I would like to pay my respects to the owners of the land, the Jagera and Turrbal peoples, upon which I reside, and their elders past, present and emerging. I would like to acknowledge that sovereignty was never ceded, and that, even today, I actively benefit from the impacts of the colonisation of so-called Australia. I stand with the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities in their ongoing struggle for justice, liberation, equality and sovereignty. Always was, always will be.

Content warning: this piece discusses violence, sexual violence, re-victimisation and re-traumatisation

Over the past five years of travelling across Queensland and talking about consent, I have received a lot of questions from students:

What about when both of you are drunk?

What is the age limit for the law again?

Does is have to be ‘enthusiastic’ consent?

What about if they just nod but don’t say anything?

Can I start and then ask to stop?

I have listened to students as they disclosed heartbreaking accounts of sexual violence, with one student (of only 13 years of age) speaking about how she had gone to law enforcement officials and she had seen her perpetrator face the consequences of their actions, but still struggled to cope with walking down the street in her small town and seeing the family members of her perpetrator in the local store. She had been brave and traversed the unjust landscape of our legal system, but she still had not been provided with coping mechanisms for the re-traumatisation her experiences could elicit throughout the rest of her life.

I have mediated discussions between students, some advocating for enthusiastic consent, and others advocating that a smile should be enough. Or But if I pay for the movie, aren’t I entitled to something?

I have been asked Why aren’t the boys learning about this?, to which my reply is to turn and ask the teacher standing behind me.

I have watched the tiny, frustrated faces of students as they role play interactions with a peer who has not learned the legal definition or principles behind consent.

I have listened to the sombre voices of students in their final few years of high school, who ask a simple question: Why didn’t we learn this earlier?

The scariest questions always start the same: I’m just asking for a friend… or Hypothetically…, because we all know that no one is ever ‘just asking for a friend’, and no scenario is ever hypothetical.

But the one question I have never been asked by a student is: Why are we learning about this? The domain of that question is purely reserved for parents (and, in very, very rare circumstances, teachers).

I could spend this entire blog post talking about the importance of consent and why permission is important, or five ways to teach young people about consent, or how teaching consent is not about sex but about boundaries, or how to approach the chat about consent from ages 1-21, or why high school is too late to start talking about consent.

But I won’t. The internet (and every parenting book) is filled with resources to explain why learning about consent is not only valuable, but vital.

Instead, when I am asked by a parent, Why are they learning about this?, I get them to do a simple task, to go home, and ask their child or young person the following:

If you had band practice one afternoon after school and, after catching the bus back to our suburb, had to walk home on dusk – or at night – what protective measures would you put into practice to keep yourself safe?

And then listen for their answer.

For their sons, what they are likely to hear is silence.

But, for their daughters (or young people of other genders), they will hear a list. A list of the ways that they protect themselves from violence – particularly sexual violence – as they walk home, on dusk, from the bus stop, after school.

I asked this question to a room full of year eleven girls recently, and every single student in that auditorium had an answer:

I clutch my keys between my fingers.

I pretend to be listening to music, but have nothing on in my headphones.

I pretend to call someone.

I actually call someone.

If I see a neighbour or someone I know, I yell out to them.

If I see someone I don’t know, I cross the street or pretend to go into a house.

I geotag my location on Instagram or in DMs to my friends so they know where I am.

When passing someone I don’t know, I speed up and overtake them quickly.

I asked them where they learned these protective strategies: parents, movies, school, my friends. I asked them what else they had been taught, what other protective measures they put into place and into practice to protect themselves from sexual violence:

I was taught to yell ‘fire!’, because no one will come if you yell ‘rape!’

I am always on guard – you can never be too careful.

We then spoke about the myths around sexual violence. Of how, whilst we put into practice all of these protective strategies and measures when we walk home from the bus stop on dusk, the vast majority of experiences of sexual violence will occur in or near our own homes, by someone who we know and trust.

I asked what protective measures they put into practice for those circumstances – circumstances when they are with someone they know and trust – and was met with silence.

And parents, that is why we talk about consent: because if our young people can list hundreds of protective measures for avoiding sexual violence in public, the least we can do is provide them with one protective measure – knowledge of and understanding about consent – for sexual activity in private.*

Parent in conversation with teenage. Source: Unsplash

And this ought to be the part you remember: if they aren’t learning about consent from you, and they aren’t learning about consent at school, they will be learning about it when they are asked to give it, and, for their sake, I hope they are ready.

If you, or someone who know, is experiencing sexual violence, please contact 1800 RESPECT. They are available online or via phone on 1800 737 732.

*I will be frank here: we should not have to be exploring any protective measures preventing individuals experiencing sexual violence. The onus should not be on survivors (or potential survivors) for preventing the violence inflicted upon them, but upon perpetrators (or potential perpetrators) for not inflicting the violence in the first instance. But I am also a pragmatist: the population likely to be reading this still aren’t on board with talking about consent, so actually holding perpetrators accountable for their actions might be a step too far right now. From little things, big things grow.