To the Woman Whose Name I Don't Know:

TW: SEXUAL ASSAULT, RAPE

I have always had a hard time accepting a person as "good" and "bad" at the same time. It’s been much easier for me, safer even, to categorize people, men in particular, in two ways: safe or unsafe, and therefore good or bad. The idea that a man can be a rapist and still be a good man seemed to me to be an impossible idea.

Since Kobe died on Sunday it has felt like the entire world is a Kobe memorial. For days every photo on every feed has been of Kobe and his more-than-impressive, 13-year-old daughter Gianna. I’ve only ever been a casual fan of professional basketball, and I’m not from California so Laker Nation and Kobe’s basketball legacy mean very little to me. But I saw how much he inspired people, particularly young black men. I watched video after video of people mourning Kobe, read touching tributes, and cried watching Kobe and Gigi playing together. The love she had for him seemed so present, and the love he had for his girls—and being a girl dad—was apparent. I reeled through all of it, feeling thrust into a scenario I couldn’t comprehend and really didn’t want to.

Before the age of 10 I was sexually assaulted by four men and boys, some within my own family. When I was in college in 2010, one of those young men died. Suddenly my entire family was remembering a man who “partied like no one else” and was “the best big brother you could ever ask for,” and maybe he was those things. He also sexually assaulted me for years. No one honored those bad times though, and no one ever gave one thought to me.

I remember feeling frozen in shock for about a week after this young man died, meandering around my college campus, trying to focus on my studies. My heart said, “Grieve”, and my mind said, “Celebrate. You're free.” I was breaking because deep down I was grateful he was gone. I was grateful that I’d never have to see him at another family reunion and try to pretend everything was okay. I was grateful knowing that he would never have the ability to hurt another woman or girl the same way he’d hurt me. I was grateful knowing he’d never ever touch me again, and that feeling of gratitude was the closest thing I ever got to justice.

Now, to be clear, I don’t believe the punishment for rape should be death (though I do think it takes a larger capacity for violence to rape than it does to murder). I simply don’t think our legal system has found a way to bring real justice to survivors. No matter the punishment, a rapist will likely be able to move on and live a good life, maybe even grow to forgive themselves and forget about it altogether. A survivor will carry the burden of their assault forever.

I’m not interested in the narrative that Kobe became a “better man” after the rape charges. I’m not interested in hearing how the suffering of women inspires men to be better; I don’t care, and that’s not our job. I was however, finally able to see that maybe this is not as black and white as I’ve thought in the past. Kobe assaulted someone AND he inspired millions. I still don’t know if I could ever place him in my "safe" category, but I know that many many people happily placed him in theirs. Now, in death, whether or not he was a good man will be decided by powers far beyond human control, and my opinion on him isn’t very important.

However, throughout all of this, I couldn’t help but wonder how the woman who survived that assault feels, watching the world celebrate the man who hurt her and faced few repercussions for it. I hope she knows that there are many of us thinking about her each time we see a picture or a video of Kobe, and I hope she knows that many of us love and honor her too. So to you, survivor: there will be no monuments or memorials built for you, but I hope that you get to feel safe, and know that you know you are so so loved.