The Year Women Exercised Their Voice and Silence Spoke Volumes

Starting with the historic women’s march, followed by Mother Nature’s displays of wonder and fury, and, most recently, the continual public shaming of men for sexually assaulting women and girls, this year has been unforgettable.

The Women’s March in January was a global day of unity and solidarity. While we came together as a shared expression of pain, the ways in which our voices reverberated around the world brought me feelings of joy and hope. I was similarly joyful during the summer’s total eclipse, which, like the Women’s March, brought people together from all walks of life. As night and day converged in just 2.3 minutes, I was left awestruck by Mother Nature’s beauty.  

But Mother Nature also let us know that her power is not to be ignored. Hurricanes Irma and Maria wreaked havoc on the U.S. Mainland as well as its U.S. territories in the Caribbean. Nearly three months later, Puerto Rico is still in shambles, not fit for humans, and 190,000 Americans have fled the Island to the Mainland.

As an American born to American Puerto Rican parents and raised in the Puerto Rican culture, this has affected me personally. Early on after the storm I pleaded on my Facebook page for support: donations to charities or simply picking up the phone adding pressure for Congress to act quicker, and still no reaction. No one spoke up, and I found this very strange and perplexing.

Silence around the devastation in Puerto Rico was even more noticeable when contrasted against the increased public calling out of the men who have been exposed for sexually harassing and assaulting women. 

Perhaps emboldened or inspired by the high-profile cases of sexual harassment and assault, women around the world have become brave enough to speak up and say “Me too.” But there is also a certain sort of silence in the #MeToo campaign. While Harvey Weinstein and other public personalities have been named, “ordinary” women were simply posting the hashtag #MeToo, and not naming names of the “ordinary” men who harassed or assaulted them.

As I watched the #MeToo campaign unfold across social media, I asked myself why everyone seemed okay when women named celebrities and public figures alike, but why most women stopped short of naming the men in our normal lives who are perpetrators of the same indiscretions and crimes?

I made a conscious choice not to join the #MeToo movement — not because I didn’t have my own stories, but because I simply do not see the value in saying “Me Too” without naming names. The hashtag and campaign make the women who speak up vulnerable, while letting the men who are at the root of the campaign escape any scrutiny in the court of public opinion.

Can you picture the human chain that would be created if these names were to be made public? The visual that would emerge mapping perpetrator to target — can you see it? I can see it in my mind’s eye, but I know that too many of us stop short of naming names to actualize this web of perpetrators.

Women like me have had no meaningful recourse until now. Coming forward with these names is my right, and doing so begins my slow march towards justice. 

On my 30th birthday, while on a business trip in Brazil I was taken to a restaurant by colleagues to celebrate. At one point during the evening, Tony Minko, the senior leader of our technology team, which was 95% male, slithered across the banquette where we were sitting, moved closer to me, leaned over and asked me in my ear if he could kiss me. I said no and he quickly moved away. In hindsight, what I wanted to say was, How would Human Resources and your wife respond to that question? That night I could not sleep; I was seething in anger, in disbelief, and feeling deep sadness as I continually asked myself What possessed him to cross this line? I respected and trusted him as a subordinate and a team member and now I was singled out far away from home and had to be on guard from this point forward. The next morning this feeling stuck with me and never went away.  

A few years later I was assaulted among friends, in what I thought were safe spaces. In 2001, while visiting a very dear friend Rafael Irizarry, in Miami, Florida, my partner at the time and I were speaking at a bar with Rafael, who leaned over, out of the blue, and palmed my breast. I abruptly pulled away in clear dismay, and said “Why did you do that?” His response was to tell me to loosen up, and to be less inhibited. 

Afterwards, we discussed the incident. My friend seemed sincere when he apologized and promised never to do it again, but for me, things were never the same. Although we remained friendly, I always kept my guard up around him. Why should my boundaries be disrespected and why should his promiscuity be forced upon me?  A few years later, this same friend came to visit my husband and me, and he once again crossed the line — in my own home. That was the end of our friendship.

In 2009, at a fall gathering of family and friends, I was assaulted again. This time, my back was literally turned when Michael J. Sarti grabbed my ass. At the moment I froze and said nothing. He was the best man at my wedding. There were so many emotions flooding my body: surprise, shock, anger, sadness, bewilderment. All of the same feelings I felt the previous times came rushing back with a vengeance. They were bubbling up, much more forcefully than before, each one demanding to be processed, which made it hard for me to find my voice in that moment. I also had to remind myself to trust my gut in the face of the inevitable and unfortunate doubt that follows being assaulted.

There’s a difference between feeling uncomfortable around someone and being completely violated. Make no mistake — what Michael did to me was a complete violation of my body and showed a total disregard for me as a person. I had to remind myself that I knew the difference in my gut.

Once again, shortly after it happened, I found the strength to confront him. His defense was “I apologize, I drank too much.” Drinking is never an excuse for sexual misconduct. Alcohol does not make monsters of assholes, it only make them bigger assholes. And although he tried to play off his actions as a mere blip, I knew the truth: he was in the wrong. They were all wrong. Sexual assault has a clinical spectrum; every point upon that spectrum is an unacceptable, personal violation.

Unlike my experience at the Women’s March, I feel alone on this part of the journey. Naming names is not happening in the non-celebrity world. Women have been made to feel ashamed and somehow at fault in situations that are clear violations of their bodies.

It’s a difficult dynamic to address because it’s part of our culture, and there is no law that can remove the stigma associated with being a victim of sexual assault.  But I believe that naming names is the first step in changing our culture and holding perpetrators accountable for their behavior and their choices. And more importantly, it’s an opportunity to change the narrative for young girls all over the world.

Speaking up and naming names can give everyone a voice and the courage to act, immediately. Being sexually assaulted is never right, and the more people who speak up, the more people will hear you, as soon as you raise your voice.

When we stand up and speak up, without fear, real change happens.