This time last year, I wrote about Amanda Todd, and I haven鈥檛 mentioned her name in a column since.
I often want to talk about her, but I don鈥檛 like the idea that her suicide has become grist for my mill. I never met Amanda, yet somehow I have the authority 鈥� sitting here in my pyjamas, drinking my coffee 鈥� to use her name to fill my weekly quota. I don鈥檛 like that, and I try not to do it.
It鈥檚 important to talk about Amanda Todd today, though, because last week was the one-year anniversary of her suicide. Her legacy is still being cemented. Since her death, Todd鈥檚 family has been actively involved in anti-bullying work.
The Amanda Todd Legacy Fund raises money for anti-bullying education, as well as for young people who are living with depression and other mental-health problems. The outcry after Amanda鈥檚 death also spurred Premier Christy Clark to launch ERASE, to combat bullying in schools.
This work is more than valuable. It is crucial. As with the case of Rehtaeh Parsons in Nova Scotia, another teen girl who was pushed to suicide by the abuse of her peers, it鈥檚 good to see the police and the public taking bullying seriously.
But the more time passes, the less we talk about the fact that both girls were sexually harassed. Amanda was blackmailed and bullied with sexual photos a person had taken of her online; Rehtaeh was raped, although most news stories now refer to it as 鈥渁lleged sexual assault,鈥� despite the fact that pictures were taken of her rape. The bullying that both girls faced was largely rooted in the fact that they were victims of sexual harassment.
Bullying provides us with a clear narrative: There is a protagonist and an antagonist, a victim and an abuser. We make feel-good family films about this kind of conflict. While the Internet has made bullying more pervasive and diverse in its forms, we can still clearly articulate why bullying is bad.
We understand the kind of culpability involved, too; it鈥檚 just a matter of enforcing it in our schools. We can also foresee ways of dealing with it: Apps on phones, more counsellors in schools, better education about online behaviour.
But sexual harassment? We can鈥檛 handle that. It鈥檚 too slippery to talk about, so we avoid it. We pretend that we know it鈥檚 bad, but we鈥檇 rather gloss it over. It鈥檚 unsavoury, but that鈥檚 not why we don鈥檛 talk about it: It鈥檚 because we鈥檙e all implicated in the idea that women, even girls, are responsible for their own victimization.
Whenever I write about sexual harassment, I invariably receive an e-mail from a concerned, good-hearted person that goes: Yes, you鈥檙e right, that shouldn鈥檛 have happened/ sexual harassment is bad but don鈥檛 you agree that she shouldn鈥檛 have done that/said that/boys will be boys.
I disagree with all my heart. The minute we slot that 鈥渂ut鈥� in there, we鈥檙e changing the conversation from the actions of the abuser to the abused, when it鈥檚 the abuser鈥檚 responsibility not to abuse.
I bring this up because the impulse to victim-blame women and girls is so strong, so strong, so strong. I know we like clear narratives. They comfort us. If women don鈥檛 do x, they won鈥檛 be sexually harassed.
If Amanda hadn鈥檛 done x, then y wouldn鈥檛 have happened. But this formula is for our convenience. It doesn鈥檛 make girls safer.
Amanda and Rehtaeh鈥檚 bullies used the fact that they were sexually harassed against them. It was evidence that they鈥檇 already done something wrong, because if women don鈥檛 do x, they can avoid y, after all.
Amanda and Rehtaeh were sexually harassed. Both girls were bullied because of it, both online and offline, and committed suicide afterwards. We cannot erase sexual harassment from their stories; when we omit it, we鈥檙e sanitizing their deaths for our own comfort.
Amanda Todd has become the face of anti-bullying in B.C., and I hope her story compels us to address it as a serious issue. But I also hope it compels us to focus on the dangers of refusing to talk to our children about sexism, victim-blaming and sexual double standards.
Amanda and Rehtaeh were girls. That was the extent of their crime.
