Justice is elusive, and there are few clearer examples of this than when people who commit acts of sexual violence are given rote tasks as a means of atonement.
Recently, the “Cornell 7” case has inspired new conversations about what accountability and atonement involve. When college administrators investigated a report of sexual violence, some of the alleged perpetrators were reportedly assigned to write “reflection papers,” along with other punishments. The writing assignments drew such ire that Cornell issued a statement stating that "none of the individuals charged were offered the opportunity to write essays as a sole consequence of their involvement."
I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, which started when I was 11 years old. Abuse from my step-father went hand-in-hand with punishment. He knew how much I loved words, reading, and writing, and began to use them to discipline me.
Our household was governed by an elaborate set of rules. We were not allowed to speak during dinner without permission. We were required to stand while playing board games. Our bedrooms were inspected every evening, and our beds had to be made with hospital corners.
Any infraction could result in punishment. One of the preferred methods was to require me to write an essay outlining what I had done wrong and how to correct my misdeeds. If I didn't wash the dishes carefully enough, I would have to write an essay about why I needed to take better care when cleaning up after dinner.
Other times, I was ordered to write the same sentence hundreds of times.
If I complained about dinner, I had to write 100 times, “I will appreciate my mother’s cooking.”
If I made fun of one of my siblings, I had to write 250 times, “I will not make fun of my brother.”
And if I resisted attempts to assault me, the punishment could be a thousand repetitions of “I will listen.”
I was being punished for trying to protect myself from the person who was abusing me. In doing so, I learned that writing the correct words was not the same as believing them. I could produce an essay explaining what I might have done wrong and promise to be better, but it didn’t mean that I believed that I misbehaved. It meant that I understood what was required of me. The punishment was complete when the writing was complete, but whether I had learned anything was beside the point.
More than 50 years later, I find myself wondering what we believe an essay can accomplish when it is assigned in response to allegations of sexual violence. Cornell’s disciplinary proceedings have resulted in different sanctions for different students, including expulsions and suspensions. “Reflection papers” were among the educational requirements imposed on some students.
But what, exactly, can an assigned essay demonstrate?
An essay can be thoughtful and persuasive; it can express regret, recognize harm, and promise change. But how do we know whether the person who wrote it believes any of what is written? What happens when completing an assignment becomes a substitute for demonstrating genuine understanding or changed behavior?
I have spent my adult life writing, teaching, and interviewing people about their lives. I believe in the ability of language to help us understand ourselves and one another, and I know how easily language can be used to conceal the truth.
My abuser understood the power of words, and used them to dictate the terms of my obedience. He controlled what I was allowed to say. He warned me that no one would believe me and threatened violence against those I love if I spoke out. I believed him, and I remained silent and ashamed.
I was required to write about my smallest infractions while being forbidden, through fear, to speak about the most terrible thing happening in my life. And the person who demanded that I explain my wrongdoing was the person committing the most serious wrongdoing of all.
This is why the relationship between language and power matters so much to me. The person with authority often gets to decide what constitutes an acceptable explanation, a credible account, or a sufficient expression of remorse.
Jane Doe, the young woman at the center of the Cornell case, reported the incident to university police in 2024. Since then, the timing and content of her disclosures have become subjects of intense public scrutiny. Public debate has focused in part on differences between her initial statements and her subsequent allegations.
I cannot speak for her, and our experiences are different. But I understand how fear can determine what someone is willing to reveal, even when she desperately needs help.
There is something troubling about how much we expect words to prove in cases of sexual violence. We scrutinize the accounts of those who report abuse, searching for inconsistencies. Now we are asking those found responsible for misconduct to demonstrate understanding through written reflection.
I believe writing can lead to meaningful change. But an essay is evidence that someone has completed an assignment. It cannot establish whether that person understands the harm they have caused or whether their behavior will change.
Why are we putting so much faith in the words people are required to write, while questioning the words that others struggle to say?