Review: “Know My Name” by Chanel Miller
As much a story about identity as it is about sexual assault, “Know My Name” empowers survivor-victims to reclaim the uniqueness of their experiences without feeling alone.
(trigger warning: sexual assault)
Perhaps you won’t have known Chanel Miller’s name before this book. But what you might be familiar with is the Stanford sexual assault case of 2016. Garnering mass media attention at the time, the perpetrator was catapulted to near global notoriety in light of the short sentencing he received, sparking a national outcry that led to the judge responsible being removed from office. Chanel was the survivor at the centre of that ordeal. Her victim impact statement went viral, with survivors and non-survivors alike responding with an outpouring of support, including an open letter from then Vice President Joe Biden. But throughout it all, Chanel remained anonymous, known only to the world as Emily Doe.
Three years on, Emily Doe’s real name was revealed, and Chanel was able to tell her story in her own words, as her own self. It is as much a story about identity as it is about sexual assault, and how one impacts the experience of the other (and vice versa).
“Know My Name” is a call to know the names and identities of every victim of sexual assault that are all too often erased.
Chanel contextualises her complex personal experience throughout, in turn exposing the systemic failures of a society and legal system that’s just totally unequipped to support survivor-victims of sexual assault — particularly when that victim is an Asian-American woman. To reveal Emily Doe’s identity means also to reveal her racial identity, not released to the public at the time, giving an entirely new perspective on the multiple failings that took place throughout her case (would the judge have handed out such a short sentencing if Chanel had been white?) and the treatment of Asian-Americans in the US as a whole; a particularly pertinent topic in light of the rise in anti-Asian hate crime during the COVID-19 pandemic.
Chanel Miller the Asian-American woman. Chanel Miller the writer. Chanel Miller the artist. Chanel Miller the daughter, the sister, the advocate. We’re given insight into all of these parts of her identity, but also into the reality of Chanel Miller the victim — and the survivor — writing with reclaimed control.
She spares us no detail; not with the rigid grip of a police report, but with an unflinching resolve to allow every nuance of thought and feeling about the complicated experience of sexual assault space to breathe and unfold.
Sometimes it can feel as though those outside the survivor-victim community in particular, talk around the subject of sexual assault, never really about it, making Chanel’s honesty all the more welcome. She’s able to pin down the physical and emotional realities of sexual assault in a way I’ve not seen many people attempt to do, let alone do so successfully. Even some of the darkest moments of the book are lit up by a use of imagery and metaphor that is, at times, strangely joyful. As a survivor myself, it was powerful to see. I thought reading this would be an almost exclusively harrowing experience (and for some, it may be) but for myself, there was a surprising amount of comfort and warmth to be found here.
I knew reading this book would be emotionally challenging to say the least. The first time I sat down to read it, I was in tears by the end of the two-page introduction. Many times I had to stop mid-chapter to process the feelings that came up while reading. Feelings for Chanel, but also feelings for myself. But half-way through I realised I was beginning to stall for altogether different reasons; cutting down to a chapter a night, saving sections to read for the next day, or the next. Not because reading was too difficult, but because I never wanted it to end. Reading this book simply made me feel less alone.
Like many others, I still very much struggle with the way sexual assault has left me feeling so painfully alone — even years after it happened, even after talking to others who’ve experienced similar things. At times it seems like trauma isolates in a way I find almost impossible to assimilate, or even describe. And it’s something that Chanel anticipates, speaking directly to survivor-victims with these words that bring both the book and her victim impact statement to a close:
“To girls everywhere, I am with you.”
While this is Chanel’s story, and not meant to suggest a universal survivor-victim experience — which the book demonstrates can be so uniquely shaped by intersections of gender, race, and class — “Know My Name” shows how reclaiming our individuality as survivor-victims of sexual assault doesn’t have to come at the expense of finding connection with others. Anonymous or otherwise, our standalone stories don’t mean we have to stand alone.
