At Tennessee, Women’s Fears Go Beyond Campus Sex Assault

Each week at the start of this semester, the University of Tennessee’s flagship campus here unfurls a bright-red carpet to draw students’ attention to the dangers of the “red zone.” That’s the time at the beginning of the academic year when, statistics show, college students are most at risk of sexual assault.

But while many here wear T-shirts with messages like “Netflix and Chill Does Not Mean Yes,” students seem less worried about things that tend to happen between acquaintances on campuses than about a nighttime encounter with a stranger. And that’s hardly the only danger that clouds their thoughts.

Female students come here with a list of warnings: Never walk alone. Carry Mace. Don’t take Uber, because your driver could kidnap you. Keep the number of the campus police chief in your cellphone.

With heightened national attention to campus safety, the most common advice that young women say they’ve heard from relatives and friends isn’t “Have fun” or “Do your best.” It’s “Be careful.”

The number of reported sexual assaults soars during the first few months of the academic year, as many students experience new freedom and vulnerability. More than half of all reported assaults happen between the first day of classes and Thanksgiving break, according to a 2007 report by the National Institute of Justice. For first-year students, the incidence is highest in September and October, shows a new study by the Bureau of Justice Statistics.

The typical campus assault, the reports say, involves a victim and perpetrator who know each other, or of each other. Physical force is rarely a factor, but alcohol usually is.

“We know from talking to tens and tens of thousands of college students that the majority of sex-assault cases simply don’t fit the profile of a stranger, you’re alone when it happens, you’re walking at night,” says Christopher P. Krebs, a senior scientist at the research institute RTI International. “It’s not that those things never happen,” he says. “But there are a lot of things people think are the obvious threats that aren’t.”

With all the admonitions to stay safe, female students here describe a constant low-grade state of fear. They talk about almost never being on their own, and developing secret hand motions to signal to friends when they’re uncomfortable somewhere and want to leave. Many parents who started tracking their daughters’ cellphones in high school still do.

These are students who grew up watching true-crime television shows about abductions and murders. The shootings at Virginia Tech, which happened when they were in elementary school, created the impression that campuses are dangerous places. One freshman here says she felt too alarmed by the recent documentary The Hunting Ground, about campus sexual assault, to watch it all the way through.

Promoting Awareness

Even campus warnings, while useful, can inspire panic. One weekend this month, Tennessee sent out an alert about a gunman reportedly spotted near the campus. “Active Shooter response: RUN, HIDE, FIGHT,” it said, in part. (The police did not arrest anyone.)

When Katie Scott, a senior, started at Tennessee, she recalls her parents’ warning her about what happened in college. “You are assaulted by older men, men you don’t know, people who grab you,” she says. “I was really aware of walking in the dark. I would have my boyfriend wait for me at 9:30 outside my lab to walk me to my dorm.”

She knows now that it’s fellow students who are most likely to perpetrate campus sexual assaults, but she still fears strangers. Last year she lived off-campus, in a neighborhood known as “the Fort” that many young women refer to as sketchy. “I would always have my keys in between my knuckles,” she says, “for protection.”

Students here began a campaign three years ago to educate their peers about the red zone. Now the university and a student group called Sexual Empowerment and Awareness at Tennessee both run campaigns.

“This campus has had a hard time hearing conversations about sex assault,” says Colleen Ryan, a senior and co-chair of the student group. “The university wasn’t being forthright enough about the problem.” She thinks that’s changed in the past year or two.

“What we recognized was it was really the campus’s responsibility to take on a longer-term vision,” says Ashley Blamey, deputy Title IX coordinator and director of the university’s Center for Health, Education, and Wellness.

Tennessee faces two federal investigations into how it has handled reports of sexual violence. Some believe the university felt forced to do more after a high-profile lawsuit was filed in February by eight female students who said the grievance process was biased in favor of athletes who were accused of sexual assault. Basketball and football players, the lawsuit asserted, were allowed to remain on the campus and graduate, or to transfer elsewhere, even after they were found responsible. The university settled the case in July for $2.5 million.

As on many other campuses, reports of sexual misconduct here have been on the rise, though underreporting may still be a factor in a student population of 30,000. The number of reports rose to 38 in 2015, from 13 in 2011. As colleges promote awareness about what constitutes assault, and affirm a commitment to victims, more students have come forward nationwide.

But here, as elsewhere, many students show up with little context. When it comes to sex education, the Tennessee legislature has required high schools to offer an abstinence-only curriculum. And for many families, sex is a difficult topic of conversation. Beyond warnings, students say they’ve had few real talks about it with their parents. “I come from a very conservative area,” says Miriam, a first-year student who didn’t want to use her last name. She was surprised at how openly the topic is discussed on the campus. “Here there is stuff posted about sex assault on the walls.”

Vincent Carilli, vice chancellor for student life, uses orientation sessions to persuade parents to talk more with their children. “One of the things I encourage them to do,” he says, “is talk about the use and abuse of alcohol, what consent means, and what a student’s expectations are with regard to sex and relationships.”

‘10 Parties in One Night’

When freshmen first step onto the campus, many of them know no one. To make friends and try to fit in, about one in five joins a fraternity or sorority. Rush starts before classes do. And crowded parties and football weekends create pressure to socialize by drinking.

“Many first-year students have never had a drop of alcohol and are living away from home and find themselves carried away by the excitement of 10 parties on one night,” says Ms. Ryan, the peer educator. The scene can be overwhelming.

Members of a sorority here sat in their red-brick house behind an iron fence this month and shared their feelings of fear and intimidation. “The whole idea of partying terrified me,” said Elaina Emery, a sophomore.

“I went out with people on my dorm floor who I had just met,” said Shelby Skaggs, a fellow sophomore, recalling her first year. “It was weird. I felt so out of place. It wasn’t enjoyable at first, because I didn’t really know anyone, and it was hard to get a friend group I trusted.”

Hannah Byrd was once walking home from a nearby neighborhood where many parties are held when two men in a van drove by with a piece of paper in the window. “T:Link,” it said, the name of the university’s bus service. The men slowed down and asked Ms. Byrd and her friends if they needed a ride. They called a male friend and kept him on the phone while they walked to his house. (He then drove them home.)

Students here who have offered to stay sober for an evening of parties are called “beepers,” and friends know to call them for a ride, even just a couple of blocks away. The university’s bus service runs until 2:30 a.m. on weeknights and 3:30 a.m. on weekends.

In her first year, Ms. Byrd says, she and her friends wouldn’t go out if there weren’t at least six of them. It was the only way they felt secure. She was uneasy one weekend when she found herself alone at a football game, crowded with more than 100,000 fans. “I lost my friends when I went to get something to eat,” she recalls. “Cell service doesn’t work there.”

It isn’t unusual for young women out on a Saturday night to see others they don’t know and ask, “Hey, are you OK? Do you want to go home? I can find you a ride.” Abbey Geater, a junior, once saw a woman stumbling down the sidewalk with a friend. Before Ms. Geater could help, two other women ran over. “They said they had it covered, they had a car,” she says. “There is an unspoken code between girls. You protect one another.”

For Christmas during her first year of college, McKinsey Patterson’s father gave her a miniature pistol that squirts Mace six feet. Now a senior, she has since learned that “being safe,” she says, doesn’t necessarily mean taking such measures.

Ms. Patterson is vice president of the student government, and as a student leader, she’s been part of campus campaigns on sexual-assault prevention. “For the right message to sink in,” she says, “it does take a while.”

She used to think that “if I was doing the right thing, it wouldn’t happen to me,” she says. Now she realizes that “sex assault can happen to anyone and anybody.” But many students don’t see that. “It’s not like these scary people,” she says, “are coming to get you.”

Robin Wilson writes about campus culture, including sexual assault and sexual harassment. Contact her at robin.wilson@chronicle.com.