Rice protects rich abusers — but we shouldn’t
Editor’s Note: This is a guest opinion that has been submitted by a member of the Rice community. The views expressed in this opinion are those of the author and do not necessarily represent or reflect the views of the Thresher or its editorial board. All guest opinions are fact-checked to the best of our ability and edited for clarity and conciseness by Thresher editors. The author of this piece was granted anonymity due to personal safety risks.
“Culture of care” is our central motto at Rice. Orientation Week, Beer Bike, publics and even random days are accompanied by the phrase — a reminder that we’re always supposed to protect each other. We do not stand for harm. Yet even after being previously exposed for failing victims of sexual violence, Rice continues to bury cases in the name of its image, and more importantly, its endowment.
When I reported the abuse I endured, including death threats, I was met with disturbing apathy from resources I was told to trust. Student Judicial Programs, university administration and, most of all, RUPD failed me at every turn. Even after my abuser stalked me and showed up at my door, he did not face any consequences for his actions. Both residential college and Title IX administration had previously instructed him to stay away from me, which I later found out wasn’t enforceable since I had not filed a resolution. His excuses were taken at face value.
Abuse survivors have miniscule options on campus. An SJP complaint threatens criminal investigations by immediately providing evidence to the person you file against, and allowing the involved parties to “inspect and review all relevant evidence.”
SJP would not allow me to open a complaint on the condition that they wait for the end of my criminal investigation, which proves tricky when you are in a race against commencement. And, despite being initially told that a no-contact order does not require a resolution, I was later told that it does. My last option was an informal resolution, but that required me to sign away my right to file an SJP complaint.
I had three options: to let my abuser walk away without disciplinary action, go without legal consequences or let myself go without protection in hopes that RUPD would close their investigation soon enough for SJP to conduct theirs. After months of terror, I conceded and completed an informal resolution.
When the SAFE office warned me that victims seldom go to RUPD after being sexually assaulted, I should have known that it was not an issue of fear. Reporting is always traumatic, but it would prove to be the least terrible part of my experience with RUPD. In what I strongly believe was a joint effort between RUPD and administration, my case was shuffled through the department.
Evidence was “lost,” I was lied to, and, most damning: not only was my evidence determined not “good enough,” but the investigator who told me also let it slip that they decided so months before — when I could have still gone to SJP. RUPD never followed up with a friend of mine, the most crucial witness to his written confession, who provided her availability to meet. Yet RUPD insisted that she had refused a follow-up meeting.
Finally, in a message to my friend, my abuser said that RUPD was, to his knowledge, “not treating [the case] with any manner of urgency,” and that they did not even plan to investigate him. I now know that he was not lying. They ensured my abuser would get off scot-free from the start; the plan was always to bury it.
There are sadly countless other first-generation, low-income women on this campus whose stories rhyme with mine. Our evidence, our words, our lives did not matter — because the men who decided we were their property had more money, power and connections than us. I still vividly recall when my abuser told me that, because he is a white man and the son of a faculty member, he was “above the law.” He later told my mother that he would do whatever he wanted to me, and because of his wealth, she could not stop him.
We owe it to ourselves and one another, now more than ever, to demand better from those who are supposed to protect us. Rice pride lies in our culture of care. We are above this. It’s time for Rice to lead by example. No amount of privilege, money or power grants the right to harm another person.
And to the “men” who inspired this piece: we can do better than you, actually. We are not yours to hurt whenever you wish. Justice always prevails in the end.
More from The Rice Thresher
Condemn DEI censorship, protect campus research
The Office of the Provost announced that Rice’s DEI office will be renamed to the Office of Access and Institutional Excellence on Feb. 28. As a graduate student, I am not privy to the reasons for this rebranding. I hope that, in light of recent federal and state directives and ongoing censorship, it is obvious why I am wary, even if the office claims to continue to promote values of diversity, equity and inclusion while removing these words from its website.
Dismantling subtle racism by reshaping incentives
Before moving to the U.S., I had been cautioned about racism, but I reassured myself: It’s a new generation; people are more conscious. For the most part, I wasn’t wrong. But what no one warned me about was the racism that lingers in the air, unspoken yet deeply felt. It exists in the assumptions people hold, in the way they speak with confidence about other cultures while knowing so little.
DEI office name change is symbolic, maybe necessary
Amidst federal funding cuts impacting research and firings of federal workers, higher education feels chaotic right now. At first glance, it seems alarming that Rice’s Office of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion was renamed to the Office of Access and Institutional Excellence, announced in a campus-wide email. However, we feel this name change is mostly symbolic and necessary to ensure Rice can continue supporting those values — in action, if not in name.
Please note All comments are eligible for publication by The Rice Thresher.