorance regarding the pervasiveness of sexual violence and how society actually facilitates and celebrates it. When victims are not believed, are blamed, are shamed, and never see justice when they report the violence that they have experienced, it is perhaps a matter of protecting oneself from further harm and violence to choose silence.

But, your potential ignorance regarding who around you has survived sexual violence may also be your own doing. Your political leanings say a lot about you, no matter how central they are to your life. Those who are presumed to or actually believe that women do not have a choice over whether to terminate an unintended or unwanted pregnancy, that women should remain chaste until marriage, that a woman’s place is in the home, that a rapist with no political experience beat a seasoned woman in an election for the most important political office in the nation — these are people least likely to be sought out to disclose that one has been sexually assaulted. People who make rape jokes, excuse rapists’ behaviors, blame rape victims, or narrowly view rape as a private matter between a victim and a perpetrator are perhaps least likely to be entrusted with a friend’s story of being raped when she was a college freshman.

From my experience over the past few years, I would surmise that survivors of sexual violence disclose their experiences of violence with those who have earned their trust. But, I do not just mean that you can keep a secret or will not pass judgment. I mean that you have proven yourself to be a trustworthy ally to or — better yet — an advocate for survivors.

The more that I have committed to advocating for survivors, to stopping sexual violence, and to eliminating rape culture, the more relatives, friends, colleagues, students, and even strangers who are survivors have shared their stories with me. The more I speak out about sexual violence in the classroom, in my public writing, at conferences, and in private conversations, the more I have received the gift of survivors’ trust. For example, more than a dozen colleagues (most who were previously strangers to me) disclosed that they had been assaulted or harassed at past sociology conferences after I wrote a blog post about sexual violence at last year’s American Sociological Association meeting. It feels as though I created some sort of safe space around me by even naming sexual violence, and a handful of survivors have taken me up on my offer to listen to them, to believe them, to fight with them.

I would like to share a few tips for supporting survivors of sexual violence, namely earning their trust as a genuine advocate (or ally, if you prefer). These come from my experience, at best described as trial-and-error — by no means an expert opinion.

Cherish disclosure as a rare gift. Recognize how hard it is for a survivor of sexual violence to share their experiences with another person. Recognize the high risk of them not being believed, being blamed, being dismissed — of being revictimized just by telling their story. Survivors have every reason to keep you in the dark, so you should appreciate and affirm their willingness to allow you into this aspect of their lives.

…but, do not only think of them as a victim. If a survivor has asked you to do something specific to support them, do it if you can. Otherwise, I would discourage you from altering your behavior toward them or in their presence. You do not need to constantly ask them about being assaulted or harassed. You also should not avoid the topic unless they have asked you to. Survivors are so much more than victims of past sexual violence. If anything, they need you to treat them as normal human beings, as this would help counter the slut-shaming, victim-blaming, and hostility they experience from others.

Do not share their stories with others without permission. You should assume, unless otherwise stated, that you — and you alone — were given this gift of disclosure. You should not reveal their stories to other people, even in the abstract or with identifying details left out (just to be safe). Of course, if you are legally obligated to report disclosed sexual violence — for example, because of Title IX policies in higher education — you should immediately inform a survivor that you will have to report the incidence. Let them know as soon as you suspect that they are about to disclose to you; do not wait until after they have done so. Yet, do so in a way that is still inviting, rather than posed as a warning, as this may prevent them from disclosing to you (or anyone else who may be required to report sexual violence).

Emphasize that you believe them, and ask how you can support them. I have learned from experience that survivors do not disclose to others for any reason other than sharing their stories, having their voices heard, and being believed — perhaps to request others’ support or assistance, though not necessarily. Counter to the myths that they are seeking attention (perhaps even to the extent of fabricating their stories), it is perhaps helpful to share the burden of violence with others. And, maybe it is just to let you know, as it may be relevant to the conversation at hand or an important aspect of their lives. If and when a survivor opens up to you, let them know that you believe them, thank them for opening up to you, and ask what, if anything, you can do to support them.

Be an advocate at all times. Even if survivors in your life have not disclosed to you, you should consistently be an advocate for all survivors of sexual violence. I have learned that even in absence of personal experience or expertise on the subject, you have power in your ability to ask questions. It could be as simple as “what about the issue of sexual violence?” or “how are we supporting rape survivors?”  In doing so, you are putting the issue on the table and making space for survivors to speak up. Survivors may never open up to you no matter your advocacy, but that is okay as the goal is to support them, not to rack up stories shared with you. In general, look into bystander intervention advocacy to learn about ways that you can challenge sexual violence and rape culture and support victims at all times.

I am learning as I go, so I do not present these as the best ways to support survivors, or even an exhaustive list. So, I invite you to share other tips in the comments section below. I would especially like to hear from survivors (who are willing to open up) about which behaviors of potential allies and advocates has been most effective in supporting them.

How Universities May Facilitate Sexual Violence In Academia

Note: this blog post was originally published on our career advice column on Inside Higher Ed (here). Dr. Adia Harvey Wingfield is a professor of sociology at Washington University in St. Louis. She is also a contributing writer for The Atlantic. Her most recent book is No More Invisible Man: Race and Gender in Men’s Work (Temple University Press, 2012).

Are Universities Enabling Sexual Harassment And Assault?

Over the last year, several news stories have surfaced describing allegations of sexual assault against professors. While the details varied, the general outlines of the stories were pretty much the same: women who were graduate students or junior faculty accused tenured male faculty members of sexual harassment and/or sexual assault. In response, departments and administrators often offered light punishments and made little effort to establish that their departments and universities were not places where the types of sexual violence described could occur with impunity.

Sexual assault and harassment are not limited to academic settings. But there are aspects of the university structure that make it too easy for those in powerful positions to abuse their status and engage in harassment and assault against less powerful groups (including, but not limited to, women).

In 1990, the late sociologist Joan Acker published a study that introduced the concept of the gendered organization. Acker argued that while we might think of bureaucracies as neutral, objective, impersonal institutions, they are actually gendered in ways that have serious implications for those working within them. Specifically, she contended that gendered organizations are structured in ways that privilege and advantage men through social processes including hiring, job expectations, culture and rewards.

According to Acker, this also shapes the ways that occupations are structured, such that organizational processes cast certain jobs as better suited for men or for women, and dictate job expectations and rewards accordingly. Acker’s framework has been widely used among sociologists and other social scientists, as this approach pushes us to think less about individual behavior and more about how gender inequality can actually be embedded in organizations’ basic functions.

Sociologists have used Acker’s framing to explore social processes in occupations as varied as flight attendants, firefighters and accountants. In most cases, they find that when occupations are gendered female or feminine (think legal secretaries), workers in those jobs are expected to be emotionally nurturing, deferential and supportive of the men in higher-status roles. In contrast, “men’s work” (think financial analysts) usually offers higher pay and status and allows for expressions of belligerence, frustration and anger.

When women are employed in “men’s” or masculine jobs, however, their gender still carries more weight than their employment category. This means that while female lawyers may do “men’s work,” they still are penalized for behavior that seems unfeminine. Similarly, when it comes to men in “women’s work,” they are viewed first as men who are therefore not expected to be nurturing or deferential.

Organizations thus shape the occupations that exist within them in ways that push men (much more so than women) into the more rewarding, highly valued positions and cushion men from the feminized aspects of their work even when they are employed in the jobs seen as “women’s” or feminine jobs. Scholars have dubbed this phenomenon the “glass escalator,” contrasting it to the well-documented glass ceiling — the invisible yet very real barrier that women face in advancing in male-dominated or masculine fields. (My own research, however, suggests that those gendered arrangements intersect with race and sexuality, among other identities; for example, Black men are denied such gendered privileges in “women’s” or feminine jobs like nursing.)

What does all this have to do with academe and sexual violence? Acker’s work can help us understand how and why sexual harassment and sexual assault typically go unpunished in academic contexts. If we think of the university as a gendered organization, it is structured in ways that disproportionately reward men with high-paying administrative roles and tenured professorships that convey autonomy, comfortable salaries, status and control over one’s time. Professors are also expected to be intellectual, dispassionate, driven by an extensive commitment to a particular field of study and willing to pass on their knowledge by training students and mentoring their junior colleagues. While those criteria can certainly apply to men or women, men are typically the ones stereotyped as more intelligent, rational and capable of the higher-order thought associated with academe. Additionally, organizational demands for achieving tenure assume a worker who is unencumbered by the sort of external demands that typically fall to women (unpaid household labor, child or elder care) and can thus devote copious amounts of time to teaching, research and service.

A professor who can fulfill these qualities is typically forgiven, to put it gently, personal eccentricities or antisocial behavior. But these protections can extend further in ways that can be damaging for those in the lower-status positions in the university hierarchy. Tenured professors may be rewarded with silence, tacit support, excuses or indifference if they engage in sexual violence or harassment toward those who are in subordinate roles that are not protected by the gendered organization. And to be clear, those vulnerable populations do not only include women. Men of color, trans men, gay, bisexual and queer men, or even men who lack the cultural and social capital to navigate the university bureaucracy may find themselves in a fragile position relative to those whom the university, as a gendered organization, is designed to protect.

This situation is complicated further by the fact that academic careers depend heavily on patronage and support from senior faculty. Recommendations, research assistantships, fellowships and co-authorships are valuable rewards that can make or break the academic career before it even begins. This puts all graduate students and junior faculty in a vulnerable position, but it leaves members of groups who are socially disadvantaged in one way or another in an especially precarious place. These are the populations that are already underrepresented in the university and more likely to be slotted into positions where they have little recourse should harassment or assault occur. Acker’s framework offers a way to think about the university as a gendered organization in which cultural norms, avenues for mobility and occupational expectations sort men into tenured professorships where they are often cushioned from the consequences of their actions if they decide to engage in sexual harassment or assault.

Viewing the university as a gendered organization does not mean that it is fixed, immutable or impervious to change. In some cases, faculty members have spoken out against fellow professors accused of repeated cases of harassment. Growing numbers of professors who stand against sexual violence can help change university culture and give this issue the attention it deserves.

It may also be the case that more women in leadership roles within university settings can help change the gendered processes that contribute to silence around sexual assault. In a 2015 study, sociologists Kevin Stainback, Sibyl Kleiner and Sheryl Skaggs found that having great numbers of women in management and executive positions can help reduce gender segregation in Fortune 1000 companies. Consequently, it may stand to reason that when more women (or underrepresented groups more broadly) are represented among the ranks of provosts, deans, chancellors and university presidents, they can change gendered organizations to ones that actively discourage and punish sexual offenders. Short of that ideal, we must reckon with the subtle, structural ways that basic university processes and norms are designed to reward and protect most sexual offenders from punishment.