I want to read the essays
Five years ago, I wrote a featured post here on The Times of Israel called “Raising Feminist Sons.” Except I don’t have sons. I have two daughters.
The essay grew out of something I kept hearing from my daughters, their friends, and other young women:
They told us how to sit.
They scrutinized what we wore.
They told us not to walk alone at night.
They told us not to drink too much because we could be raped if we were drunk.
They told us to watch our surroundings.
And after each one, I kept asking the same question:
What. Are. They. Telling. The. Boys.
I have been thinking about that question again this week.
A former Cornell student has filed a civil lawsuit alleging that seven members of the Chi Phi fraternity drugged and gang raped her in October 2024. The allegations are horrific. They are also allegations. No one has been convicted of a crime, and an attorney for one of the defendants has said he possesses evidence contradicting the plaintiff’s account.
But there is one detail in the lawsuit that I cannot stop thinking about: The essays.
According to the complaint, Cornell temporarily suspended the students and later offered them an opportunity to mitigate their conduct by submitting essays. The plaintiff’s attorney has said that two of the seven were ultimately expelled. Cornell has confirmed that its investigation is complete but, citing federal privacy law, has declined to disclose the disciplinary consequences imposed on individual students.
I want to read the essays. I want to know what Cornell asked them to write about:
Consent? Respect? Alcohol and drugs? Bystander responsibility? What you should do when a woman is incapacitated? What you should do when someone in a fraternity group chat announces that there is “free p*ssy” upstairs, as the lawsuit alleges happened that night?
What was the assignment? Who read it? What constituted an acceptable answer? Was there a rubric? And what exactly was an essay supposed to mitigate?
Five years ago, when I asked what we were telling the boys, I wasn’t really asking only about boys. I was asking about the adults and institutions responsible for shaping the conditions in which young people learn how to treat one another. I was asking about the parents, schools, religious communities, youth groups and universities that help establish what we expect of young people, what behavior we tolerate, and what consequences follow when those expectations are violated.
Institutions do not cause every individual act, and they cannot determine in advance what any person will do, but they do establish expectations. They decide what conduct they will confront, what they will minimize, whom they will believe and what consequences will follow.
And these are not boys anymore. They were college students at one of the most prestigious universities in the country. They are becoming lawyers, financiers, physicians, professors, executives and entrepreneurs. Some may someday write our laws, shape public policy, run corporations, sit on boards, and lead institutions.
These are the people we are preparing to hand power to. So what are we teaching them about women? Because we have spent generations teaching women about danger: Don’t walk alone. Watch your drink. Stay with your friends. Text when you get home. Know where the exits are. Don’t get too drunk. Don’t leave your friend behind. And if something does happen, we have another set of expectations waiting. Why didn’t you leave? Why did you drink? Why did you go upstairs? Why did you go to the fraternity house? Why didn’t you fight? Why didn’t you tell someone immediately? Why did your story change? Why did it take you so long to share what happened?
But the truth is, women often do take time to come forward after sexual assault. The reasons are complicated: trauma, shame, fear, uncertainty, relationships with the alleged perpetrator, fear of retaliation and fear that they will not be believed. The US Department of Justice itself cautions prosecutors that delayed disclosure or an evolving account should not automatically be treated as evidence that a victim is unreliable. That warning is necessary because disbelief has a long history.
As someone who teaches Jewish law, I cannot ignore that our own legal tradition carries that history too. Classical halakha generally excluded women from serving as formal witnesses in judicial proceedings, even as rabbinic law developed important exceptions and mechanisms for accepting women’s testimony, including in circumstances uniquely experienced by women.
The message embedded in the older legal structure is uncomfortable for those of us committed to both halakha and women’s equality: there were places where a woman could know what happened and still not possess the same formal testimonial status as a man.
We should be honest about that history. But we should also be honest about our present, even in America, even in 2026. Women still know what it is to tell a story and watch the room search for reasons not to believe them. The formal rules of evidence may no longer say that a woman’s testimony counts for less because she is a woman. But culturally, women can still face an extraordinary burden when they describe sexual violence. She is scrutinized what she drank, what she wore, who she knew, where she went, what she remembers, what she cannot remember, why she stayed, why she left, why she spoke and why she waited.
And then people call inconsistencies proof that the story cannot be trusted, even though trauma does not necessarily produce a perfectly chronological narrative.
Which brings me to another question about Cornell: Why was this principally a university disciplinary matter?
Cornell conducted an investigation. Cornell temporarily suspended students. Cornell says that the investigation has concluded. According to the plaintiff’s attorney, two students were expelled. According to the lawsuit, students were offered the opportunity to submit essays to mitigate their conduct. Cornell took action. But the nature of that action raises more questions than it answers.
So what happened to the criminal case? Why were there no criminal charges?
That question has become even more urgent because the Tompkins County district attorney has now announced that he is reopening the investigation and, with Jane Doe’s cooperation, intends to present the matter to a grand jury.
The district attorney says the allegations in the civil complaint differ dramatically from the account given to police in 2024. The plaintiff’s attorney disputes his characterization of that original account and says authorities never followed up with her. Those competing accounts should be examined carefully. But they also raise precisely the question we should be asking.
If Cornell possessed enough information to undertake its own investigation, impose interim suspensions and ultimately complete a disciplinary process, what information did Cornell have? What did law enforcement have? What did one know that the other did not? Were witnesses re-interviewed? Was evidence shared? Were follow-up questions asked?
A university disciplinary proceeding is not a criminal prosecution. The standards, purposes and burdens of proof are different. Cornell cannot send anyone to prison, and a prosecutor should never bring charges simply because a university imposed discipline. But when allegations involve conduct that, if proven, would constitute serious crimes, the public is entitled to ask why the criminal justice system initially went no further.
Yes, she should be able to seek damages. But where was the criminal case? Perhaps the newly reopened investigation will finally answer that question. And perhaps that brings me back to those essays.
There are circumstances in which reflective writing is a powerful educational tool. I believe deeply in education. I believe people can learn, change, reconsider their behavior and become better human beings. But education also teaches through consequences.
An essay cannot substitute for meaningful punishment. It cannot substitute for accountability. And it cannot substitute for protection for someone who reports harm. And completing an assignment is not proof that someone has learned the lesson.
These aren’t boys. And, reading the allegations, I struggle even to use the word “men.” But they are adults. And that distinction is important. They are responsible for their choices. Our institutions are responsible for theirs.
So I still want to read the essays. Not because those essays can tell me what happened that night. A court will have to weigh the allegations and evidence, and now a grand jury may have the opportunity to consider the criminal case. I want to read them because I want to know what these young adults were asked to learn.
Five years ago, I asked: What. Are. They. Telling. The. Boys.
Today I have another question. What are we telling them when they become men?
And what are we telling women when they finally speak?
