In Memory of a Denim Jacket

You never get these back. Your clothing is ripped to shreds and the individual fibers are examined for possible DNA evidence. By the end of the process, there is no clothing left to be returned to you. Some survivors are eager to hand their clothing over. They have no desire to look at, let alone re-wear, the clothes they had on during their assault. It’s too painful, or part of them blames what they were wearing on being a factor in the assault. Some survivors don’t want to part with their clothes. Maybe they don’t have many clothes as it is. Maybe those pants were expensive. Maybe that was their favorite pair of underwear. Maybe that top used to be their mother’s. After everything you experience in a medical forensic exam (or more commonly known as a rape kit), you’d think this would be the easy part. It’s not. Sometimes this is the moment when it really clicks in. Another reminder that something could be taken that you’ll never get back. When I worked as a victim advocate, I always found my clients’ reactions when broaching submitting their clothing interesting. We always made it fully their decision— keep it, submit it, submit only certain pieces— and provided brand new clothing if needed. But it was still hard. 

My rape kit happened years after the assault. I didn’t know it was still an option. I had mentally closed the door of any hope of pursuing legal action the moment I came to terms with the assault since it took me months to even use that word. Typically, kits must be completed within 5 days of the assault since that’s how long DNA can last on the body. It was far too late for me to be examined for evidence, a fact that felt like both a blessing and a curse. But clothes are a different story. Some studies show clothing can retain DNA for up to a decade, even with washing and re-wearing. I got rid of the sunflower romper I wore once I grew out of it (though I rarely wore it afterwards because it left a pit in my stomach) and I didn’t remember what underwear I wore but had gained weight and definitely replaced them by this point. The only thing I had left of my assault was my denim jacket that I wore all the time. I had my mom sew a bee patch on it and it made it feel new again. But when presented with the opportunity to seek legal justice and have it examined for evidence, I hesitated. Now having been a guide through the legal system for other survivors, it was less scary than it was for 19 year old me. I understood how it worked, what my chances were for prosecution, what my other options were. But… it’s my jacket. My favorite fucking jacket and one more thing he could take from me. All the effort to reclaim this piece of clothing and it could be the key to getting some actual justice. I remember watching the SANE look it over with a special light and seeing parts light up that could possibly be DNA. The thought that I could have still been walking around with a piece of him horrified me. But it was still MY JACKET. The thought that I could give it up, have it be ripped to shreds and never seen again only for there to be absolutely nothing and him to still get away with it felt like another violation. This jacket… I didn’t want to put her through that. But if this was the one chance I had at having him put away to hopefully never hurt someone again, I had to. A part of me, a small, evil little part of me, was mad that no one else before did that for me. I didn’t want someone else to wonder why I didn’t save them. 

It didn’t have anything on it. I cried. Not just for myself, or the other survivors, but for my poor jacket and what she even went through. I know it’s just a jacket and it doesn’t have a conscience or feelings or even pronouns but it felt like yet another girl he hurt and got away with. The last piece of 19 year old me and her innocence and hope peeled apart fiber by fiber, opened up entirely, with nothing to show for it. I cried for every survivor I worked with and all their clothing. I felt bad that I never truly understood how hard and how unexpectedly sad it was until then. 

I miss my jacket. My brother got me that jacket. We aren’t even close, and somehow that adds another layer to it. I have so many photos of me in that jacket, even one of my headshots. I’ve been trying to shop for another denim jacket but it just seems wrong. Like she deserves to be honored better for her sacrifice than to be replaced so callously. 

I miss my jacket.