The following piece is part of a series of articles and essays on sexual assault and harassment in WashU’s social justice and activist community. This piece contains discussion of sexual violence.
The definition of consent
Any conversation about sexual violence and harassment, no matter what the context, requires a critical examination of consent. Specifically, a very clear answer to the following question: is consent complicated?
No. No it isn’t.
Many people have attempted to argue the contrary through convoluted rhetorical gymnastics, either directly (by citing the dangers of desirability politics) or indirectly (by inherently questioning the validity of a survivor’s story). These thinly-veiled shaming tactics attempt to complicate the meaning of sexual assault by painting a “nuanced” image of consent.
Some of these sentiments are understandable. It is true that the politics of desire can be rooted in prejudice, as made evident by the racism pervading online dating culture, the systemic erasing of POC from popular media, and the fetishization of femmes of color. It is also true that there is a long history of criminalizing people of color in cases of sexual assault. Such cases have been used to demonize people of color; anti-POC witch hunts are sometimes disguised as anti-violence campaigns that leave in their wake heavier jail sentences in comparison to white perpetrators and the use of racially-fueled rhetoric in media reports. These violent truths should not be ignored, and are strongly tied to dynamics that facilitate sexual violence.
These truths have also been used by members of the social justice community to harass and delegitimize survivors. Some claim that survivors had “regrets” or felt “ashamed” of their attraction to and intimacies with people of color. Inherent in these arguments is the presumption that survivors’ feelings don’t matter because they’re not trustworthy; that survivors are liars that want to save face. These claims come disturbingly close to the slut-shaming rhetoric used to deface survivors outside of the social justice community -- that survivors just want to gain attention, mask their promiscuity, or hide their indecisive insecurities. It is baffling how these claims continue to persist despite the shame, humiliation, social risk, and delegitimization loaded into the realities of survivorship, as evidenced by the use of this rhetoric in WashU’s own community.
Also inherent to these arguments is the underlying sentiment that consent isn’t valid if it’s problematic. It is true that prejudice can play a role in the way people experience (or not experience) desire. Consent that is fueled by prejudice contributes to broader systems of oppression and marginalization. However, regardless of the reasons why, when someone changes or retracts their consent their partner is obligated to stop, no matter how problematic or hurtful that change can be. Consent is not a one-off deal; it doesn’t stop at the initial “yes” to coffee, or the walk to the apartment, or at the stripping, or even at the fun frollicking in bed. It is a constant checking in process that partners are obligated to engage in not because of some complex social code, but because of a basic level of mutual respect for safety.
In other words, getting consent literally just means asking if your partner(s) is/are still doing okay. It’s not some separate idea from sex, not a complicated social dance-around-the-genitals. It is an inherent part of the intimacy process, a larger part of what it means to love and respect other people.
Should you touch other people’s things without asking first? Give them hugs even when they might not want one? Continue a conversation even when someone is visibly uncomfortable? Repeatedly ask someone to hang out with you when they’ve said no? No, you shouldn’t do any of these things, and for obvious reasons: you are violating the other person’s physical and emotional boundaries. All of these examples, even if seemingly innocuous, are part of the broader principles of obtaining consent. These basic principles apply regardless of your status as a boundary-pushing activist on campus, who, let’s not forget, ought to be driven by a desire to create safe and equitable spaces, especially for the oppressed and marginalized. In our daily lives, we get consent because we don’t want to make people feel unsafe. In our intimate moments, we get consent because we don’t want to make people suffer.
The simple fact of sexual assault is that it is a violation of a survivor’s boundaries, a fundamental breach of consent, and an act of oppressive violence. It is an abuse of power; a devastating tool used to detach a survivor from their emotional and bodily autonomy.
The sentiment that consent is difficult or complicated is an excuse used by perpetrators and their supporters to obscure the devastating realities of sexual violence and deflect accountability. Consent does not have a grey area; it simply is or is not given.
If you actually believe that there is room for ambiguity in consent, then you are clearly not obtaining it the right way. Someone could be uncomfortable around another person for prejudiced reasons, at which point the community ought to begin a critical conversation. But when survivors say that they have been assaulted and harassed, listen to them, believe them, create spaces for them. And be fucking accountable.