Why I Didn't Report Sexual Assault: A Survivor's Story

Sexual Assault Why I Never Reported Him

Confronting the ghost of a past attack

Isabel Espanl It was the most shocking, dirty, deviant thing I’d ever heard, and it was being murmured in my ear as I was pushed up against a wall outside of a bar at night. I felt exposed. I felt unsafe. I felt like throwing up. But I just stood there and waited for it to be over. The anxious, sickened, defeated feeling was something I’d learned, over the years, to ignore. Like every other woman I knew in those days, I’d always tried to make men feel comfortable when they inappropriately flirted or said things that made me feel embarrassed. I almost apologized for feeling ill at ease, brushing off comments and playfully slapping away wandering hands, as though it was understandable that a man should treat me like a whore or a piece of meat. Except for the occasionally shared roll of the eyes, the women I knew never talked to each other about these things. We’d bend over backward to erase any awkwardness when men took advantage of our inability to speak up. I thought that men had no control over their urges and that it was the woman’s job not to cause any trouble. And pretty much every woman I knew felt the same way. He was a casting director and I was a musical theatre actress. He’d already called me in for a bunch of high-level auditions, always promising more and more opportunities. I’d known him for a year before the night when he pinned me against the wall, pushed his tongue into my mouth, grabbed my head and forced my ear up to his mouth as he relayed the details of a sex dream. I was 26, he was 35, and we were both married to other people. He had a baby girl at home. I met him through mutual friends, actors in an off-Broadway show I wanted to be cast in. I took his audition class. I accepted his invitations out for drinks with the other actors and musicians who made up his late-night cohort. We’d all meet at the same bar, late at night, after the shows had ended. He was funny and charming and would hold court as he threw back whiskey after whiskey and beer after beer. Some nights he’d look at me and say, “Oh man, you gotta come in for this show I’m casting” and I’d feel victorious. One more step up. One more opportunity. And the next day, I would receive a call from my agent with an audition for the latest show he was casting. I’ve always wanted to be a performer. I moved to New York right after college with my BFA in musical theatre and fought my way through never-ending rejections until I slowly started to build a résumé. My agent at the time had spoken to me about the value of networking. “Get out there and start socializing,” she advised. We didn’t use Facebook back then. You had to actually show up to things. Being a part of this casting director’s party posse was like having a foot in the door. I never felt taken advantage of or toyed with. Such things never even occurred to me because I didn’t know to see the world that way. It’s almost embarrassing to look back now and realize how little I understood. The night he pushed me up against the wall, I was actually trying to go home early. I had an audition the next morning for a show he was casting. He was going to be in the room for my audition in front of the producers, writers and director of a new Broadway musical. I didn’t want to go out the night before an important audition. But he called me and urged me to come to the bar. “I have something important to tell you,” he said. I assumed that meant he was going to give me advice to help me land the role. I never imagined he would assault me and tell me disgusting things that made me feel worthless. I remember every detail of the 10-minute assault, pinned against a wall, as he held my hands over my head with one of his and used his other hand to roughly grab my chin so he could fill my mouth with his whiskey-basked tongue. I remember trying to pull my arms down and not having enough strength to overpower him as he ground into me. I remember the smell of his breath as he made me listen to his disgusting description of the dream. He told me that he dreamed about ejaculating on my face. It was the most revolting, violating thing anyone had ever said to me. He traced the side of my face with his finger, showing me exactly where he imagined desecrating me, and said, “Right here.” I remember the feel of his fingers, drawing a line down the side of my cheek and the proud look on his face, as though he had just bestowed some tremendous honor. As though I was supposed to feel special. "I never considered that by speaking up, I might possibly be able to prevent him from doing this to other women. That’s the part that still brings me shame." I didn’t report it for many reasons: I had a big audition and I wanted to get the role. Humiliating the casting director would surely guarantee no Broadway job for me. I was terrified my husband might incite a confrontation. I was convinced people would think it was my fault — that I was dressed too sexy or that I was too flirty and what was I doing there in the first place if I didn’t want to attract that kind of attention? Back then, the “casting couch” was a place where women used their femininity to their own advantage. In what universe would this not be seen as entirely my choice and my fault? I never considered that by speaking up, I might possibly be able to prevent him from doing this to other women. That’s the part that still brings me shame. I have a daughter now, and I have to live with the reality that I let this predatorial man walk away with no repercussions. It happened 25 years ago. The details are as vivid in my mind today as they were the morning of my audition when I had to parade myself in front of my attacker in hopes of being good enough to be offered a job. I didn’t get the part, and for the next decade, this casting director grew more and more powerful in my industry. I agonized over telling someone from my union or my talent agency. But over time, the details surrounding the night of the incident grew fuzzy. The more they began to dim, the less I felt I would be believed. I’ve since learned that the casting director’s wife left him. He stopped casting and left New York. I know that if this happened today, in 2019, a woman might not hesitate to report. But when I was the woman trapped between a predator and a wall, the logical thing was to keep my trauma to myself. I never told anyone, and I let the memories and the shame devour me. I realize that I could still speak up. I could tell people I know in the Broadway community. I’m well aware of the power granted to me by the #MeToo movement, and that women like me who used to think we didn’t have the right to speak up have now been granted a voice. But I no longer think it would do any good. I don’t want to go through it. I don’t want to humiliate or traumatize his daughter. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m grateful for the opportunity to share my story here. There is something quite healing about telling your story, even if you’re using your computer and not your voice. I know many people will disagree with my choice, but it’s my choice. It’s my story to tell, and I’ve decided how I want to tell it. It’s the choice that brings me peace. Maybe I’ll change my mind one day, but for now, I will end this story and try to finally put it behind me. © 2022 AARP Cancel You are leaving AARP.org and going to the website of our trusted provider. The provider’s terms, conditions and policies apply. Please return to AARP.org to learn more about other benefits. Your email address is now confirmed. 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