When Title IX Is Not Enough Lyra Walsh Fuchs (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Students at Columbia University in 2014 with a mattress in support of Emma Sulkowicz's project against sexual assault, “Carry That Weight.” (Photo by Selcuk Acar/Anadolu Agency/Getty Images) [End Page 48] When I was a junior in college, I ran into a problem at Art House, a combination residential hall and space for programming and events that I managed. Because we often had parties, movie screenings, and concerts, our living room was open to the whole campus. And because it was common knowledge not to go forward with any complaints under Title IX, which prohibits sex-based discrimination in educational institutions that receive federal aid—our dean of Title IX, Scott Backer, had a bad reputation even before his firing for revelations of sexual misconduct with a minor—several residents came to me with concerns about running into someone who had harmed them, or made them uncomfortable, in their own home. Completely unsanctioned by my employers at the university, the residents and I developed a DIY safety system. First, I taped an envelope to my door where people could anonymously drop names written on slips of paper. With those names, I made a list that I would recite to the residents checking student IDs at the door (a regular school policy) on the nights that we had events. On at least one occasion, one of the named students made it through the doors. A male resident informed him that he was banned from the space and asked him to leave. He did, and as far as I know, he never returned. The weight of this project disquieted me at the time (I was fresh from an internship at a public defender’s office in New York City and beginning to read abolitionist literature) and leaves me conflicted now. On the one hand, we had created a registry; did we not believe in people’s ability to change? On the other hand, this was people’s home, and didn’t they have the right to not want specific people there? They wanted to dance without catching someone who had hurt them in the corner of their eye; they didn’t want to spend the night locked in their room afraid of who was walking through the front door. We were hardly alone in our pursuit of safety through ad hoc methods. The #MeToo movement, flourishing around the same time as we made our list, brought to the forefront the omnipresence of gendered and sexual [End Page 49] violence. The Shitty Media Men spreadsheet, a privately shared Google Doc that was quickly leaked to the press, introduced a digital crowdsourcing element that took off. At schools across the nation, public and private, large and small, students created hashtags, anonymous forms that collected names and stories, and Instagram and Twitter accounts to share them. I came to think of our list as part of a broader collection of experiments in DIY justice, a broad umbrella that includes private attempts to regulate spaces (like our list), public-facing attempts to shame institutions into action, and also more structured—but still not institutionally supported—intra-group grievance processes or restorative circles. Whether an envelope taped to a wall, a circulated list, or a social media account, these systems are imperfect. They are often messy and unwieldy; some have gotten their creators disciplined, threatened, and sued; with the exception of some restorative circles, they almost always offer no path for the accused to clear their names, work toward meaningfully changing their behavior, or recover from what can be truly debilitating ostracization and isolation. The list we made at Art House was short, with just a half-dozen names, but it felt heavy. I worried that if we alienated these young people, they might they fall deeper into hateful, aggressive behavior. And I worried that by not telling them they were on the list or giving them any avenue to get off it, we were imitating the permanent churn of criminalization. Still, if we couldn’t go to the university for help, either through the Title IX office...