To my community, I am writing today to address something serious, and to do something I never have been brave enough to do before, in former situations. Today I am here to publically acknowledge that I have been subject to sexual assault, and for the first time in my life, to name and hold accountable the person who committed it â in this case, Wes Russell. Please believe that I understand the seriousness of sharing such information, both for the perpetrator and the victim (and I have never wanted to be seen publically as a âvictimâ). Those who know me will know the reservations I have towards public âcall-outsâ and their gravity. I implore those who read this account to please, read it in full, in order to thoroughly understand my perspective â which is not black and white, but has nuance â and the reasons that I have decided to bring this to public attention. - On the night of Friday, December 2, I arrived in Philadelphia to spend a weekend with friends, and to catch the show at 52hz. I had arranged after the show to stay at Wes and Shariâs house, as I often have. The night out was honestly beautiful, an example of everything I love about this music and arts community that we are all a part of. For full disclosure, all of us were definitely partying â neither Wes nor I were sober. I share this fact willingly, lest it be used by anyone else to undermine my reliability as a narrator. By the end of the night, when the show ended and we were all ready to go home and go to bed, I was undoubtedly intoxicated, but by no means completely incapacitated (I did not in any way black out). So, the five of us â Wes, Shari, myself, and the two touring musicians â headed back to the house around 4 AM. Their friends had already arranged to sleep in the two empty bedrooms, so when we got back Wes offered me a spot to sleep in his and Shariâs bed, because the downstairs was cold, the futon wasnât set up to sleep in yet, and we were all very exhausted. I had shared a bed with the two of them before in New York, and it wasnât a problem. This time around, Wes assured me that Shari would sleep in the middle, and we would all just pass out. I felt safe with my friends, and went upstairs presumably to go to sleep. As soon as I lay down to sleep, I was out; so was Shari. I do not know when or if Wes fell asleep that night or not, or what time the event actually occurred â I would guess around 6 AM or so â but at some point in the middle of the night, I awoke to someoneâs touch. Half-asleep, still fucked up and disoriented, I came out of what I felt at first was a dream that my body was being stroked and touched. As I became more conscious and aware, my first thought was that Shari must have been touching me; after all, she was next to me. Gradually I became aware that someoneâs fingers were in my pants, between my legs, stroking me, inside of me. Very confused, I lay there for a couple seconds next to Shari, in a half-daze, unable yet to piece together what was happening. Suddenly, like lightning, Shari was pulling what was Wesâs hand out of my pants, flying out of bed and bolting downstairs in the midst of a panic attack. Wes had, in fact, been reaching over his sleeping fianceeâs body to grope my body and finger my sexual organs while I was unconscious. At this moment, I remember sitting up in bed and asking Wes what was going on. I asked him several times. The first few times, he just mumbled, hardly answering. Then he lied, and told me that Shari had simply gone to the bathroom. I was still in a general state of disassociation and shock (which has historically happened to me in the midst of sexual trauma) and did not completely understand what was happening. At this point, Wes moved next to me from across the bed and tried to kiss me. I said something to the effect of âNo, letâs not do thisâ â I donât remember now â and pushed him away. He tried a second time; I put him off again. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I rolled over and fell back asleep. As far as I know, nothing else happened while I was asleep. The next day, I woke up to Wes explaining quietly that there had been a fire in Oakland, and many had died: of course, December 2 was also the night of the tragic Ghost Ship fire, which our community is still reeling from. One of the touring musicians had lost numerous friends and was in a deep state of unbridled grief. So all three of us â Wes, Shari, and myself â were thrust into a position where the traumatic situation that had occurred the previous night had to be brushed under the rug in order to deal with a new unfolding horror. I cannot remember ever before being struck with the particular cocktail of shock, powerlessness, chaos, and indecipherable pain that coursed through me that day. Please believe me when I tell you I am still struggling with the torrent of emotions left in the wake of these events. - As far as the aftermath of the actual assault is concerned: those of you who have undergone sexual assault (or undergone multiple sexual assaults and/or rapes) will recognize how difficult it is to navigate the hall of mirrors that is the trap of denial and self-blame which victims of sexual violence often face. For women such as myself, who went through this for the first time before even becoming a teenager, a process of âre-traumatizationâ often occurs: wounds that had seemingly healed during the numinous and bright years in which no violence was suffered suddenly re-open, thrusting the subject into the mire of the forgotten, lost self. Since December 2, I have been coping with succumbing to sporadic fits of shaking; weaving in and out of spinning, disabling nausea; sorting through deep feelings of mistrust for male friends who were and still are trying to help me; and struggling with what course of action to take, knowing that no matter what I choose to do, I will lose and invariably hurt someone I care about very much â Shari, who is NOT to blame â in the process. As I mentioned at the very beginning, I have always felt extremely wary and critical of the concept of public âcall-outs,â and in the first few days following the assault, it did not even occur to me as an option to make this information public. In the past, as my closest friends know, I have processed these types of trauma very privately, swallowing the bile of fear, pain, and spiritual sickness in order to protect men who inevitably viewed my mental, emotional, and physical health as disposable; as well as to avoid the nauseating stress of public derision and denigration that victims of sexual violence face under the microscope of public scrutiny. Time and time again, I have seen the types of character assassinations that women who speak about their traumatic experiences are forced to undergo, and I have never envied them. I have either seen peopleâs entire identities reduced to this word âvictim,â or watched a narrative form around them branding them as troubled, dramatic, dishonest, or lost. To speak about this publically is, for me, an extremely heavy and sensitive thing. During these past couple weeks, in the process of sorting out what exactly my values are regarding these types of crises, I have clung to the following passage from C. G. Jungâs âThe Symbolic Life.â Jung wisely and empathetically writes: âSuffering that is not understood is hard to bear, while on the other hand it is often astounding to see how much a person can endure when he understands the why and the wherefore. A philosophical or religious view of the world enables him to do this, and such views prove to be, at the very least, psychic methods of healing if not of salvation.â Like Jung, I view the guiding light of belief as a compass to help navigate the destabilizing experience of suffering. As for myself, it is not a particular religion which moves me, but my deep and total belief in healing: that healing IS possible (for myself, for Wes, for the community at large), and that the possibility of healing ultimately brings sense and order into situations of senseless violence, thus engendering any suffering incurred âworth itâ in the end. My understanding of healing is that sometimes it occurs in the darkness of gestation, in silence and in solitude, and other times occurs through the light of collective awareness and visibility. Similarly, silence can be holy â a pathway to greater self-understanding, as with the vows that those in religious orders sometimes take â or utterly damning, depending upon what, exactly, is being omitted within this silence. Because the void is not ânothingâ but instead a deep âsomethingâ that defies signification, what is omitted can never, in truth, disappear. We can suppress our darkest thoughts and feelings, but their symbols will still find a way into our dreams, unconsciously guiding our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors for better or for worse. Like many of you, I originally was drawn to this experimental music and arts community because of its cathartic possibilities of expression, which can sometimes function almost as communal exorcism for whatever demons we collectively possess. Additionally, like many of you, I am not only disgusted with the state of our contemporary American âjusticeâ system but also maintain skepticism towards the efficacy of incarceration and the prison-industrial complex, because prison does not and cannot generate healing or salvation. Even in an alternate reality in which it did, or could, there is no justice for women regardless; RAINN cites that for every 1,000 cases of sexual violence, only 7 cases will lead to a felony conviction. My personal understanding or experience is that the majority of the time, men who commit sexually violent acts will likely evade reform, continuing on to leave more hurt and trauma in their wake â and yet my hope and faith demands that their healing is, at least, possible. Thus I have come to believe that community accountability is, in this case, the most viable option for holding the person who did this to me responsible, while also enabling rehabilitation and transformation. I understand that this account has been long; I have put much time into writing it, because I do not think such things should be done in haste or thoughtlessness. I have no desire to raise up a chorus of âfuck that guyâs â even if I feel this internally, I know that this would not help the situation. My goal is instead to hopefully deliver a wake up call to the people who have passively enabled his behavior. There are absolutely other allegations about Wesâ abusive behavior that I have heard in the past, but I believed (like many) that he had either made some major changes or that perhaps the allegations were exaggerated. Many of you also saw Wes smash Shariâs car window after the festival this past spring, among other things. Wes is an adult man with a child to care for. If you care about Wes, I ask that you hold him accountable. Regardless of how angry and hurt I may be, I donât want any more destruction birthed from this unfortunate and painful experience. I donât know what else to really ask for â I donât have all the answers, just my own perspective and belief system. This isnât the first time I have encountered inappropriate, abusive, or otherwise destructive behavior within this scene, and I am tired of it. Because I love what weâve built together and believe in its worth, I would like to demand better. Can we keep each other safe? Can we take this type of violence a little more seriously, and stop normalizing and minimizing these behaviors, and their terrible consequences that reverberate â and reverberate â and reverberate? Aside from my hope that some good may yet come of this heartbreaking situation in the form of greater awareness and healing, the only other silver lining that I can see is how incredibly present the men in my life have been. The crux of my political belief lies in women supporting and being there for other women â and women do not receive thanks and praise for the emotional labor they extend for one another enough, so I say now with all of my heart THANK YOU, you save my life every day. However, I would be lying if I didnât admit how deeply relieving it has been to be listened to, validated, and supported by male allies. Male allyship in these types of situations can make a huge difference, since men are more apt to be believed and trusted and often have access to privilege that women do not â so to you (you know who you are), much thanks â and to the rest of you, please begin (or continue) listening to, validating, and supporting the women in your life. To those who made it to the end of this long letter, thank you too â Elizabeth
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