Power Trip
The Finger Banger and the Heart Fucker
Men are capable of inflicting incredible harm—and incredible healing
A weekend night in Berkeley, in the very early 2000s: Groups of students roamed the south side of campus, wandering in and out of parties in the frat houses lining Piedmont, Bancroft, and Channing, those giant, multistory homes with their front porches and leather couches and white, oversized Greek columns. Vodka, beer, boxed wine, gin, rum, tequila — the smell of alcohol was everywhere; sometimes, later in the night, so was the smell of vomit. Men stood on balconies drinking from red cups and heckling passersby. Women walked and laughed together in small groups, aware of being watched; we wandered in casual short dresses or wore outfits catered to theme parties: animal print for jungle, all white for a black-light party, sexy Jazzercise wear for ’80s, and so on. We were often teetering in heels.
I was wearing a skirt that night, a few months into the 2008–2009 school year, the year when a mysterious assailant informally dubbed the Finger Banger had assaulted multiple women in the area where I lived, forcibly lifting their skirts and sticking his fingers inside them. I’d read the warnings sent out to all the sororities, telling us to wear pants and not walk alone until this man was caught. But one…
