It is the right time to reclaim the definition of target, writes Danielle Campoamor.
We sat on a kitchen area stool, shivering, while a tired, nearly frustrated police haphazardly pressed the medial side switch of their handheld radio perched atop their neck. “The target is just a 25-year-old feminine, brown locks, brown eyes, more or less 5’6’’, 120 pounds. Somewhat intoxicated, complaining of upper body, wrist, and thigh pain that is inner. Feasible sexual assault. ” Your message “victim” had been suspended into the area between us, hefty and dense and threatening to suffocate me when I stumbled on terms in what had happened simply thirty minutes prior, in a bed room straight above where we sat: I happened to be raped. I happened to be talking with an officer about my already-forming bruises. I happened to be being inquired concerning the garments I happened to be using plus the liquor I became eating and my intimate history. I happened to be being addressed just like a target.
It’s been six years it’s a word I’ve heard countless times since since I was labeled a victim for the first time, but as a sexual assault “survivor” and advocate. Once I bring focus on a backlog of rape kits, I’m a “professional target. ” Once I share my story online, I’m a self-pitying target. Whenever I help other storytellers and advocates and desire elected officials to pass through necessary legislation just like the Survivors’ Access To Supportive Care Act, I’m a snowflake accused of perpetuating a culture” that is“victim.