One Saturday afternoon last June, I got a call from London, Ont.’s police service. A young woman had allegedly been raped at a party I attended the previous November and they were gathering evidence. Would I give a statement? I agreed, and in less than 24 hours, two middle-aged police officers in casual clothing arrived at my apartment door.
The night that changed everything Until I was 17, I thought I was invincible. In my senior year of high school, I was captain of the Step Squad team and making straight As. I didn’t expect that what was supposed to be the “best year of my life” would quickly turn into the worst. I felt like someone had put a plastic bag over my head and left me to desperately gasp for air. I was overcome with so much anxiety, it was almost like an out-of-body experience. I sat on my bed for what felt like hours reading and re-reading the tweet, trying to make sense of it. I had no idea what the correct response would be.
And, for the first time in my life, I felt true fear. The realization that this could be racially motivated scared me—if that was the case, I knew I’d have to call the police. But Black women don’t always receive fair treatment from law enforcement. “Don’t drink so much next time” Still, I held out hope that the authorities would help me—or at least ensure the boys who raped me wouldn’t do this again. Unfortunately, my fears were justified—I wasn’t treated fairly. When I was just a witness to an alleged rape, the detectives drove two and a half hours from London, Ont. to Hamilton, Ont. to interview me. I sat down with two officers and they took my statements.
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