R&B music star R. Kelly was finally convicted for sexual assault, sex trafficking and sexual abuse of underage women Sept. 27 of this year. He faces life in prison and although it appears some justice has been served, I’m still skeptical. If this case is like so many others, the reality of this sentence will probably be a short period of public punishment before he’s given an ankle bracelet and sent home.
One could hope for more, but women have been speaking up about R. Kelly’s abuse for twenty-five years. It should not have taken this long.
Indeed, it’s hard not to be cynical about these kinds of things. I would prefer, like a lot of people, to believe we are finally getting somewhere – that all the work and courageous action of the #metoo movement has made a difference – but would this sentencing have been any different had this judge’s name not been “Ann?” Would this have gone on as long as it did had R. Kelly’s accusers not been women of color?
Even so, as someone who was a young adult in the mid-nineties, R. Kelly’s sentence does signal some progress. United States District Judge Ann M. Donnelly, I salute you for wielding the gavel appropriately. May it set a better precedent for convictions to come.
Twenty-five years ago I was twenty-three years old, living on my own in New York City and just getting started in what was then a burgeoning internet industry. R. Kelly was in his prime, already the most popular R&B artist of the decade, and he’d just written and produced one of Aaliyah’s biggest hits, ‘Age Ain’t Nothin’ But A Number.’ God, we didn’t even know. We wouldn’t, not until 1995 when Vibe magazine confirmed some truth to the rumor that the two had secretly married when Aaliyah wasn’t even old enough to have a driver’s license. To think of the times I sang along to that song makes me cringe now.
During that time I was sexually harassed by the president of the small start-up where I worked. I’d been warned about him by another woman I worked with, but when he assaulted me in front of everyone at the company Christmas party, no one came to my defense. Instead, a week later I was called into the Human Resources department and asked some very strange and secretive questions before being handed a pink slip for poor job performance, despite the fact that I’d just been promoted the month before.
A few weeks after I was fired, the company announced its sale to a major advertising agency for several million dollars. My former coworkers, who all had shares in the company, became rich overnight.
The question is, would anything have changed if I’d said something? Would anyone have defended me if they had been called to the stand? Would my health and right to a safe work environment have held up against the impending multi-million dollar sale of the company? I will never know, but I doubt it. This kind of thing was commonplace in 1996 — in fact, when I was promoted to project manager and asked to find my front desk replacement, I was told to “make sure she’s really attractive since she’s the first face people see when they walk in.” While it’s not legal to say that out loud anymore, I doubt that standard has changed, either.
What has changed since then, however, is that few people are surprised anymore when women speak up. It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s still (and will always be) a terrifying experience, but at least now, maybe some of us feel less alone when we have to. Now we can have a little more hope that the next guy to roll through a “Judge Ann’s” court will get the gavel dropped on him (maybe a Judge George might even feel more inclined to uphold some truth). In a perfect world we wouldn’t have to hope for any of this – but we’re still so far from that.
Unfortunately, we are still chastised for speaking out, forced to put some of the most shame-inducing, traumatizing experiences we’ve experienced on public display. We still require hashtags and imperatives (“Believe women!”) and solidarity marches to get our points across. We’re still allowing perverts to serve as Supreme Court “justices,” still watching the numbers of assaults on college campuses climb, still wondering why schools under-report these incidents and let the Brock Turners of the world run rampant, getting away with a slap on a wrist for committing heinous violations. And it can still take twenty-five years of allegations for someone to finally be convicted of sexual assault crimes.
Last time I checked, the common law definition of “assault” is “the act of inflicting physical harm or unwanted physical contact upon a person,” or the threat or attempt to do so. This definition is the same in actual criminal law. Twenty-five years will always be too long, but hey, that orange jumpsuit looks really good on you, Robert Sylvester Kelly. May it be the last thing you ever wear.
