Content warning: mentions of sexual assault, sexual violence, racism, and transphobia.
(For this article, I expect it will be obvious that when I say “Skidmore students” or anything of the sort, I am explicitly excluding those individuals who have been accused of committing sexual crimes and being threats to the safety of our community.)
I wish I could give (most) everyone at Skidmore right now a big hug.
I am a junior at Skidmore and have spent the past two and a half years partaking in and being surrounded by various student-led movements. I’ve watched folks cry and share their intimate stories for all sorts of reasons, about all forms of injustice. I’ve learned what folks need in times like these, and what the College constantly refuses to give them. The administration is generally apathetic in these situations and has been notorious for sweeping larger institutional problems under the rug.
In the past 24 hours, a wall has been cracked open between the College and its students. Between a group of apathetic administrators and the hurting people. For many, this wall has been cracked for a while, or maybe it never existed.
It doesn’t begin to scratch the surface to say that Skidmore fails a majority of its students, and continues to exclude them from an elegant, elite presentation of the College. It has been proven in our academia, housing, extracurriculars, and even in the protection of our basic human safety.
Conversations about student safety and sexual assault on campus have accelerated over the last few weeks. The increased popularity of the social media app Yik Yak has allowed folks to anonymously share their stories about sexual violence on campus and frustrations with the administration in their handling of Sexual and Gender-Based Misconduct (SBGM) cases. The posts on Yik Yak, increasing in amount and engagement each day as more students downloaded the app, quickly became more personal and explicit. Some posts were consequently taken down for guideline violations, which, rightfully so, angered users.
An Instagram account under the name Skidmore Anonymous (@skidanonymous) was then created as a new, safer space to share stories, run by a moderator who has control over content and comments. Anonymous stories, submitted by users to the moderators, were posted in story slideshows, many with content warnings at the front. Most of them have no comments, but by the number of likes the posts get, folks have shown a lot of support. As of the afternoon of October 21, the account has 1,131 followers, a massive amount more than the average club at Skidmore. Predictably, it caught the attention of the administration, who were quick to assert themselves as the facilitator in the discussion.
On Tuesday, October 19th, Title IX Coordinator Joel Aure and Deputy Coordinator Gabriella Melillo held a Zoom with the student body to address recent critiques of the College’s Title IX and SGBM policies and processes. Interestingly, the Zoom was capped at 300 participants, leaving out many folks who would have liked to join that space. Melillo briefly mentioned it, and said it couldn’t be changed, but I wonder why the meeting had a limit in the first place. I will let you ponder that on your own.
I am not going to recount the meeting, as others have honorably already compiled that information. Skidmore Anonymous, with the assistance of some students, created a Google Drive folder with a timeline of the meeting, students’ questions, and an audio recording. I appreciate the work that these folks did to share the vital information with those who were restricted by the Administration from attending the meeting.
The question and answer portion of the Zoom was what I believe fully split the wall between students and administrators. First, from my observation, Aure and Melillo could not have looked more indifferent and, at times, distracted. They had folks crying on camera and did not show a sign of empathy. Many noted in the chat and afterwards that not once did either administrator apologize for the trauma students have endured, or offer words of care or support. It was actually enraging to watch the way in which the two listened to students ask questions stemming from a place of pain and fear, and simply deflect it with, “I can’t speak in specifics.” In fact, most questions were met with a blanket statement of “We have to be unbiased and objective” mixed with “I can’t answer that specific question.” They verbally avoided supporting the students completely. More frustrating, the students’ questions were mostly all hypothetical, applicable to a majority of the student body, and relevant to the immediate concerns of the community. I left the meeting feeling more depressed than usual, and quite disgusted with the institution I often feel lucky to attend.
Those feelings continued intensely into Wednesday, when I attended an hours-long gathering outside of Case Center at which folks openly shared their intimate histories, frustrations in the community, and rage with the administration. To be brief, it was an emotional environment. Watching folks be so personal with so many people, and to see moments of support, compassion, and love, was honestly beautiful to witness. I was reminded almost instantly that communities have the ability to be places of immense humanity like this.
Of course, there were also the very real and present feelings of hurt, anger, and disgust that overwhelmed us all. The presence of violent, abhorrent people both in the Skidmore community and elsewhere constantly reminds me that even though humans can be good, we can never be good enough. The number of Skidmore students who are immoral in this way is something I don’t want to give much space to, because I know thinking about these people is a feeling that no one enjoys.
I would like to instead focus on the humanity that I mentioned before, and the ways in which I saw our community uplift each other. I saw folks escort their friends up to the ledge where they spoke, stand by their side, and hug them when they needed it. I saw people across Case Center with arms around one another, showing support and love to their peers who felt touched by the messages. The applause during and after each person spoke was booming; I’m sure it was heard far across campus. Some folks who shared that they were at first hesitant to speak, but were inspired after seeing others muster the courage to do it. Lots of folks cried, which was recognized as a mark of strength and survival.
It is important to mention that the space was, as most spaces are, co-opted by cisgender white folks. It goes without saying that these folks’ experiences are just as valid as anyone else’s. But for it to happen here exemplifies a larger conversation that needs to be had about safe spaces on campus. Again, I am going to set aside that conversation, as we deserve some time to think about healing things.
Outside of Case, there were shouts amongst the crowd about abolishing the system of Title IX that currently exists at Skidmore College. What is in place is not working, so why should it continue to exist? Other folks shared about forgetting the administration altogether; who needs these people who are so apathetic and unhelpful? They have clearly shown that they are not willing to give the students what we are explicitly asking for, what we desperately need. These were powerful moments for me, and for the crowd. It felt like a serious people’s movement, the birth of important change.
The change that has the potential to come from this will only happen if we carry these feelings of compassion and love with us into our work. From my perspective, community members left the space feeling empowered and inspired, supported and heard. These emotions are vital to next steps. They must be present in the deconstruction of existing systems, and in the construction of new ones. Should the current Title IX policies be dismantled, the eventual new ones have to be crafted with this same empathy that we felt outside of Case. Title IX is a piece of federal legislation and therefore undergoes a review process on a regular basis. The next date of review occurs in May of 2022 and I personally hope changes are made to the policy that center marginalized voices and inject a much needed dose of compassion into the process.
There are certain people whose voices should be centered at the (fingers crossed) new construction. Many spoke at Case about how Queer, Trans, Black, Indigenous People of Color (QTBIPOC) folks are extremely marginalized in these conversations. They are silenced survivors whose experiences are treated as “second-class” to white folks’. These also are the folks who undoubtedly do the most work on this campus, for this community: collectors of mutual aid funds, spreaders of information, organizers of protests. These are the students who should be asked to be at the center of the next steps. White folks cannot center themselves on this one and drive it into the wall. If we are all committed to this cause, as the climate on campus would suggest, we have to make sure we do it right.
To see that many people show each other the love and support that I saw outside of Case is promising, even if the future seems as bleak as the present. The Skidmore community is powerful, and as draining as this work is, it is apparent that we are committed to it. And we should continue to actively demand change, because the second we take the pedal off the gas so too will the administration. The more we demand and show empathy and love, the more likely it is that maybe Skidmore will show some to us.
Focusing on love and compassion as the key to community development is probably naive, and not practical in most environments. I do not share these thoughts as concrete ideas, and I am not offering myself as an expert on the work. What I do think is that it’s really important to focus on the positive effects of these special moments on our community and what that makes us capable of. If we choose to lead with love, and work with each other with empathy and respect then we will certainly inspire change. And I can’t speak for the administration, but I hope that they will maybe adapt the same feelings of compassion.
Believe survivors. Listen to survivors. Uplift the voices of survivors and especially QTBIPOC survivors. Hug your friends. Tell your friends you believe them and that you are there for them. They need to hear that. Delete the phone number of the person you know was outed as a threat. Ignore their greeting when you walk by them in the Dining Hall. Ask that person alone in Case late at night if they want you to walk them back to their dorm. Surround yourself with people who listen to you and who care for you.
The more we stick to love and compassion, the stronger we are. If the Skidmore administration shows us that they will continue to be apathetic and “objective,” we will be the space for empathy and support. History has shown that the people are more powerful than authoritative institutions. The people have the power to create and destroy, to mold and reshape. We can’t do that without love, kindness, and respect. As Saratoga Black Lives Matter leader Lexis Figuereo often chants, “Who keeps us safe? We keep us safe.” Let’s use that as our motive for change.