Olivia: A Stanford swimmer assaults an unconscious woman. He's found guilty on three felony counts. The judge's sentence? Six months. And he only serves three. Jackson: That sounds like a twisted hypothetical, like a law school exam question designed to make you angry. Olivia: Except it isn't. This isn't a hypothetical. It's the real case that ignited a global firestorm and forced us all to ask a very uncomfortable question: who does our justice system truly protect? Jackson: And at the center of that firestorm is Chanel Miller's memoir, Know My Name. Olivia: A book that is just overwhelmingly, powerfully acclaimed. It feels like every person who reads it is profoundly changed by it. Jackson: And for good reason. It’s not just a story about a crime; it’s about the aftermath, the system, the fight. Olivia: Absolutely. And what's so incredible is that Chanel Miller, the author, began writing it to reclaim her own identity. For years, the world only knew her as 'Emily Doe.' She's also a gifted artist, and she's said the book's cover, which is inspired by the Japanese art of kintsugi—repairing broken pottery with gold—symbolizes healing by highlighting, not hiding, the scars. Jackson: Highlighting the scars. That's a powerful way to frame it. Let's start there, with the very first scar, the moment this all begins.

Olivia: The book opens with one of the most disorienting scenes I’ve ever read. Chanel doesn't wake up to the memory of an assault. She wakes up on a gurney in a hospital hallway. She has no idea how she got there. She feels dried blood, sees bandages on her elbows, and feels pine needles in her hair. Jackson: That’s terrifying. The not knowing must be a unique kind of horror. She’s a blank slate, and other people have to fill in the story of what happened to her own body. Olivia: Exactly. And the people filling it in are professionals. They are kind, but they are clinical. She’s immediately a case file. A deputy asks her if she knows where her underwear is. She doesn’t. She writes, "I would not ask the deputy if he happened to know where my underwear was, because a part of me understood I was not ready to hear the answer." Jackson: Wow. Even in that state of confusion, there’s this instinct for self-preservation. Don’t ask the question you can’t handle the answer to. Olivia: And then comes the SART exam—the Sexual Assault Response Team. It’s a forensic evidence collection process. It’s invasive by nature. They're taking swabs, photos, documenting every injury. But in the middle of this cold, procedural moment, Miller has this flash of profound humanity. She looks at her own body, covered in dirt and pine needles, and describes herself as a "palette of warm, sandy tones, a glowing vessel in this room of bleached coats and teal gloves." Jackson: That’s an incredible detail. In a moment where she's being treated like a crime scene, she finds a way to see herself as art. It’s a small act of rebellion. Olivia: It is. And there's another one. After the exam, her clothes are taken as evidence. An intern offers her new clothes from a shed outside, donated by an organization called Grateful Garments. Chanel picks out a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and in that moment, she realizes her own grandmother—not by blood, but a close family friend—actually donates to this very organization by selling paper hats. Jackson: No way. That’s a wild coincidence. It’s like the universe sent her a tiny, tangible piece of love right when she needed it most. Olivia: It’s this beautiful, circular moment of care. But that small warmth is immediately contrasted with the coldness of the system. Because from that point on, she isn't Chanel Miller. In the legal proceedings, to protect her identity, she is given a pseudonym: Emily Doe. Jackson: Why that specific name? Is there a reason for 'Emily Doe'? Olivia: The book doesn't say, but 'John Doe' and 'Jane Doe' are standard legal placeholders for anonymous individuals. The effect, though, is what matters. Miller writes about this creation of a separate identity with such pain. She says, "Emily Doe was born, me but not me at all, and suddenly I hated her, I did not want this, her nakedness, her pain. It was Emily, all of this was Emily." Jackson: It's a coping mechanism, but it's also a profound act of erasure. The system, in its attempt to protect her, begins by stripping away the most fundamental thing she has: her name. So if the system starts by erasing you, how do you even begin to fight back?

Olivia: That becomes the central struggle of the entire book. Fighting back isn't just about getting a conviction. It's about fighting to be seen as a human being again. The legal process is long and grueling. For over a year, she lives in this limbo. The defense attorney for Brock Turner, the assailant, begins to build a narrative. Jackson: And what is that narrative? Olivia: It's a classic one. That he was a promising young athlete, an Olympic hopeful swimmer from a good family. That this was a misunderstanding, a night of drinking that got out of hand. His actions were framed as a "mistake" that shouldn't ruin his "twenty minutes of action." Jackson: Twenty minutes of action. That’s how they described it? That’s just… obscene. They're minimizing the violence to protect his future. Olivia: Precisely. And all the while, Chanel is silenced. She can't speak publicly about the case. Her life is on hold. The turning point comes after the guilty verdict, when she has to prepare for the sentencing. She's contacted by a probation officer who will write a report for the judge. Jackson: Okay, so this is her chance to have her voice heard, right? To influence the sentence. Olivia: You would think. But the probation officer calls her, and in the conversation, Chanel emphasizes that she wants Brock Turner to get therapy, to understand the harm he caused. The officer interprets this as her wanting a lenient sentence. The officer's report to the judge recommends a "moderate" county jail sentence, partly based on this misrepresentation of Chanel's wishes. Jackson: That is infuriating. Her desire for his rehabilitation is twisted and used against her to argue for leniency. It’s a betrayal. Olivia: A massive one. And it's this betrayal that fuels her. She realizes that if she wants her truth to be heard, she has to write it herself, directly, without any filter. This is the origin of the victim impact statement. She spends days writing it, pouring all her pain, anger, and clarity onto the page. Jackson: The statement that went viral. Olivia: The one that was read 11 million times in four days. The one that was read aloud on the floor of the U.S. Congress. It begins with that unforgettable line: "You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today." Jackson: It’s just breathtakingly direct. But what strikes me is the immense burden this places on her. It's not enough that she survived the assault, not enough that she endured the trial. Now, to get a semblance of justice, she has to become this world-class writer and orator. She has to be the most eloquent, powerful voice in the room just to be heard. Olivia: You've hit on a crucial point. The system shouldn't require a victim to be a literary genius to be believed. But in this case, her power with words was the only weapon she had left against the narrative that was being built to protect her attacker. And the world responded. She received thousands of emails. Vice President Joe Biden wrote her an open letter, ending with the simple, powerful words, "I see you." Jackson: After being made invisible as 'Emily Doe' for so long, to be seen, and by the Vice President… I can't imagine what that felt like. Olivia: It was a form of validation the court never gave her. It was the public recognizing her humanity when the legal system was still debating the value of her attacker's future. And that feeling of not being heard is directly tied to this impossible standard she, and so many other victims, were held to.

Olivia: In the book, Miller draws a powerful parallel. She talks about the case of Philando Castile, a Black man who was killed by a police officer during a traffic stop. During the trial, the defense mentioned that Castile had smoked marijuana in the past, as if that somehow justified his death. Miller writes, "The audacity to smoke marijuana provided sufficient reason to die." She connects this to her own experience, this idea that for a victim to be seen as credible, their life has to be flawless. Jackson: They have to be a 'perfect victim.' Sober, cautious, virginal, with a perfect memory of the event. Any deviation from that impossible standard becomes an excuse to blame them. Olivia: Exactly. And the defense attorney used this playbook against her. He scrutinized her drinking that night. He questioned why she was at a frat party. He used her memory gaps—caused by the assault and intoxication—as evidence that she couldn't be trusted. Meanwhile, Brock Turner's intoxication was used as a point of sympathy. Jackson: This is the architecture of blame. It's designed to protect the status quo. I remember reading about the online comments she saw. Things like, "If you go to a frat party expect to get drunk, drugged and raped. Don’t go to a frat party." Olivia: It's that horrifying logic that places the responsibility of preventing an assault on the potential victim, not on the person committing the assault. It’s a cultural sickness. And it all culminated in the sentencing. The judge, Aaron Persky, famously cited the "severe impact" a prison sentence would have on Turner. He quoted a letter from Brock's childhood friend about his character. Jackson: Wait, the judge quoted a letter from the defendant's friend in the official sentencing? While minimizing the impact on the actual victim? Olivia: Yes. He sentenced him to six months in county jail, of which he served three. And in that moment, the message was clear: Brock Turner's potential was worth more than Chanel Miller's pain. His future was the priority. Jackson: It's a devastating outcome. But this story didn't end there, did it? Did her fight, her statement, actually lead to any real-world change? Olivia: It did. The public outrage was so immense that it led to two significant things. First, Judge Aaron Persky was successfully recalled from the bench in 2018—the first California judge to be recalled in over 80 years. Second, California passed a new law that mandated prison sentences for sexual assault of an unconscious or intoxicated person, removing the kind of judicial discretion that led to Turner's light sentence. Jackson: So her voice, her story, literally changed the law and held a judge accountable. That’s incredible. It’s a victory, but it feels like one that came at an unbearable cost.

Olivia: It did. And that's really the core of this memoir. It’s not a simple story of triumph. It’s a story about the cost of fighting for your own humanity. Jackson: So after everything, what's the one thing we should really take away from this incredible, heartbreaking book? Olivia: I think it's that healing isn't about forgetting or moving on. It's about returning to the site of the wound and reclaiming it. Chanel Miller shows us that the opposite of being a victim isn't being a 'survivor' in some clean, triumphant way. The opposite of being a victim is being a human—messy, angry, joyful, and whole. Her fight wasn't just to put one man in jail; it was a fight to be humanized. Jackson: A fight to have her name known, not just as a victim, but as a person. Olivia: Exactly. And she leaves readers, especially other survivors, with this powerful piece of advice. She writes: "Stay tender with your power. Never fight to injure, fight to uplift. Fight because you know that in this life, you deserve safety, joy, and freedom. Fight because it is your life. Not anyone else’s." Jackson: Wow. That's a message that will stick with me for a long time. This book is so important, and we'd love to hear how it impacted you. Find us on our socials and share your thoughts. What part of Chanel's story resonated most with you? Olivia: This is Aibrary, signing off.