The Life Brock Turner Won’t Have

Much has already been said about Brock Turner, the convicted felon rapist. About his father’s ghastly letter, about the judge who gave him a lenient six month sentence, and about how a freshman at Stanford, a star swimmer with his heart set on the Olympics let it all go to shit.

Fortunately for all of us, his victim was brave, powerful, and articulate enough to speak for herself, so I don’t have to rehash what a horrible, fucked up person he is. Before you read anyone else’s thoughts on the matter, you ought to read hers.

But in my hopes of finding justice or closure, I read the entirety of Brock Turner’s post-conviction statement looking for some genuine remorse. Hoping to see some sliver of humanity, humility, and compassion.

But instead, I read this paragraph:

“I’ve been shattered by the party culture and risk taking behavior that I briefly experienced in my four months at school. I’ve lost my chance to swim in the Olympics. I’ve lost my ability to obtain a Stanford degree. I’ve lost employment opportunity, my reputation and most of all, my life.”

Three sentences. They all start with “I” but not one of them finishes with “am sorry.”

Instead, his words duck and cover. They obfuscate responsibility. And most of all, they show you the puffy, intoxicated face of Brock Turner’s privilege.

He begins by outright blaming the sexual assault he committed on “party culture,” an abstract concept that apparently encompasses balloons, cake, and drunkenly forcing yourself on an unconscious woman. At no point does he acknowledge that he made the decision. That he is sick. That he has a problem. That he did something morally depraved. That he is the only one at fault.

And pay close attention to the language here. Turner passively suggests that he “briefly experienced” risk-taking behavior. Not that he actively demonstrated it. Not that he humped a lifeless naked body behind a dumpster. It feels almost sociopathic, almost dissociative, that Turner can’t seem to recognize, let alone accept, that he is the villain in this story. That he is the monster. That he is the one to blame for what he’s done.

But I’m even more stricken and sickened by the other sentences that Turner submits for public record.

“I’ve lost my chance to swim in the Olympics. I’ve lost my ability to obtain a Stanford degree. I’ve lost employment opportunity, my reputation and most of all, my life.”

You sick, twisted, privileged motherfucker. Don’t you fucking dare tell us what you’ve lost. Like it’s some passive act that happened to you. Like someone took it from you when you were unconscious. You know, like a pair of underwear or your human dignity.

Your chance to go to the Olympics? Your ability to get a Stanford degree? Your potential employment opportunities? Your reputation?

Again, pay close attention to that language. Lost. In every instance. What he’s lost. Are you asking us to feel bad for you? Are you asking for our pity, our sympathy?

Buddy, you didn’t lose anything. You did this to yourself. So to hold this up before us and say — Look at what I could have had. Look at the life I should be living. And now it’s gone.

Is that not just the white male privilege-est fucking thing you’ve ever read in your whole goddamn life?

Brock, you don’t fucking get it. After the choices you made, you don’t get to hold these things up to us as offerings, like they’re yours to give away. You threw them the fuck away. So don’t stand there and act like your punishment is not having the life you wanted.

You may have gotten the clemency of a lenient sentence from Judge Aaron Persky, who, to my complete and utter non-surprise is also a white male athlete who went to Stanford, but the rest of society doesn’t care about what you can no longer have. Tell us, Brock. For what do we owe you sympathy?

You see, Brock, you don’t seem to understand that most people don’t just get those things. That even if you work your whole life for something, sometimes you can’t have it. That even if you do everything right, sometimes, dreams evade you. That sometimes you don’t get the white picket fence, the house, the job you always wanted. That sometimes you sick, entitled fuck, you don’t get the girl.

You’ve gotten enough already. And what you haven’t been handed, you’ve taken with your pants down. So, you want to talk about your life? Your reputation? Your vaulted, entitled American dreams? We’re taking them. We don’t need your consent.