Does Denim Day still matter in a country that elects sexual offenders?
I hope so.
The other day I was at the Getty, standing in front of Lucretia by Artemisia Gentileschi. She holds a dagger to her chest, moments before ending her life after being sexually assaulted by someone in power. Her pain reflects the painter’s own history—Gentileschi, too, was a survivor of sexual violence. Lucretia hangs in the Getty Center, silently overlooking the city.
Denim Day was founded right here in Los Angeles by Patricia Giggans, a feminist activist and advocate for survivors of domestic and sexual violence. April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, and Denim Day takes place on the last Wednesday of the month. Patricia founded this day after a 1993 Supreme Court ruling in Italy that overturned a rape conviction because the survivor had been wearing tight jeans—the implication being that she must have helped remove them, and therefore consented. It’s a ruling rooted in ignorance and cruelty.
If you’re reading this and you know what Denim Day is, I want to acknowledge you—whether you’re a survivor, know one, or are simply well-informed. Thank you. If you don’t know, I’m glad you’re here. If you’re here and need to imagine your mother, daughter, partner, or friend in a survivor’s shoes to feel something—go ahead and do that. But I won’t describe what happened to me here.
What I will share is how I used Denim Day and found a new strength in it.
On Denim Day in April 2020, I got my rapist on the phone. The assault took place a week before my 21st birthday in Anaheim, California.
I told him it was Denim Day, and I needed to talk. He panicked and immediately wanted to talk to me. If that’s not guilt, I don’t know what is. I recorded the call and sent the audio proof to the detective assigned to my case.
I thought that was it. I thought I had done my part. I waited for the justice system to help me. I thought hopefully now I’d find some relief from the deep, desperate, massive pain I was carrying.
Then the District Attorney dropped the case.
Time goes by. I’m still here. Still carrying it. But it’s just less heavy now. It’s not something you can easily get through, so you get used to it.
Not everyone is so lucky.
For me, therapy helped. My loved ones helped. Even writing this five years later helps. So does showing up for others, especially on Denim Day—raising awareness, challenging stereotypes, and breaking the silence.
These dangerous stereotypes—that rape is about anything other than power—harm not just survivors, but all of us. Sexual assault is an intensely personal violation, and to be blamed afterward is a second kind of violence altogether. Shakespeare referenced Lucretia’s rape in Macbeth, equating it with murder. But apparently not everyone sees it that way.
Donald Trump has a long and public history of sexual harassment and assault. Despite being found liable for sexual abuse and defamation in court, he has successfully obtained political power. He bragged about it—“grab them by the pussy”—and still won the first race for the presidency. I wonder if he even knows what Denim Day is, or what it means.
Donald Trump is president again. And I wonder: Do victims have to bring a dagger to their chest to be believed? If we don’t scream or rage or protest—if we don’t turn our pain into spectacle—will anyone listen? Are we doomed to let our lives revolve endlessly around the harm done to us? Must we yield our bodies and our peace in order to be heard? Is it better to just sit in silence, knowing what happened isn’t enough to stop someone from becoming president?
Do we have to be murdered for there to be justice?
I hope not.
Lucretia became a martyr. Her death helped spark a revolution against a corrupt monarchy. But at what cost? Her body was put on display and then her attacker was held responsible. Is that what it takes?
As I stared at her in the Getty, anger and frustration overwhelming me, I kept wondering—what’s the point? The pain is too heavy and those who harmed us still get elected as president. It’s so tempting to just give up and never speak about it again. But I’ve been carrying this around for years, and every time I turn on the news, I want to scream. So I’m writing it down instead.
It’s not fair. But maybe it doesn’t have to be. Even when justice is served, it doesn’t undo what happened. The pain remains. Healing takes effort, time, and support—whether from others or simply from yourself. But so does the fight—the fight to be heard, to educate, to protect others.
Maybe we don’t have to bring daggers to our chests. Maybe we can tell our stories and still live. Maybe we can keep fighting—without harming ourselves to prove we were harmed. Maybe we make Denim Day matter, no matter what.
And maybe the healthiest thing some survivors can do is choose silence. Speaking up is a choice that belongs only to them.
Lucretia made her point with a dagger. Maybe we just keep using our voices—if we want to. Even when we know it might not stop our abusers from becoming president of the United States.
