Stop Choosing the Bear. Become the Bear.

Stop Choosing the Bear. Become the Bear.

Cornell University, sexual assault, 57 men in a group chat, more than 1,200 reports, and a system that keeps asking victims to carry the burden of everyone else's choices.

Let's talk about Cornell University.

Not just the seven men accused of sexually assaulting a woman in 2024.

Not just the 57 people reportedly present in the fraternity group chat where the alleged assault was discussed.

Not just the horrifying messages that have now become public.

Let's talk about the bigger number.

1,216.

Between 2018 and 2024, Cornell's Title IX office received more than 1,200 reports involving sexual assault, dating violence, domestic violence and stalking. Of those reports, Cornell filed disciplinary charges in only 162 cases. At least one person was found responsible in 51 cases.

Fourteen resulted in suspension.

Seven resulted in expulsion or dismissal.

Seven.

Out of more than 1,200 reports.

Before someone jumps into the comments screaming that "1,200 doesn't mean 1,200 rapes," you're absolutely right.

It doesn't.

And that is precisely why I'm using the number correctly.

These are reports of sexual violence and related offenses reaching the university's Title IX system, not 1,200 proven criminal assaults. A report is not automatically a finding of guilt, and not every report proceeds to a formal investigation. Cornell itself has explained that cases may not proceed for a variety of reasons, including an unidentified accused person, lack of information, or a complainant choosing not to pursue a formal process.

But here's the question that still refuses to go away:

What happens after someone reports?

Because if 1,216 reports enter the system and only seven result in expulsion or dismissal, people have every right to ask whether the system is actually protecting students or merely processing paperwork.

And then there is Cornell's own survey.

In 2025, 35% of undergraduate women who responded reported experiencing nonconsensual sexual contact during their time at Cornell.

Thirty-five percent.

That is more than one out of every three female undergraduate respondents.

Among undergraduate men, the figure was 8%.

And there is another statistic we need to discuss honestly.

Cornell's 2025 survey response rate for undergraduates was only 13%, down dramatically from 34% in 2023. Cornell's own 2026 task force acknowledged that this low response rate limits the ability to estimate the prevalence of sexual assault and complicates interpretation of the results.

So no, we cannot responsibly say that 35% of every woman at Cornell was assaulted.

But we absolutely can say that among the women who responded to Cornell's survey, the reported rate was 35%.

And that is still an alarmingly large number.

It should make every parent, student, administrator and lawmaker stop and ask what the hell is happening.

And then came the Cornell 7.

A woman, identified publicly as Jane Doe, alleges that she was drugged and sexually assaulted by multiple members of Cornell's Chi Phi fraternity in 2024.

The allegations have now become the center of a civil lawsuit, a reopened criminal investigation and an extraordinary national conversation about fraternity culture, bystander responsibility and institutional accountability.

At the center of that conversation is a Snapchat group reportedly containing 57 fraternity members.

Messages from that group have become part of the public record and have been described in reporting as encouraging participation in the alleged assault and discussing the woman in degrading, transactional terms.

Think about that for a moment.

Fifty-seven people.

Not one.

Not two.

Not a lonely stranger lurking in an alley.

A group.

A social network.

A collection of people who knew one another.

And according to the allegations, the conversation about what was happening was not exactly hidden.

That raises a question that is much larger than Cornell:

Where were the people who were supposed to intervene?

Because we have spent decades telling women to be careful.

Don't walk alone.

Don't drink too much.

Don't wear that.

Don't go there.

Watch your drink.

Text your friends.

Share your location.

Carry pepper spray.

Take a self-defense class.

Stay with the group.

Never leave your drink unattended.

Don't trust strangers.

Don't trust acquaintances.

Don't trust the nice guy.

Don't trust the drunk guy.

Don't trust the fraternity house.

Don't trust the party.

Don't trust the ride home.

Don't trust anyone.

And somehow, after all of that, we still manage to ask the victim:

"Why didn't you do something?"

Maybe we should start asking a different question.

Why didn't THEY?

The Bear

This is where the infamous "bear versus man" debate enters the conversation.

Women are asked:

"Would you rather encounter a strange man or a bear in the woods?"

And a shocking number of women answer:

The bear.

Then men demand an explanation.

They argue.

They get offended.

They say women are insulting all men.

They insist that most men aren't dangerous.

They ask why women would automatically assume a strange man is a threat.

And perhaps the most important thing they fail to understand is this:

The question isn't really about bears.

It's about risk.

It's about vulnerability.

It's about whether the person standing across from you has the capacity, opportunity and willingness to violate your boundaries.

The bear isn't pretending to be your friend.

The bear isn't telling you that you're beautiful.

The bear isn't buying you drinks.

The bear isn't telling you that you're safe.

The bear isn't asking you to trust him.

The bear isn't joining your fraternity group chat.

The bear isn't explaining afterward that you "misunderstood."

And if a bear attacks you, society doesn't immediately begin dissecting what you were wearing.

Nobody asks whether you smiled at the bear earlier.

Nobody asks whether you had too much to drink before entering the forest.

Nobody asks whether you "led the bear on."

Nobody calls you a liar because the bear cannot testify.

Nobody says the bear has a promising future and shouldn't have its life ruined over one mistake.

We know what the bear is.

We understand the risk.

And most importantly, we understand that the bear is responsible for being a bear.

So here's my answer:

Stop choosing the bear.

Become the bear.

Not literally.

Not violently.

Not by hunting down men.

Not by becoming what we fear.

Become the bear by refusing to remain powerless.

Become the bear by refusing to apologize for having boundaries.

Become the bear by learning your rights.

Become the bear by documenting everything.

Become the bear by demanding investigations.

Become the bear by supporting survivors instead of interrogating them.

Become the bear by refusing to let institutions quietly sweep allegations under the rug.

Become the bear by teaching our daughters that their bodies belong to them.

Become the bear by teaching our sons that consent is not complicated.

Become the bear by teaching everyone that intoxication is not consent.

Become the bear by making it socially unacceptable to laugh at sexual violence.

Become the bear by making bystanders understand that "I didn't participate" isn't always the end of the conversation.

Sometimes the moral question is:

"Why didn't you help?"

And yes, men are victims too.

This is where I want to be extremely clear.

This is not an argument that men are inherently violent.

It isn't an argument that every man is dangerous.

It isn't an argument that women are incapable of harming men.

And it absolutely isn't an argument that male victims don't matter.

They do.

The CDC reports that nearly one in four U.S. men has experienced some form of contact sexual violence during his lifetime. More than one in 38 has experienced completed or attempted rape, and the CDC notes that perpetrators of rape and unwanted sexual contact against male victims are most often other men.

Male victims deserve the same thing female victims deserve:

Belief. Support. Safety. Justice.

But acknowledging male victims doesn't require us to pretend that the sexes experience sexual violence at identical rates.

They don't.

Campus data repeatedly show a substantial gender disparity.

RAINN reports that approximately one in four undergraduate women and one in fourteen undergraduate men experience rape or sexual assault involving physical force or inability to consent during college.

At Cornell specifically, the 2025 survey reported 35% of undergraduate women versus 8% of undergraduate men experiencing nonconsensual sexual contact.

And national FBI data compiled by RAINN show that men account for the overwhelming majority of reported rape perpetrators, while women also perpetrate rape and other forms of sexual violence.

Those numbers do not mean every man is a threat.

They mean the problem deserves to be discussed honestly.

We cannot solve a problem we are afraid to name.

The real enemy isn't men.

The real enemy is entitlement.

It is the belief that another person's body is available because you want it.

It is the belief that intoxication creates opportunity.

It is the belief that silence means yes.

It is the belief that friends should protect friends from consequences instead of protecting potential victims from harm.

It is the belief that a university's reputation is more valuable than a student's safety.

It is the belief that a fraternity's social standing matters more than a woman's dignity.

It is the belief that an athlete's career should be protected.

It is the belief that a promising student's future should be preserved at the expense of someone else's future.

And it is the belief that victims should somehow absorb the consequences of someone else's decision to violate them.

That is what has to end.

Accountability isn't revenge.

If someone deliberately takes what isn't theirs to take, there should be consequences.

Period.

I don't care whether the perpetrator is male or female.

I don't care whether they are popular.

I don't care whether they are an athlete.

I don't care whether they come from money.

I don't care whether they're the captain of the football team, the president of the fraternity, the star student, the professor, the politician or the kid everyone says is "such a nice guy."

And I don't care whether the victim is male, female, transgender, straight, gay, drunk, sober, wealthy, poor, popular, unpopular, promiscuous, inexperienced or wearing a potato sack.

Consent is the line.

Cross it and you own what you did.

That doesn't mean we throw due process out the window.

It means due process must actually work.

It means allegations deserve serious, impartial investigation.

It means evidence matters.

It means accused people have rights.

And it means victims have rights, too.

Justice cannot mean protecting the accused from consequences while leaving the victim to carry the consequences alone.

Because the numbers tell us something uncomfortable.

RAINN reports that fewer than one-third of student survivors who experience rape receive help from a campus program or resource. Among survivors who did not seek help, reasons include believing the incident wasn't serious enough, wanting to handle it themselves and fear of how authorities might respond.

Think about that.

Someone is assaulted.

Then they have to decide whether reporting the assault will make their life worse.

That is not what a functioning system should feel like.

And when students watch what happens to people who do report, the lesson they take away can be devastating:

Keep your mouth shut.

That is how systems fail without ever officially telling victims to stay silent.

You don't have to order someone not to report.

You only have to make reporting look pointless.

So who protects the victims?

That's the question I keep coming back to.

Who protects them?

The university?

The police?

The courts?

Their friends?

Their fraternity brothers?

Their sorority sisters?

Their professors?

Their parents?

Their government?

Their communities?

Ideally, all of them.

But ultimately, we need a system in which protection doesn't depend on finding one heroic person willing to do the right thing.

Because victims shouldn't need a knight in shining armor.

They shouldn't need the one brave person in a room full of people to finally say:

"This is wrong. We need to help her."

We need institutions where doing the right thing isn't heroic.

It's normal.

Where intervening isn't extraordinary.

It's expected.

Where reporting isn't an act of courage.

It's a doorway to help.

Where accountability isn't a public-relations crisis.

It's policy.

And where someone's future isn't considered more important than the person whose life they harmed.

So no, this isn't "women versus men."

This is victims versus a culture that too often teaches them to carry the burden of somebody else's choices.

This is about women.

It's about men.

It's about anyone whose bodily autonomy has been violated.

And it's about every person standing nearby wondering whether they should intervene.

You don't have to be a woman to care about sexual assault.

You don't have to hate men to demand accountability.

You don't have to be a victim to believe victims deserve justice.

And you don't have to be a hero to do the right thing.

You just have to decide that somebody else's suffering matters more than your desire to remain comfortable.

Because silence is a choice.

Looking away is a choice.

Laughing it off is a choice.

Protecting your friend from consequences is a choice.

And stepping forward is a choice too.

So ladies, I'm not telling you to choose the bear anymore.

I'm telling you:

Become the bear.

Not because we need to become violent.

Because we need to become impossible to intimidate.

Impossible to silence.

Impossible to shame into accepting abuse.

Impossible to convince that someone else's reputation matters more than our lives.

And to the men who are reading this and thinking, "But I'm not one of them."

Good.

Then don't be one of them.

Be the guy who interrupts the conversation.

Be the guy who checks on the woman who suddenly looks uncomfortable.

Be the guy who says, "No, that's not okay."

Be the guy who doesn't laugh.

Be the guy who doesn't look away.

Be the guy who understands that protecting another human being isn't weakness.

Because real strength isn't getting away with something.

Real strength is having the character to refuse to do it in the first place.

And when somebody does cross that line?

Don't ask what the victim did to cause it.

Ask what we're going to do about the person who made the choice.

Because playing stupid games shouldn't mean the victim wins the stupid prize.

The person who chose to violate another human being should.

That's accountability.

And it's long overdue.