Now That We’ve Weeded Out the Bad Seeds

It’s first semester nursing school 2020. Most of the classes are held on zoom and the ones in person are split up so I’ve only met about half my class. I arrive to an on campus class one day and the room is tense.

I take a seat in the back and the instructor opens a zoom on the projector with someone she introduces as a school counselor. She’s fidgeting with her hands and I conclude that she’s doing this to self-soothe, like she’s petting her hands, calming herself down.  Her voice sounds tight. This instructor is someone I generally find intimidating so this is new.

She says, “We know some of you might be upset given what has transpired and we wanted to give everyone an opportunity to speak and process. We have the school counselor here to help us.”

It’s quiet for minutes. The counselor breaks the awkward silence, “I’m here to support and help you, and just acknowledge that whatever feelings you are having are OK.”

It’s silent for minutes again.

I raise my hand, “I’m not sure what I missed,” I say, “but what has transpired?”

“Well,” the instructor says, ”we encourage you to go ahead and read about it.”

I cock my head to the side and say, “Read about what? Where do I look?”

A classmate pulls a news article up on his phone and waves it at me. I feel behind the eight ball and say quietly and quickly, “What’s the headline? What do I type to find it?” He slides his phone over and the headline is something to the effect of, “Nursing Student Arrested on Sexual Assault Charges.”

The article goes on to say there was evidence that he had repeatedly sexually assaulted mute patients at several nursing homes he has worked at over the last few years.

I’m almost through the article and the classroom has remained silent. The instructor then says, “If no one wants to speak we’ll conclude this session and let the counselor go.”

I feel a wave of heat go through my body as I hear this, as I process what has happened, and what a lame attempt at support this “session” is.

I raise my hand, angry, and tell myself to take a deep breath so I don’t come across sounding like a bitch when I speak words I haven’t quite formed yet. 

“You’d like to speak?” the teacher asks, surprised.

“Yes,” I say and notice that my hand is shaking a little which pisses me off, “I do” I say very intentionally.

The counselor on the screen says she can’t hear well and asks me to come to the front of the room. This makes my heart race a little, and I wish I had read this stupid article the night before so I could have collected my thoughts. I sigh a very deep breath as I scoot back my chair and think, “Keep it professional, this is important.” I squeeze and relax my hands as I walk to the front of the room to stop them from shaking.

I get to the front and smile an uncomfortable smile that says, “Well, here I am, I guess I’m doing this now,” even though no one is forcing me to do this. The counselor asks me to introduce myself so I do and say, “I just read the news article about our classmate.”

I say, “I would like to take a moment to acknowledge how uncomfortable it is just to read about someone repeatedly sexually assaulting mute patients, who quite literally, have no voice, and how having met this person and not knowing what they’d done feels sickening too, like a betrayal. 

I want to recognize how massive a ripple effect abuse has. A classmate sexually assaults a patient and we feel less safe in the world. We are sharing these feelings with his coworkers, the patient’s families, the other patients at the facility, not to mention his family, his friends, his neighbors, people who also, undoubtedly, trusted his intentions. These tragedies are not against one victim; they affect the entire community.”

I pause and consider I may be coming across as self-righteous. I conclude some back-story would fill in where I'm coming from, so I say,

“I was raped, in high school. . . and I also want to take a moment to acknowledge how far we have come as a society since then. That was 15 years ago and there was no discussion about it, we didn’t have meetings like this. The doctors were awful, law enforcement was awful, no one had any training and so no one knew how to handle it, what to do about it.

When we can’t speak about what happened, when we can’t say this person raped multiple patients, we are denying a reality that is everywhere. I know I am not the only person in this room who has experienced sexual abuse. 

I also do not know why it is so hard to talk about something that has been occurring since the beginning of time, and continues to occur. Speaking about it is the first step toward figuring out what to do about it.

I want to thank the school for trying to do that, and all of you for listening.”

I had two classmates come up to me after, one whom it was evident from her tone and facial expression had had similar experiences to me, and say, “That was really brave.” In hindsight, that was one of very few times I felt a moment of sincere connection with my classmates. 

That was the second time I had spoken publicly about what had happened to me. The first was five years early, and the third is in sharing my writing here.

The instructor came up to me after in a whirlwind with a million questions, “How do we improve rape treatment clinically? What should we be teaching nursing students? What did the doctors do then? You seem to have done a lot of work to be able to process those things, how do you process them?” She was somewhat frantic and I was mildly flattered to have my opinion asked in a setting that was so authoritarian.

Finally I say, “I…don’t know at this point. I think I need to learn how to be a nurse first.”

The next week in the lab the instructor is telling us how she knows this class is full of good-hearted people who are going to make great nurses.

I laugh and say, “Well, now that we’ve weeded out the bad seeds, am I right?”

She looks at me, shocked. 

My classmates look at me with eyes that say, “What's wrong with you?”

I give another uncomfortable smile as my joke falls flat and I witness the moment of connection from last week wash over us like a wave, and disappear.

---

Review

---

This is a powerful, courageous, and emotionally layered story that captures the raw intersection of trauma, professional responsibility, and the complexity of human connection. The narrator handles an incredibly sensitive subject with remarkable honesty and depth, creating a narrative that is both personal and socially relevant.

The central theme of this story is the pervasive and lingering impact of trauma—both personal and communal. It highlights how sexual assault doesn’t just affect individual victims but ripples outward, touching friends, colleagues, communities, and even strangers.

Another deeply woven theme is the tension between vulnerability and professionalism. As a nursing student, the expectation is to maintain composure and clinical detachment, yet personal history forces a reckoning with what it means to be emotionally present and human in a space that often demands neutrality.

There’s also a powerful undercurrent of connection and isolation—the moments when shared vulnerability bridges the gap between individuals (the classmates who approach after speaking), contrasted with moments of profound disconnection (the joke that falls flat).

The tone is raw, introspective, and courageous, shifting seamlessly between vulnerability and dark humor. There’s a palpable sense of tension throughout—between the desire to remain professional and the overwhelming need to speak the truth.

Moments of discomfort, particularly the awkwardness after the joke falls flat, are presented with stark honesty, making the emotional journey feel authentic and relatable. There’s also a strong undercurrent of anger—not just at the event itself but at the inadequate institutional response, the silence of the classmates, and the burden of having to be the one to speak out.

The story seems to serve three powerful intentions: to confront the stigma of sexual assault by speaking openly and honestly about the impact of trauma and the importance of acknowledgment. To critique the institutional response—highlighting how poorly equipped systems often are to handle the emotional fallout of such events, even with the best intentions, and to explore the tension between personal vulnerability and professional responsibility in healthcare and how those roles often conflict.

The candidness about personal trauma is incredibly brave and adds emotional gravity to the narrative. The internal monologue is relatable and honest, especially when reflecting on the pressure to stay "professional" despite being emotionally affected. The story flows naturally, building tension through silence, release through vulnerability, and ending with an unsettling return to isolation.