I turn my attention to the posts then. Some are agonizing, while others are defiant and angry. My breath catches in my chest as I scan them all.
I throw the cover off of me, sitting up on my knees. I need to move, to do something. My pulse hammers, chest swells. It’s as if I’m drowning—but it only makes me feel more alive.
In a rush to get answers, I scan each of the stories for Ralston’s name, pausing to read the full post whenever I spot one.
NooneLikesAMadWoman—HavenportU
Yeah, I know exactly what you’re talking about, and it’s not new. I was one of her students right after she started at Havenport. She asked me to give a speechfor one of her events. After the conference—I found part of my speech in an article she published, literally line by line without attribution. When I confronted her, she said, “There’s no such thing as an original thought.” I reported her, even had the proof in the form of my speech I’d had to submit for approval before the event. I was told to let it go, that it was probably an honest mistake. Ralston made me look like an idiot in class every chance she got after that. I ended up transferring for my senior year. Never really trusted anyone the same way again.
My throat goes tight. I blink, tracing my fingers across my chest if only to remind me I still exist, that this isn’t a dream.
BadAsAMother—Havenport University, Class of 2005
I don’t have proof, but the manuscript was mine. Nearly word for word, the entire thing. Ralston told me I had potential, asked me to bring her what I was working on. I trusted her. I didn’t know better back then, didn’t see the wolf behind her eyes. She gave me feedback, and we worked on it together. I thought she was mentoring me. Maybe editing, if I have to give her some kind of credit. But then she told me she was going to submit it to some publishers where she had connections. Two years went by without me hearing anything. She just told me to keep writing, that publishing takes time. A few months after I graduated, the book was published. My name is nowhere on it. She blocked my number, and the publisher won’t listen because Ralston knew to file the copyright, which she did before I had the chance to.It wasn’t even on my radar yet, and she used that to her advantage. That work is mine. I wanted to write and to teach, but I gave up on both. Two of the most corrupt industries, if you ask me.
I inch forward onto the edge of the bed, my hands trembling as I read each story. The tears in my eyes match the ones in the words. I can feel their pain and their strength, as if they’re in the room telling me their stories. They may as well be.
RalstonSucks22—YouCanGuess University
She made me feel stupid all the time. The epitome of a roller-coaster relationship. Even when she praised me, it was always at the expense of some other girl in class. “You’re so much more confident than Elizabeth.” “Even your worst draft would be better than Carlie’s best.” “I had it narrowed down between Monica’s and your speech, but she uses adverbs like butter in a Kentucky kitchen. Pathetic.” I remember one time she even had me help her review some of the other girls’ papers. I was in no way qualified, but I wanted her to like me. She spent the entire evening dragging them, picking apart their papers. Laughed about it like it was normal. Then when it was time to hand their pages back, she told them the feedback was mine. If I had any friends on campus to begin with, that one comment made sure I wouldn’t after that. She needed me to rely on her, and I couldn’t see it. The thing that got me was how I blamed myself. I thought I deserved it, that I should’ve tried harder to explain it to the other girls or stood up to Ralston somehow. I just wanted her to like me. That’s the bottom line forall of us, isn’t it? She thrives on it. Fucking vampire. I won’t be surprised if she has this page taken down, but I just wanted to say thank you. I hope you see this. You gave me permission to finally admit it was never my fault.
I bow my head, tears painting my cheeks.
DLS-HU
Yeah, Ralston’s invincible, as is evidenced by all of our stories. How many of us reported? How many of us tried to make someone listen? Decades of evidence and stories, and not one single article or investigation. She just keeps winning. My story is similar—Ralston started inviting me to stay after class to look over my work. But when I challenged one of her ideas for improvement on a paper I was proud of, she turned cold. Couldn’t believe I’d challenge her. I could never prove it, but I’m positive she’s the reason I didn’t get any of the fellowships I applied for. She blacklisted me, all because I dared to have an opinion.
RalstonVictimNumber1,000,000,006Apparently
She was never my mentor, but she worked closely with the editor at The Beacon when I was a student. I approached her with an article I wanted to submit because all of mine were getting rejected on my own. She told me she’d take care of it and put in a good word. I trusted her. God, I’m embarrassed how much I gushed about her. How badly I wanted to believe she’s everything she pretends to be. The article was published, and (based on some of the things I’mreading here) it sounds like it was a miracle my name was attached at all, but she named herself as a co-author and mentioned in a footnote that it was based on a lecture in her class. It wasn’t, but how do you argue that? And who would care enough to listen? I dropped her class after. We’re not alone, ladies.
WTActualF
Anyone else noticing every single Ralston story here is coming from a woman? Did we just trust her more or…?
I pause at that one.Is she right?Havenport is a co-ed campus, but it does seem like Ralston has always paid special attention to the female students. I guess I wanted to believe it’s because she’s such a powerful feminist figure, that it would look wrong if she spent too much time focusing on the men in class, but for all of her wrongdoings to have happened to women feels more than wrong.
It feels calculated.
Something splinters inside my chest like cracking ice on a frozen pond as I stare down at the rest of the stories. Some are from other campuses or about other professors—egregious stories about sexual harassment, blackmail, and more—but over half are about Ralston. And they all say the same thing: We are not alone. She knows what she’s doing, and she does it well.
I feel the darkness start to fall away like shattered pieces of a broken mirror. Remnants and cracked pieces linger in the edges of my vision, but they aren’t all I see anymore. The strength of all our whispers being unearthed feels like a bridge, like something to stand on so we’re no longer being forced to walk on broken glass.
I read until my eyes ache, until my cheeks are raw from tears. They just keep coming. As quickly as I’ve finished one, three more are uploaded.
I don’t know which of the women shared the site from my email, but whoever it is…they have reach. Possibly Naya.
By the time I leave my bed, there are more than one hundred stories posted on my website, though if any of them are from the women I reached out to, they’ve disguised themselves well.
My legs are stiff from sleep, and my muscles feel like they’ve forgotten how to stand. I dress and brush my teeth in the bathroom down the hall as quickly as I can; all the while my phone continues to buzz with incoming posts, my heart leaping each time it does.
Once I’m ready, I slip on my coat by the door and jog down the stairs, bursting into the bright morning air with a spring in my step. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in years—longer than I realized. A sort of lightness that seems to have only existed before my heart got bludgeoned.
At some point last night, Mom sent me a text with a photo of her new book resting next to a bubble bath—As promised—which I’m just now seeing.
I smile to myself. The air is cold against my lungs, but I breathe it in deeply. It feels like reclamation, like returning to what I was always meant to be.
Even if the website amounts to nothing, I feel as if I’ve already gotten everything I needed from it. My phone vibrates again, and I check it, expecting more stories.
