This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
In the wake of The Salt Lake Tribune's well-deserved Pulitzer Prize, there has been significant commentary on the validity of Brigham Young University's Honor Code in preventing sexual assault. Unfortunately, many of these conversations are missing a fundamental understanding of rape culture, instead replacing reality-based conversation with religious platitudes and a healthy dose of subliminal victim-blaming.
In a recent op-ed in the Deseret News entitled "How BYU's Honor Code May Help Prevent Sexual Assaults," Hal Boyd takes readers through a description of the myriad of ways that BYU's "19 milk-filled years" could actually be a model for prevention of sexual assault. The author even glowingly cites Stanford as a school that has "begun targeting alcohol consumption," making no mention of the considerable backlash that this policy received, as it was implemented in the wake of the infamous Brock Turner sexual assault case. Indeed, this piece seems to follow the "alternative facts" model that plays well in echo chambers, but doesn't translate to real-life results.
The facts are this: One out of every six American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape. Women aged 18-24 who are college students are three times more likely that other women to experience sexual violence, and only 20 percent of these victims report to law enforcement.
With statistics like these, how can we plausibly argue that a school honor code that is more punitive than protective is really the answer?
It's worth noting that Boyd's piece provides no citations, no evidence and no facts to support his assertions, other than a CNN article that cites a 10-year-old study claiming to link fraternity men to higher instances of committing rape. The writing is littered with anecdotal, folksy phrases like "boozy brotherhoods," "when the clock chimes midnight," and "teetotaling chastity crusaders," but no mention of preventative strategies other than eliminating alcohol consumption and implementing gender-based regulations and curfews.
This rings hollow, considering that, again, BYU was the focus of Pulitzer-worthy journalism based on their climate of rape culture and sexual assault, despite the school's strong Mormon influence and their "19 milk-filled years."
Make no mistake that attitudes like these — that sexual assault is preventable by banning alcohol, separating men from women and encouraging piety and chastity — don't prevent assaults, they create victims. Sexual violence doesn't occur because of alcohol, hormones or lust. It's an inescapable expression of power, intimidation and entitlement — whether you're in a church pew or a college basement. Until the people in our neighborhoods, our religious communities and our government begin to understand that reality, they are not protecting victims: They are empowering predators. Rather than shunning the concept of personal responsibility, shouldn't we be teaching students about the realities of sexual assault? Instead of giving abusers an exit, should we not make it clear that their actions are intolerable, regardless of the circumstances? Is it really appropriate to look at a broken system and not only stand by it, but encourage other institutions to adopt the same model?
It's long past time for Utah to stop blaming victims and to stop hiding behind the specter of alcohol. With an issue as deeply personal as sexual assault, we cannot rely on statistics to tell the whole story, and we cannot replace reality with repentance. Victims deserve better, students deserve better and, quite frankly, all of us deserve better.
Madalena McNeil is a local organizer, activist and higher education professional.