That Night
Nike van Dinther brought it up on her podcast years later, talking about #MeToo and what happened to her during a press trip to Garmisch-Partenkirchen in 2011. She and Sarah Gottschalk were discussing the silence women carry after assault, the shame that makes you feel complicit, and she told the story about the magazine editor on that trip—about getting drunk with the whole group, about him offering to walk her back to her room, about waking up with his fingers inside her while she slept. She remembered thinking about all the other women who must have faced the same thing, and she was so embarrassed that she pretended to still be asleep. She just turned away until he stopped. She dressed quickly while he was in the shower and went back to her own room. The next morning everything was strange. She told Sarah and they talked about it, but she convinced herself it might not have happened, might have been the alcohol playing tricks. Then she tried to get him to admit it over Skype months later and his response—the defensiveness, the way he immediately shut it down—convinced her it was real. So she told this story on a podcast, naming him, because she’d finally gotten to a place where she could.
I could leave it there. I could call her a liar. I could admit it. The problem is that I actually don’t know. What I remember is that it was a Jägermeister-sponsored trip and everyone was absolutely wrecked. I remember running into Nike in the hallway late that night and we ended up in her room—not mine, because I was sharing with a friend. We sat on the bed and watched TV. That’s everything I have. And that the next day felt off.
I’m not a good person when I drink. I’m not aggressive, mostly just clingy or else I disappear. I try not to drink much anymore because I don’t like who I become. And I’ve done enough shit in my past that I can’t be certain whether what she’s describing actually happened or not. When someone accuses you of something and you genuinely can’t remember, saying I don’t know
sounds like the oldest excuse in the world. But it’s also the truth.
The next morning I acted strange because I picked up that she was acting strange. I thought maybe it was awkward because we’d woken up together, or because we’d done something drunk that neither of us wanted to acknowledge, or maybe she was worried someone else would find out we’d been in the same room. I was probably naive about it. I got defensive when she tried to get the truth out of me. That defensiveness—the way I shut her down without explanation—that probably convinced her I was guilty. Which, I guess, is exactly what someone would do if they had something to hide.
Rape and sexual assault aren’t jokes and they’re not acceptable. I can’t tell you I’ve never pushed someone in that direction, even if I didn’t go all the way. I’m not proud of it. I have nothing to say in my defense.
But I did try to talk to her about it afterward. I told her I was sorry if something bad had happened that night. You can’t blame everything on alcohol and have that excuse you from responsibility. Can you apologize for something you don’t actually know you did? I don’t know. And doesn’t an apology automatically mean you’re admitting guilt? Maybe.
What I know is that we got along really well before that night. We traveled together to Prague and Hamburg and Cologne, had nice lunches in Berlin, drinks in good bars. I liked Nike and Sarah and what they were building with their project. I’m still sad about how much this destroyed our friendship. Can I blame her for speaking out? I don’t think so. I just think it’s a shame.
Of course it’s her right to tell that story however she needs to. And I celebrate everyone using #MeToo to make the world better. But I wish I knew what happened that night. So maybe we could both move past it. Or maybe that’s a lie I’m telling myself. Maybe I don’t actually want to know. Maybe the truth would hold up a mirror to some dark part of me that I’m not ready to see. My hope is that someday we can talk normally again. But that hope is probably the only thing left.