Mr. President-Elect

Dear, Mr. Donald Trump,

It’s actually quite fitting that today is a rainy and gloomy day in Ohio.  It fits my mood and the mood of the loved ones surrounding me.  Today isn’t a joyous day for love and celebration.  Today is a day of confusion.. sadness… numbness.  The only thing getting me through this day is scrolling through my social media news feeds and seeing how incredibly frightened and depressed my fellow friends are feeling.  Isn’t that pathetic, Mr. Trump?  Seeing people upset is what’s getting me through the day.  In those emotions, it helps me to realize that I’ve surrounded myself with good people.  I’ve surrounded myself with people that truly see you for who you are…. and for that, I am thankful.

For me, this election wasn’t about Republicans versus Democrats.  This election wasn’t about which candidate has the better plan or which candidate can fit that role best.  While I do agree with everything Hillary Clinton stands for; this election, in my eyes, was mostly about the United States of America versus the Rapist.  This election was about fighting against you to stop our country from heading down a dark road.  This election was about continuing to fight and challenge the war on women.  This election was about educating my fellow Americans on how a leader should uphold good qualities and characteristics… a leader of the free world should have good values… and not openly brag about grabbing women by the pussy.  I’m sure you have plenty of great characteristics, Mr. Trump.  But as a white, middle class American woman, I can tell you that I fear the direction our country is headed…. because we can now say the president of the United States of America is a rapist.  You don’t know me, and trust me, you never fucking will…. but let me tell you a little story.

When I was 20 years old, I ran into a long time friend at a bar at the best damn college in the country…. The Ohio State University.  I was halfway through my junior year of college and having the absolute time of my life.  I had just joined a sorority and was ecstatic to finally have a group of girlfriends.  As much of the world believes the typical sorority girl stereotype, we loved to go out to the bars on Thursday nights.  “Thirsty Thursdays” as we liked to call it.  This particular night resonates in my mind, and I will never be able to erase those memories.  It was a brutally cold Thursday night in the dead of winter and my “liquid parka” was in full force.  I had met my long time friend when I was a lifeguard at East Harbor State Park.  We had known each other for years and remained in long distance contact as best as we could.  Running into him just blocks from my temporary college home was absolutely amazing!  I couldn’t believe we were at the same school and had just now crossed paths.

My girlfriends were drunker than a skunk and ready to head home for bed.  My long time friend and I were having such a blast catching up that I told them to leave without me.  As the bartender called last call, my friend offered to resume the party at his apartment, merely a few blocks from my home.  Absolutely!  How cool was it that I had the opportunity to continue a long distance friendship now living on the same college campus??  It’s amazing how small the world truly is and how incredibly lucky I was to catch up and reminisce with my friend.  My friend.

We returned to his apartment and he introduced me to all of his roommates.  He had just started a band and was incredibly excited about the songs he had written.  He asked if I’d like to hear the music he plays, and of course I obliged.  He led me upstairs to his bedroom while we laughed and joked about how we met… he pulled out his guitar and music sheets and his face lit up as he discussed his passion for music.  His words about song writing turned to song playing… and song playing turned to making out… making out turned to me vocalizing that I wasn’t ready for him to make a move on me… and that I was ready to go home.. utilizing my voice turned to him sexually taking advantage of me that night.  I returned home to my sorority house… distraught, confused, and upset.  I didn’t understand what just happened.  I recall harsh words being used towards me and the beautiful mood turning to darkness like a switch.  I remember continually thinking, “Why is he doing this to me?”  I remember thinking that he’d stop at any minute because my body language and voice was clearly telling him I didn’t want him to continue.  I remember feeling numb.  Blank.  Confused.  I remember feeling scared.

Upon my return to my sorority house, I was met with a group of drunk sisters.  They were in our house basement laughing hysterically and strategically planning how to steal the neighbor fraternity’s composite.  They were poking fun at whatever crazy things the drunkest sister was doing in that moment.  I walked downstairs with the biggest look of confusion on my face, and I remember one of my sisters asking me what was wrong.

“[My friend] just forced me to have sex with him, and I didn’t want to.”

The next words resonate in my mind every time my husband touches me, every time my girls give me a hug, anytime I see your name scroll across my social media news feed… these words bring daggers to my soul… and hurt me all over again… every… single… day….

“You’re a sorority girl!!  You’re supposed to have sex with men.  What did you expect???”

Mr. Trump, I don’t tell you this story lightly.  It’s the first time I’ve openly told my story to anyone.  Prior to today, my story has only been told in a safe spaces to people that I know won’t say stupid things like my under educated sorority sisters said to me that night.  I continued the remainder of my college career as a self medicating “drunk whore” (as some liked to call me) spiraling out of control only to realize 6 years later, my long time friend, had raped me.  I literally believed for 6 years that I was no more than a piece of fucking meat.  I believed for 6 years that my body was not my own and that I was to allow any fucking man to do with it as he pleased.  I spent 6 years in fucked up relationships where I was being emotionally, physically, and sexually abused on a regular fucking basis because I had absolutely no respect for my body.

In 2010, I had the absolute pleasure of being placed in my social work internship under Diane Docis at the University of Toledo’s Sexual Assault Education and Prevention program.  At the time, I had no idea what happened to me was rape.  I had no idea about sexual assault.  Much like the rest of the world, I exonerated his actions with phrases like, “I shouldn’t have been drinking that night,” … “Maybe my outfit was too revealing,” … “I gave him the wrong idea,” … “I didn’t fight hard enough,” … “He is my friend,” … “I’m a sorority girl.  That’s what I fucking do!”  I can recall every moment, emotion, breath, and feeling as I sat in Diane’s office listening to her educate me about the program and the definition of sexual assault.  I listened to her discuss what great things the program does for the university and how it helps survivors of sexual assault.  I can specifically recall a pause and hearing her ask me if I had any questions… my heart was in my gut… “Diane….  I think I was raped 6 years ago.”

This election wasn’t about Republicans versus Democrats for me, Donald Trump.  This election was about standing up for what is right and what is wrong.  You, my friend, are wrong.  So very wrong.  Women from all aspects of your life have come forward during this presidential election with the bravest intentions in their souls to fight you.  To say enough is enough.  To stand with the rest of us survivors and say, “It’s not ok.”  It’s not ok, Donald!  It. Is. NEVER. Ok.  Please, please by all means tell me these women are lying.  I’d love to hear that… and I’d hope you noted some sarcasm in that statement.  You see, only 2% of women falsely accuse.  TWO PERCENT!!!  Or if you’d rather have your statistics come from here, 2-10% of women falsely accuse… that’s still a very small percentage of women!!!  What I’m trying to say here is that statistically the likelihood of these women lying about what you did to them is very small.  Very fucking small.  These women should feel supported and heard… these women should feel like they are not alone because they are NOT alone… it is NOT their fault… and we believe them.  I believe them, Donald Trump.

So, where does that leave us?  Well, that leaves us with a ton of angry survivors and a rapist as a president.  I should have expected it though… you know, since that’s what women like me having been fighting against… rape culture.  I don’t even have the energy to explain it to you, so I’m just going to leave the link in hopes that you click on it.  Funny how rape culture works.  Not funny haha, but more like funny this fucking sucks.  My rapist holds a B.S. degree in biology from the Ohio State University. He is a Certified Tissue Banking Specialist. He is also certified for Basic Life Support in addition to having experience working directly with patients in a hospital environment.  He sounds pretty fucking amazing, doesn’t he?  And guess what, he has absolutely no idea that what he did to me was rape.  It’s a sad country we live in… but I’ll be damned if I don’t fight for change.

Some of my fellow Americans sit at home tonight and preach about how change starts from within… how change starts in our own homes and how we raise future generations.  These same fellow Americans are encouraging everyone to raise their children to know better and saying that the President of the United States of America has no direct effect on our children.  I completely disagree, Mr. Trump.  Unfortunately, for my children, these same people are the ones that voted for you, that support you, that agree the words you say are appropriate.  I can tell you that the candidate I voted for was much like me.  She has the same values, beliefs, and characteristics as me.  She stands for what I believe in, and I had so much faith that she’d change our country for the best.  I can only assume the same goes for those that support you.

I needed to write this letter to you to process my thoughts and feelings… to come to accept what the American people have voted for and to finally realize where we stand in our country.  I will continue to fight against rape culture.  I will continue to fight for women’s rights.  I will continue to stand with the rest of my fellow survivors and speak out against my long time [ex] friend and you, Mr. Trump.  I will continue to educate the world about sexual assault facts and continue to challenge those that believe you stand for some sort of good in our country.  I will continue to educate my daughters to love and respect their bodies.  I will teach them to use their voice and challenge main stream media.  I will continue to encourage them to raise their heads up high and fight.  I will continue to fight against you for the next 4 years and hope like hell this never fucking happens again.

Best of luck to your, Mr. Trump.  I hope the pressure of being the leader of the free world opens your eyes and makes you see how much you influence the young people in our country.  I hope you can learn to keep your dick in your pants, ask for consent, and respect all people regardless of age, race, religion, sexual preference, you fucking name it.  I hope your loving supporters can do the same.  After all, I believe in change…. I believe in miracles… maybe one can happen after all.


Samantha Pollick
“One Really Nasty Fucking Fight Like Hell Kinda Woman”


*If you or anyone you know is a survivor/victim of sexual assault/sexual violence, please reach out for help.  I’ve provided some links below for further resources and please remember to always practice good self care.*

National Sexual Violence Resource Center
Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network
Ohio Domestic Violence Network

2 thoughts on “Mr. President-Elect

  1. Oh Sam. Thank you for telling your story. I had a very similar experience in college and lived with the guilt and shame for years until after being in a horrible marriage for several years I finally told my story to a therapist and guess what? He told me the same things you were told and I finally believed it. You are a strong, caring, passionate woman. And I am so proud to have the opportunity to know you.

  2. What about Hilary’s husband? Bill Clinton was accused multiple times of rape during his presidency. By the statistics you cited, his accusers were telling the truth. Hillary supported her husband, a rapist. Because only 2% (or maybe 2-10%) of women falsely accuse. Hillary threatened and berated Bill’s victims. And yet you support everything she stands for? Talk about rape culture. Or maybe it is okay because Hilary has a vagina, she can perpetuate rape culture.

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