I wish I had known how easy it is to fall through the gaps. I enrolled in this university eager to see justice in action. As a freshman, I regularly made the trip down to the Supreme Court, walking right up to the inscription “Equal Justice Under Law.” By my sophomore year, I knew those words were aspiration rather than reality.
I never imagined my assault would not be acknowledged simply because the Respondent is a university student from outside of GW. Driven by a desire to protect others, I reached out to our Title IX office—a decision that weighed heavily on me, because it is easier to pretend that nothing happened than to acknowledge someone I trusted had betrayed me. Nevertheless, I decided to engage in the “fair and neutral” process that is so constantly advertised to us—only to discover that I was not covered.
Restrictions on eligibility were never mentioned in any informational training, and that should alarm you—Washington D.C. is home to over 75 universities, and the on-campus metro stop (the busiest in the District) makes it painless for students to cross state lines without accountability.
I wish I had grasped how unforgiving Republican policies are toward survivors of sexual violence. Despite my efforts to remain outside the partisan fray, the harsh consequences of these policies have forcibly entered my life, leaving me with no choice but to take up the mantle of advocacy in a deeply politicized battle. While I shouldn’t need to rely on statistics to validate my experiences, the reality is as follows:
The 2020 Trump administration Title IX guidelines have been reinstated for nearly 700 universities (including ours) following an endless stream of injunctions. Republicans claim they take issue with updates redefining “hostile environment harassment” to include gender identity—something the Justice Department was willing to put on hold in order to pass the rest of the Title IX protections, and Republicans refused. As a result, a university just one state over is not legally obligated to address my formal complaint, because the reimplemented restrictions in §106.30 require me to be a participant in his education program.
How many voices have already been silenced due to this oversight? I am not the only one. A cursory glance through the 2,082-page document outlining federal Title IX policies reveals significant gaps: there are no protections for students assaulted off campus (page 256), students in a study abroad program (page 676), or victims of misconduct that fails to meet the narrow criteria of “severe, pervasive, and objectively offensive” (page 28). Even the GW Hatchet refused to publish me if I did not attach my name to the article. This was after lengthy explanations of the stigma associated with surviving sexual assault, and the risks of derailing my own court case if the defense argues I was trying to influence the witnesses.
I wish I had realized that I would have to create my own options. It took countless hours of research to uncover the loophole that allows his university to categorize my report as student misconduct while authorizing an independent investigator to take action. This avenue only opened up thanks to my advocate’s relentless efforts to hold the university accountable—and most are not fortunate enough to have someone fighting for them. When I was dropped from GW Title IX after originally being told they would help me with the formal complaint process, I was denied even the opportunity to consult with a lawyer or investigator for guidance. While academic support and counseling were offered, the resources I truly needed were unavailable to those without a formal complaint, which I do not fit the criteria for.
Doing a deeper dive into the data, it now does not at all surprise me that our Title IX office had an entirely inadequate grasp on how to help me pursue tangible consequences against the man who harmed me. If you were a GW student last year, you should have received an email with the 2022-2023 Annual Report (though you probably did not weigh its implications). In it, you will find 104 reports of sexual assault, 271 reports of sexual harassment, 27 reports of dating violence, 11 reports of domestic violence, and 68 reports of stalking – a total of 481 counts. Yet despite the volume of these reports, only four formal complaints were resolved—raising serious questions about the effectiveness and accessibility of the process. It’s important to note that not every survivor wants to pursue the formal complaint process, which concludes with a determination of responsibility. Additionally, a single report can include multiple allegations—for example, both dating violence and stalking. Still, the overwhelming gap between the number of reported incidents and the number of formal complaints initiated reveals a deeper systemic issue.
We can begin to address this by leveraging other resources on campus. The Jacob Burns Community Legal Clinics already utilize law school students to assist with issues ranging from medical debt to domestic violence. Since law students need volunteer hours, there is no shortage of applicants to staff the center. It is not a lofty demand to add someone familiar with Title IX. Ultimately, I hope for a future where inter-university Title IX cases are taken seriously and where advocates are available to guide us through the process, rather than leaving us in the dark at every turn.
The absence of such support has had real consequences for students like me. Even after pushing for myself past the point of absolute exhaustion, the risk of being dropped in the middle of the student misconduct hearing looms over me every day. On the criminal side, I’m left navigating a District Attorney’s office so overwhelmed with cases that by the time we get to trial, I might already be in law school.
In many ways, my struggles are seen as nothing more than a financial burden. To policymakers, I am not a person, but a drain on their budget. Restricting who can report sexual assault cases is a cold-hearted and calculated monetary strategy. The Federal Register for the 2020 Rules openly brags that it will save between $286.4 million and $367.7 million over ten years. This shameless cost-cutting measure also creates a false sense of safety. Under the Clery Act, universities must report acts of sexual violence covered by the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) in their annual crime statistics. Yet as more people are turned away or forced to find different avenues to pursue disciplinary sanctions, they vanish from these yearly reports.
I wish I fit into the mold of Title IX’s perfect assault victim, but I do not. I am a reminder that institutional priorities will always take precedence over individuals.
To those who are facing a similar battle, know that you are not alone. Your experiences matter, even if they are dismissed by the systems designed to protect you. Equal justice under law starts with speaking out. I might not win my own case, but know that I see you, and I care deeply. If I help even one person, that is a victory for me.
In solidarity,
An anonymous GW student
Photo by Tilly Sandmeyer
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