I have one sincere regret in life. I didn’t help when I should have.
1316 Neihardt Hall. That was the dorm room I was assigned to at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln in the fall of 1988. The window from my dorm looked down on 16th Street, but much of it was obscured by the large tree blocking most of the view. This would turn out to be a benefit a few weeks later.
We learned several fraternities, across the street and along 16th Street, had telescopes aimed at the windows of the female dorms. Mine was exempt, thanks to a big, green, leafy tree which protected me. Some people were aghast when they heard the news. For me, it was just another day of being female.
During the first few weeks of school, there were many parties on and off campus. I was warned about why women drink for free, especially at fraternities. I always kept my thumb over the top of my bottle of beer. If I had to sit the bottle down for any reason, I never picked it back up. After all, beer was free for me, so I just got another one.
One night at a Sigma Phi Epsilon, known as SigEps, fraternity party, I witnessed an event that has haunted me for 38 years. One night, several women from my floor headed to the SigEp house for a party. I hesitantly joined them. It was my first foray inside a fraternity. The party was well under way by the time we got there. I made a point to keep moving around the edges of the packed room.
As I observed everything around me, I saw a young lady in the distance being led up a flight of stairs. She stumbled with each step. Partway up the stairs, she stopped and attempted to turn around and go back downstairs. The young man leading her upstairs, put his hands around her waist, turned her back around and guided her up the stairs and out of my view. I walked slowly, but purposely out the front door and back to my dorm.
I have an idea of what happened next, but I’ll never know for sure. I heard many similar stories like this over the years. I could say I was only 18 years old and didn’t know what to do, but I’ve always wished I could turn back the clock and stop that young lady from going up the stairs.
Ironically, if you look at the house today on Google Maps, it has a massive banner hanging from the front of the house which reads, “End Sexual Violence ΣΦΕ.”
I joined Acacia Fraternity as a “little sister.” It was a good way to meet people. You don’t really make friends there though, which was what I had been looking for. One of Acacia’s parties was held at Robber’s Cave on the edge of Lincoln. The geek in me loved this place. Historical lore. Etchings in the bench and on the walls. It’s what I was interested in. Sure, there was free alcohol, but I’m standing in history. No time to drink.
There was no time for history either. A member of the frat was known as Herbie the Love Bug. It was a play on his last name. He began chasing and harassing me around the cave. Everyone laughed. “It’s just how Herbie is.” Eventually, God saved me.
God was one of the members of Acacia. Another nickname. He helped me hide in one of the little nooks in the cave. As Herbie went by, he asked God if he had seen me. God lied. “I saw her go that way.” Off Herbie went. I exhaled slowly. God and I walked back to the room with the picnic bench. He and his girlfriend stayed with me the rest of the night. Herbie, spent his time circling the cave looking for me. We eventually left the party early.
Sometime later, there was another party. There are always parties. Around the World party in the house. I had a cup of “Aztec snot” in my hand. It was tasty. No one knew what was in it. Just a little of this and a little of that. Herbie came calling. I moved away from him. He moved closer. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was maneuvering me to his room.
I didn’t want to go in. I looked desperately at the other men standing in the hallway. They watched. They did nothing. He said he wanted to talk and apologize for what happened in the cave. I stupidly agreed. He closed the door. I heard the lock click. Then, he slid the safety latch into place. He was between me and the door. The house was so loud no one would hear me scream. I was on the second floor. Too far to jump.
He had taken my drink from me and pushed me onto his couch. I was trying to push him off me when I heard the lock click again. His roommate tried to open the door. The safety latch prevented the door from completely opening. His roommate yelled something. Herbie said we’re fine and to go away. My “big brother” was there, too. He asked me if I was okay. I said no. They busted the door open.
My big brother helped me out of the room and back down the hall to the party. I broke the house record that night for number of upside down margaritas in one sitting – 33. Then, I walked home alone and back to my dorm.
Herbie paid for the damage to the door and its frame. I was told there were other repercussions. He left me alone after that. Still, there were so many who never helped. A frat of around 50 guys. At least a dozen little sisters. Over two parties, three stepped up. I’ve always wondered how many other women were never helped.
I moved down the hall to 1301 my sophomore year. It was right next to the stairs. One day, a friend of the girl across the hall came running up the stairs and frantically pounded on her door. “Julie’s not back from class yet,” I yelled from my room via my open door. I offered to let her sit in my room. She looked disheveled. She was always dressed “to the nines,” but not today. I asked her if she needed anything, if she wanted to talk. She barely nodded her head “no” and stared blankly straight ahead, motionless on my couch.
About 10 minutes later, Julie returned. Her friend was standing next to her before Julie had a chance to unlock her door. They went inside. Not long after, campus police showed up. They were in her room for a long time. Her friend left with the police. A few hours later, Julie came into my room. I don’t know all the details. I just let Julie talk and calm down. Six football players. She went there to help them study. She thinks two others were baseball players. There were so many. She didn’t know how long it lasted. No alcohol involved. She ran from the Harper-Schramm-Smith dorm complex to Julie’s room right after.
I was sworn to secrecy about what Julie told me. A few weeks later, they were talking outside my door. “What else can I do? I can’t afford to fight the university.” I found out later an offer was made. Keep quiet and your education through a PhD will be paid for. I never did see a story in the news. Not even the call in the paper’s police blotter. I moved off campus at the end of the year.
After graduation, I took a job with UNL-PD as a Community Service Officer. UNL-PD knew everything about Lawrence Phillips. There was eventually an article, though my superiors always swept other incidents with the football team under the carpet after a visit from the “revered” Coach Osborne. This wasn’t Phillips’ first altercation. It was always talked about at the station. Nothing was done. After all, he was going to win the Heisman and become an NFL player. We didn’t want to ruin his future.
There was a news article about how Phillips was disappointed in himself for getting arrested and how Coach Osborne was going to “do everything we can to help him get his life back together.” The beating of his ex-girlfriend was only made public because it was reported to the Lincoln Police Department. UNL-PD couldn’t provide cover this time.
A friend had a brother on the Huskers football team. She told me he knew about the “bad guys” to stay away from on the team. He didn’t hang out with “them.”. He also went on to a successful NFL career. He never stood up to any of them either. Bystanders never step in and there are too damned many of them.
I’ve heard the phrases my entire life. Boys will be boys. Thoughts and prayers. It’s just locker room talk. He’s a good christian boy. This is not who we are. But it is who we are. We are not doing enough to change. As I wrote this post over the course of several hours, other news stories showed up in my feed.
Members of the Timberline High School football team in Boise, Idaho, allegedly made threats of rape and murder toward a specific female student.
From the Idaho Press article:
The Snapchat group named “Gameday lunch” is composed of many of the school’s football players who are named in the chat.
“Let her hang from a ligh(t) post and let the birds pick at her brain for days,” one player wrote.
“The conversation for if she deserves to die is there,” another player wrote.
Another message by the first player references recent news surrounding an alleged 2024 Cornell University gang rape.
“She would definitely let us all f—— her,” he wrote. “(You) think Cornell was bad just wait for us.”
Then, there is the story of the congressional candidate Bernadette Greene-Placentia, who was brutally raped while fixing damaged campaign signs. The attack began by her attacker smashing her over the head. The article is quite graphically detailed. It’s a lot to take in.
She initially didn’t want to report what happened. She was embarrassed and wanted to forget it happened.
But on the campaign trail, Greene-Placentia is constantly speaking about fighting for Arizonans, “and I didn’t feel like I could keep saying that if I weren’t also fighting for women that are victims of sexual assault,” she said.
Cue the victim blaming. “She shouldn’t have been out that late” and “I’m not saying it was her fault but” among other despicable comments are online. It’s never about the rapist and the crime they committed. The focus is always on the victim and what they did.
“It’s just these little tiny flashes of things that I do remember,” Greene-Placentia said in an interview with Phoenix New Times. “As much as I don’t want to remember, I’ve tried very, very hard to remember more stuff. But that’s where I’m at.”
Three simple sentences. They hit me hard. Decades after the incidents which happened to me as a child, I repeat similar frustrations to my therapist.
Another story that showed up in my feed was about a Cherokee (Georgia) County Sheriff’s Corporal. Cpl. Charles Mills admitted under oath that he created a Facebook page to purposely stalk and harass Natasha Lopez.
For a year, I submitted repeated, detailed complaints regarding severe misconduct by Cpl. Mills, including a warrantless entry into my home, body camera policy violations, unauthorized Flock database queries, and the creation of an online harassment page targeting my family,” she said. “Despite bringing these serious issues directly to department leadership as recent as June and July, prior to Monday, my reports were consistently ignored, dismissed, or covered up. Instead of initiating an immediate, transparent internal investigation, the department allowed these actions to continue unchecked.
“Having a law enforcement officer use their powers, position and resources to conduct covert monitoring, post private details, and retaliate against a citizen for public oversight initiatives has caused my family immense fear, stress, and actual concern for our safety. This is not just a breach of department policy; it represents a fundamental violation of constitutional rights, criminal acts and public trust. Anyone within the department who participated in, enabled, or turned a blind eye to these actions must be held accountable through independent criminal investigation and formal regulatory review.
The whataboutism is out on this one, too. It doesn’t matter what she did previously. None of this officer’s actions are justified. It’s also not just one or two cops abusing Flock data. There have been dozens of articles in 2026 of police officers unlawfully tracking women via the Flock cameras.
Most stories never reach the national level. I see a lot of them on Joe Jervis’ website. I’m grateful he keeps track, but I can’t read a lot of them. It’s at least one a day. Yesterday was too much.
These stories always feel identical. All we do is change the “denomination, city or state and the story is the same.
When is enough? Will things ever change? From my viewpoint, things feel bleak. About 12 years ago, I would have said things were getting better. Now, every vile human being is free to speak, and to blame, because we don’t want “to ruin that good boy’s future.” Rape apologists use every excuse they can to justify their support of rapists. They are openly brazen about it.
Will women ever be allowed to let their guard down, exhale, and be allowed a moment’s peace?