Rape Whistle

Freshman year of college.  I am on campus, dressed in ridiculously oversized green pants, a black nightie and a cardigan full of holes.  My hair is in ponytails and littered with colorful plastic barrettes.  Ok, do we all understand 18 year old Dresden now?  Great.  Let's move on.

My Dad brought me to school despite the fact that I hated him at the time.  I guess he thought it might be a bonding occasion for us.  In truth, I was desperate to get rid of him so I could smoke 1,000 cigarettes.

My school--we'll just call it The University of Dirty Hippies--was tucked gently into the woods, surrounded by tall, strong evergreen trees and lush, green grass.  When I visited as a junior in high school, I knew immediately that I wanted to go there.  For years I had thought of college as a place where I would stage crazy protests, maybe purchase a bullhorn and call my parents from jail.  Dreadlocked boys and girls sat in groups, strumming guitars, having Food Not Bombs meetings and asking people to save the whales.

Yes, I thought.  This is where I shall live out my dream of being born in time to be 18 in 1969. 


But first there was business to attend to.  I had to check in and get my dorm room key.  A smiley white woman beamed up at me from behind a card table.

"Hi!  What's your name?"
"Dresden Jones."
"Can you spell that?"
"D-R-E-S-D-E-N."
"Oh, here you are.  You're in B dorm, room 204.  I'm Colleen, your resident assistant.  Welcome to UDH!"
"Thanks."
"Here is your orientation package, your room keys and your rape whistle."

The whistle was added like the cherry on a sundae, set lovingly on top of the giant green folder meant to orientate me.  It was small and metal, wrapped in plastic.  I stared at it and then looked at her.
"What...what's this?"
Her giant smile never wavered.  "It's your rape whistle.  It's to keep you safe on campus."
I still didn't get it.  My father, standing next to me, chuckled.
"I feel better already", he said sarcastically.

Hours later, after my father was finally gone (I literally sat and watched him through the window until he disappeared and then lit a cigarette), my roommates and I discussed the rape whistle at length. I was living in a 2 bedroom, 4-person dorm room.  Stephanie was my friend from high school whom I had requested to live with; she and I shared a room.  Nelly was in the other room.  Nelly was gorgeous and when I first met her, I thought I was doomed to live with a cheerleader.  Turns out that angelic looking platinum blonde was more like a biker than a supermodel.  And I mean that in the best, most awesome way ever.

"So...you're supposed to blow this fucking thing if you're, like, being attacked?"  Stephanie had a flair for swearing.  90% of the sentences she uttered back then had the word "fuck" or "shit" in them.  This is fine, except when you're at the Golden Vally Perkins at 8am on a Sunday after an all night rave and Stephanie says to the waitress, "This orange juice tastes like a big fucking piece of candy."

None of us understood the concept of the rape whistle.  Say you're being attacked by a violent rapist who jumps out from the woods (which were all around us).  As you're realizing what's happening to you and in full panic mode, you're supposed to have the sense to dig through your purse for the rape whistle you were issued at orientation and blow it?  Or let's say you're hanging out with a guy who you met at a party, who seemed nice and, yeah, you'd like to make out with him a little in his dorm room.  If he gets crazy suddenly and starts forcing himself on you, do you ask him to hold on so you can get your rape whistle?  Some advised that you wear the rape whistle around your neck, so it would always be easily accessible.  In other words, always be ready for rape.  It's going to happen and you've got the whistle to prove it.   This concept was stunning to me.  And goddamn hilarious.

The rape whistle became an accessory for fun.  Stephanie would put it in her mouth, lie on her side and say, "Who am I?" Then she'd blow into the whistle listlessly, her eyes half closed.

"Kate Winselt in Titanic!"  I'd scream.  Then we'd laugh our asses off and eat kettle chips.  Because we were high.

One particularly boring night, some friends and I decided to go break beer bottles against a wall.  Each time a bottle was successfully smashed, we'd all blow our rape whistles.  Stephanie and I were hanging out with a bunch of boys and she decided we could telepathically communicate with each other, only I didn't know this.  She kept looking at me weird but I just assumed she was stoned or drunk...or both.  Finally she took out her rape whistle and blew it as hard as she could.  
"Goddamn Dresden!  Do you have a tampon?!"

My best weapon against rape was actually my umbrella.  It was western Washington state, so it was always raining.  And walking home late from the library was sort of scary--we were in the woods.  There were creepy drug addicted homeless people on campus all the time because UDH was where everyone bought their drugs.  I would hold my umbrella like a bat until I could see the lights of the dorms.  I didn't truly believe that I would ever be raped because I believed that rape was a crazy Lifetime movie event that only happened to Meredith Baxter Birney and Tracy Gold.  The most stunning part of going away to college is finding out all the stuff you didn't know.

At the end of that school year, a report was released letting us all know that the rape whistles had failed to do their jobs: there had been 8 sexual assaults on campus, and those are just the ones that were reported.  I know a lot has changed since...back then...and I pray that colleges have discontinued phoning it in with something as ridiculous as a rape whistle and are instead educating their students about sexual assault.  But I'd like to thank the rape whistle for hours of entertainment during that weird, painful, fun, confusing year.  I wish I still had it.