Consent: A Memoir of Unwanted Attention

by Donna Freitas

I submitted to the reality that the attention would not stop, that I could not stop it, that it was not within my power to make it stop. I accepted that I could not change this. I believed I had no options, that no one would believe me if I told them what was going on. Or that the only thing they would be willing to believe was that I was crazy to suspect this man of wrongdoing, this beloved priest-professor of a man. They would see only the innocent side of his actions, because there was always an innocent side to see. They would dismiss my feelings of desperation, of rage, of fear and disgust, as overreactions. Unless. Unless he attacked me. I began to pray that he would try. I wanted him to try to rape me. I know how horrible that sounds, how utterly vile. But I need to explain why. His behavior was so complex; he never stepped over a line. It was always just this side of excusable, technically. What’s a few letters? They’re not hurting anyone. What’s wrong with a professor looking out the window of his office? Absolutely nothing. How can you accuse a professor of being in the hallway and the stairwell of the building where he teaches? You can’t. What’s a pear, a few books, a few coffees in the abbey where he lives with his fellow monks? Not much to go on. What’s one article about a famous author and priest written by a similarly renowned author and priest? It’s fulfilling one’s obligations as a professor at a university. How about his calls and letters to my Catholic m...