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Some Shed Rape Stigma By Speaking

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By VALERIE KALFRIN

The Tampa Tribune

Published: September 12, 2008

TAMPA - Melissa Dojka said she thought she would tell those close to her about how she was raped, not thousands of people.

But there she was two weeks ago, describing to reporters how two men broke into her Gibsonton apartment July 3. One held a gun to the head of her 28-year-old boyfriend while the other attacked her, she said.

"If nobody came to me, I probably wouldn't have told my story. I probably would've told my friends. But I'm glad someone heard me out," Dojka said Wednesday.

State law prohibits law enforcement officials from revealing the identities of victims of sex crimes and child abuse because of the need to protect those reticent to report such crimes. Reporters who learn their identities usually shield them for the same reason.

Yet Dojka, 23, allowed her name to be used in interviews after the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office charged Rigoberto Morón Martinez in her case and two others.
Dojka was one of several women at the time who allowed their names to be used in media reports and described their assaults. They include Amber Williams, who with her sisters spoke at the federal sentencing of her father on child pornography charges and described her molestation as a child. Dojka's story inspired another woman, Tara Tresca, to tell a television reporter that she was raped 12 years ago by someone she knew.

Choosing to go public as a victim of sexual assault is risky, said Jennifer Dritt, executive director of the Florida Council Against Sexual Violence.

Reporting the crime to law enforcement alone is a huge step because of the embarrassment and disgust many victims feel.

That's "a whole other world," one woman said, comparing the difficulty of sharing the story with family and friends versus being identified by the media.

Many who share their stories publicly do so to help others. "It's throwing off the shame that isn't theirs to begin with," Dritt said. "It lets people know we all can be vulnerable, and it lets other women who have been assaulted know they're not alone."

Going public opens people to scrutiny that can be overwhelming, Dritt said. People raped by acquaintances can feel blamed or judged by others' comments. In an extreme case, the Colorado woman who accused Los Angeles Lakers player Kobe Bryant of raping her was threatened after her identity became known. Victims' loved ones also can be subjected to probing questions they are not prepared to answer.
Dojka said she decided to come forward because she knew other women who had been victimized and thought, "If they had someone to relate to, maybe they would've spoken out about it."

The reactions she has gotten have been kind, with strangers e-mailing her about their experiences and commending her for her courage. "That was the one main thing I would worry about: what people would think."

Her boyfriend is supportive, she said, but "if people come up to him about what happened, he feels uncomfortable. He feels it's up to me to tell them."

'It's Like Dropping A Bomb'

The ripple effect of such frankness is something Kellie Greene, 43, of Orlando, knows well. Greene said she's mindful of her audience whenever she talks about her rape. "It's like dropping a bomb," she said. "I feel I need to take the lead and let them know I'm OK."

Greene founded a nonprofit group called Speaking Out About Rape and the project Operation Freefall - an annual skydive with rape survivors - after her attack in 1994. An intruder ducked into her apartment while she was doing laundry and smashed her on the head with a teakettle. She said she first shared her story because she wanted him caught and wanted others to learn from her experience.

"I knew I did nothing to cause it," Greene said. "I thought the only way I could have credibility ... would be to use my name."

She said she thought being silhouetted on television or remaining anonymous in news articles "would feed into other survivors' feelings of being ashamed." That candidness caused an instant familiarity. Greene said it was heartwarming when others said she had inspired them but awkward when they confided in Greene's husband. She uses her maiden name in her advocacy work to give him privacy.

"Co-workers would come up to him: 'Was that your wife on TV last night?' It was difficult for him because he didn't know how to talk about it," Greene said.

Some relationships suffered because of her honesty. Greene said she had to cut ties with her maternal grandparents after they expressed disapproval of her public profile.

Although proud of her work, Greene says "I run a nonprofit" or pretends she doesn't have a job when she's on vacation or in a casual setting. She doesn't want to upset victims who have kept their stories private and might be listening to her, she said. Also, there are times when she wants to avoid an inevitable deluge of comments and questions.

She loves that she has grown enough to help others but says the rape doesn't define who she is. "I know I was in a dark place for a long time, but it took such a commitment on my part to reclaim my life, to leave it in my past," she said. "I'm so far removed from it that it doesn't feel like it happened in my life."

'A Rape Survivor's Journal'

Seattle teacher and writer Migael Scherer, 61, first wrote about her rape at age 40 in a letter to a local newspaper. Her name was withheld. Scherer said she was outraged at the coverage of her testimony against the man who raped, choked and used a knife to slash her in a Laundromat.

Testifying in court was "a whole other world" compared with writing about her attack with her name attached. She did that in an essay published in The Seattle Times, Scherer said. She also wrote a memoir, "Still Loved By the Sun: A Rape Survivor's Journal," after she couldn't find anything that spoke to her experience.

She is honored when rape victims confide in her. "It's very brave to say that," she said. "What I always say is, 'I'm so sorry that happened.'"

Scherer, who has worked with the Dart Center for Journalism & Trauma, said she distances herself from others' discomfort. "It's kind of like when your parents die. You feel that tension," she said. "People's hearts go out to you for the most part, and then they're left with, 'What do I say? What do I do?' ...When people were quiet, it felt like disapproval. Those first years, it really hurt me. Now I know that people just don't know what to say."

As forthright as Scherer can be, she's choosy about discussing her attack. She turned down an appearance on "The Oprah Winfrey Show" after a producer wanted her and her husband to describe the effect of the rape on their marriage. That was too intrusive, she said.

Surviving a rape "requires every bit of courage to move through it and become a larger person," she said. She's irritated when that isn't recognized.

"It colors the way people can see you," she said. "Every time I'm public about it, I'm taking myself back to that moment."

Strength From Support Group

Speaking publicly can be healing, said Jill VanderKam, 39, of Tampa, a certified financial planner. VanderKam was raped, beaten and choked in 2003 by a man she had dated for two months.

She first used her full name with a reporter in 2006, when she talked about her attack after she arranged a screening of a movie about the ramifications of a sexual assault.

"I didn't know anyone that had been public about acquaintance rape," she said. "In those first two years, there's not a day that goes by where you're not consciously living with it and dealing with it in some way. And when someone graces you with the opportunity to talk about it, it's like ... at least some good can come from the weight and the strain of carrying that."

Because her support group prepared her for the "smorgasbord" of reactions she might receive, VanderKam said she felt strong enough to stand up for herself when someone made a boneheaded comment. For instance, one acquaintance asked, "Well, what did you do to provoke that?" VanderKam said she replied, "I'm not going to talk to you about this anymore. I don't have to answer to anybody but myself." The person apologized.

For all the stress speaking out has caused at times, she doesn't regret it.

"Owning your story privately is one thing. Owning your story publicly and not being ashamed of it is actually quite empowering," VanderKam said.

Reporter Valerie Kalfrin can be reached at vkalfrin@tampatrib.com or (813) 259-7800.

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