Credit: Maxwell Holyoke-Hirsch

My name is Jennifer Hopper, and I am the survivor of the South Park attacks of July 19, 2009.

My family calls me Jenny. My friends call me Jen. And my late partner, Teresa Butz, often called me J-Hop.

For the past two years, I have been known as “the surviving victim of the South Park rapes and murder,” or simply as “Butz’s partner.” And for the most part, I have been grateful for the protective bubble given to me by the media. But I am now ready to be known in a new way.

At first, I was afraid to be known more fully. Over time, it became more about protecting my professional life. Most recently, I felt that revealing my identity might somehow cloud the focus of the trial of Isaiah Kalebu, the man who on July 1 was found guilty of entering uninvited, as we slept, into the home that Teresa and I shared in South Park, where he raped us, murdered Teresa, and attempted to murder me.

It didn’t matter who I was, I thought as I went through this process. I was known by name to my family and my friends, but anonymous to the general public, and that was fine. The only thing that mattered was what had happened. Who was lost.

Today, at 38, I find myself craving to have my identity back.

I am prepared to have my name enter the public realm. I know this may be naive, but I believe I should be able to be fine in my professional life—my whole life, really—and have it be known that this happened to me. In fact, having learned how to survive this may even have made me stronger and more able to manage the normal, workaday ups and downs.

Mostly, I no longer want to give off the impression that I’m afraid to be known, or that I might be ashamed of anything that happened that night.

I am not afraid. I am not ashamed.

I am still here. And I will still be here long after Kalebu is sentenced on August 12
(assuming the sentencing happens as planned). I realize that interest in this crime and its consequences will probably fade after he’s sent to prison, and before that occurs I want to use what interest remains to say a few things.

While I’m saying all of this under my own name, which is new, I’m saying it without my image attached, which is as it’s been since the attacks. It will be a little while longer before I feel comfortable with my image being out there. It’s still jarring for me to see Teresa’s pictures on television, feel the private being made public, watch this great love of my life being reduced to an evening news story.

I also worry that an image can be easily skewed.

Also, and on a more personal level, I haven’t wanted to see the pain in my own face since this happened to us, and I still don’t. It’s enough to feel it. To have it captured forever—I’m not ready for that.

* * *

I chose The Stranger as my medium to speak because I believe the work done in these pages by Eli Sanders over the past two years has created a three-dimensional picture not only of the recent trial, but of the psychology of the crime itself. His writing brought humanity to my personal horror, and I will always be grateful to have been interpreted by his honest voice. I am also grateful that people I have never met before were brave enough to read what was often uncomfortably truthful.

To everyone who witnessed our journey through Eli’s words: Thank you for listening. I am less alone because of your bravery.

It’s impossible to describe in words how it has all been, but the closest I’ve come is this: It’s as if on July 19, 2009, someone grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, lifted me up, and dropped me headfirst into another life. Suddenly, you can’t go home. Your home is a crime scene.

Today, there is very little I say or do that isn’t tainted by residual fear, grief, longing, or the process of healing. I’m still sad, I still miss Teresa, my life is still turned upside down. I’m less trusting than I once was, I’m wary of strangers, I’m hypervigilant about my surroundings.

For about 18 months after the attack, I couldn’t sleep at night. My mind was afraid that if I closed my eyes, I would open them to something terrifying. My body was exhausted, but my mind couldn’t stop being on guard. Eventually, I was able to sleep with the light on. I still never sleep alone, and I still sometimes wake up, in the dark, absolutely sure that I’ve heard someone walking around in the house. I have to dig deep into my reserves, reassure myself that I’m safe, and trust that it will fade in time.

And while it does, I long for the innocence I experienced before Kalebu entered our lives.

People consistently ask me how I feel about the guilty verdict and whether I’m glad that the whole trial circus—the outbursts, the swallowed pencil, the negotiations over restraints, the talk of supposed orders from God—is finally over. Of course I’m glad it’s over. Of course I’m grateful that he has a mandatory life sentence coming, that he’ll never be out there in the world, free to hurt others, ever again.

But it doesn’t change anything. Teresa is still gone. I was still raped and almost killed. The pain doesn’t go away with a guilty verdict. Wouldn’t it be amazing if it did? Wouldn’t it be incredible if a guilty verdict meant that Teresa could come back and live out her life? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the woman we, her family and friends, now remember on the anniversary of her death by enjoying some of the simple pleasures that used to make her smile—Imo’s pizza, Bud Light, music—could once again enjoy them herself?

Still, the trial was necessary, important, another event with an impact that’s hard to describe in words. I have a dear friend who was there every single day, along with my stepfather, listening to every argument and looking at every single piece of evidence. Other friends, many bequeathed to me by Teresa, came as often as they could. I love them all like family, because that’s what we’ve all become since Teresa left us. My amazing mother, and Teresa’s parents and relatives, who mean more to me than I can say—they were all there, too. They have their own grief, but they also have taken on a part of mine—for me, by hearing me—and there’s a sort of relief in that.

While I followed the trial closely, I only attended a small portion: my testimony of course, Kalebu’s short and strange testimony, the closing arguments, and the delivery of the verdict. The rest was filled in for me by others and by the various news channels—an odd experience, sitting there on my couch, watching reports of what had occurred in court on some particular day, as if this was something that happened to someone else.

The thing that comes back to me most vividly from news reports is the 911 call from the young woman who happened to be up late with some friends that night and ran to help us—hearing my screams in the background of her call, being taken back to that moment, experiencing it all from an outsider’s view. It’s beyond surreal, to recognize yourself living the worst moments of your life and being somehow distant from the proceedings. It has been this way from the start.

You have to compartmentalize to go on after something like this. You put it all away and go about your day. Eventually, you start to wonder if it really happened. And then you hear the screams and you see the dash-cam video, hear the 911 call, and you remember. Yes. This happened. This happened and Teresa is gone. This happened and I somehow made it to the other side. It’s a very strange place to be, but there’s this nice bridging that occurs by sharing the then and the now, and sharing it right now, here in public. It’s almost as if the Jen of today gets to say to the Jen of July 19, 2009, “I’m so sorry this happened.”

But, also, it’s the worst thing in the world to have to say some of the words I said on the witness stand, the words of violence and sexual violence. Especially in front of people who know you, and who don’t necessarily know that part of you. I have empathy for everyone who has to decide whether to do such a thing—and I know many choose not to testify against their attackers. I know they have reasons, and that often those reasons are connected to the way our culture can sometimes make the attacked feel more guilty than the attacker. But at the same time, I never once questioned whether I could testify. I know the truth. There’s nothing anyone can say that could ever take that away from me. I also knew I would testify because if I didn’t, nothing would change.

A part of me was hoping that when I heard the word “guilty,” I would feel this incredible relief—you know, movie-script ending, everyone sails away into the sunset and is happy again. Yes, there was a relief that Kalebu wasn’t found “not guilty,” that everyone did the right thing and the system worked.

But there’s also this lack of satisfaction.

In a way, I felt like I lost Teresa all over again; this was the very last thing I could do for her. You feel a little helpless when you realize there’s nothing out there in the future that might make you feel better. Except time. You know that time heals. And hope.

What I really want, I now realize, is peace.

And I know now, after this trial, that justice does not bring peace. It only brings
justice.

* * *

So here I am, days away from the sentencing of the man who killed my beloved Teresa and almost succeeding in killing me. I have the option to speak at his August 12 sentencing hearing, the opportunity to deliver a “Victim Impact Statement” about how this crime has affected my life.

It’s strange. I have this opportunity to say pretty much whatever I want to him, yet there are no words. There’s no language for that. As a result, part of me doesn’t want to say anything.

But how do I not speak to him during my one chance?

So I’m left with this riddle: How do I find the words, Isaiah Kalebu, to tell you what you took from me?

If I were to address you right now, I would say: I’ll never understand what made you capable of such cruelty, and I absolutely believe that you deserve to go to prison. But I don’t hate you. I never wanted you put to death. I don’t want revenge. In fact, with each day that goes by, I think of you less and less.

I want, though, to say something to your mother, Denise Kalebu: I am so sorry your family was destroyed by this. Thank you for your honesty and bravery in the courtroom. I wish you peace.

Still, I don’t know what I’ll actually say on August 12. It’s still forming. Maybe writing this will help me figure it out.

I know he doesn’t deserve my heart. But I feel that I should say something heartfelt—just in case, through some fluke of fate or justice, some parole board decades in the future needs to know.

I will say the legal and social health system never let me down through this trial. I’m so grateful I want to name names: Lucy, my counselor; Diane Priest, my advocate; Seattle police detectives Dana Duffy and Dave Duty, my truth seekers; King County prosecutors James Konat and Brian McDonald, paralegal Cheryl Woods, and the entire prosecution team, my truth tellers; King County Superior Court judge Michael Hayden; the citizens who made up the jury. Thank you all for listening. Thank you for hearing. Thank you for believing me. Thank you for doing the right thing.

* * *

At the end of the day, there is nothing that can make this wrong right again. No final words or punishment can undo what’s been done.

So as I prepare to close this chapter—somehow, a few days from now, with words yet to be determined—and begin my walk into the next chapter, I want to look, as much as I can, toward the positive, toward the future.

There is a lot of good that has come out of this horror, and a lot that can still come.

Already, I have been given the gift of focus by some special angels in my life. Brandi Carlile and Kim Bogucki, who formed Fight the Fear Campaign (www.fightthefearcampaign.com), and in Teresa’s name have created a program that has taught hundreds of women the art of self-defense. Jean Fox and Rachel Ebeling, Teresa’s lifelong friends, who founded the Angel Band Project (www.angelbandproject.org), which created an album honoring Teresa’s life. Its proceeds aid the Voices and Faces Project (www.voicesandfaces.org), an effort that itself was created “to give voice and face to survivors of sexual violence” and to offer “a sense of solidarity to those who have lived through rape and abuse while raising awareness of how this human rights and public health issue impacts victims, families, and communities.”

I call Brandi, Kim, Jean, and Rachel angels not only because they are four of the most incredible people I have ever known, but because they gave me purpose—gave me something to do at a time when I so desperately needed to connect to something bigger than the loss. Something more powerful than the fear. They helped heal my heart and my mind with their passion and generosity, and I lack the words to express my gratitude.

Perhaps I can demonstrate my purpose and gratitude, though, by writing this. Perhaps I can encourage others to share their stories of violence and sexual violence in whatever way they can.

While it was a great honor to be called the bravest woman in Seattle in this newspaper, I’m pretty much just like you. I wake up in the morning and I do my best to get through the day. I laugh and I cry. I have big dreams and make mistakes (sometimes huge ones). I draw strength from others, especially my friends, who always seem to know what to say, when to laugh, when to do nothing at all. They show up—even when I can’t say the same for myself.

One of the biggest parts of that strength comes from being loved and believed in by my 95-year-old grandma. She tells me that she loves me at least once a day, and when I sat down and told her what happened that night, she never questioned my ability to handle it all. She is the strongest woman I know, and I am glad to have discovered that I am more like her than I thought. When everyone else was so worried that I was going to crack into a million pieces, she just said: “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.” I thought: “Okay. She believes in my ability to be strong. And so I’m just going to be that.”

Many women don’t report rapes, and among those who do, many don’t testify. I understand why. There can be such a level of shame, and the conversation out there, a lot of the time, is: What did the women do to bring this on? In our case: Why was your window open that night?

Well, that’s not why we were raped.

Or, in other cases, that the woman wore a short skirt or opened the door to a stranger. And trials can end up being about whether the woman is lying or what else she did to supposedly try to make this occur. I know they were just doing their jobs, but I felt the defense attorneys tried to do this to me at some points.

All I can say is that I think there is tremendous power in testifying, in saying, “This happened to me.” And if you can, showing that you have a name, a voice, and—hey, I know, this is one of the hardest parts because it’s more than I’m ready to do right now—a face.

So when people say, “Oh, you’re so brave,” I say, “I don’t know.”

I don’t think I’m special. I don’t think I’m this awesome, amazing individual. I don’t. I struggle every day. It’s taken bravery to make the choice to get up every day and not stay in my room and pretend it didn’t happen. And I’m proud of that.

But sometimes crazy stuff happens and we’re called on to be brave, and I don’t think I’ve done anything different than anyone else would do. Anyway, bravery isn’t always a solitary thing. All these people in my life have helped. You, by listening to my story, have helped.

Finally—but, really, firstly—Teresa’s bravery has helped. When someone saves your life, and her life is taken in the process, how can you let it go to waste?

You can’t.

I feel that all the time.

So I try to be the best person I can be and try to make the most of the life Teresa saved. It’s not easy. (Did I mention that?) There have been dark, painful moments. But there have been incredible, delicious, blissful, and hopeful moments as well. I have a beautiful and brave new girlfriend. She has had to witness much of the fear and grief right along with me, all while keeping an open and hopeful heart. She is strong and loving, and makes me laugh like no other. I couldn’t have gotten through the best or the worst without her.

I know that I want to be truly happy again, like I was on those last few days I shared with Teresa, and I firmly believe that second chances are possible. So I will keep working toward mine.

I’ll never be the same person I was on July 18, 2009. Yet I am proud of the woman I’ve become.

I’m in a good place. As good as can be. recommended

263 replies on “I Would Like You to Know My Name”

  2. I remember the night I saw your story on the news….I live in Seattle also and thought to myself, Oh, no…..not another one! I was worried that it was going to be another case of a man tearing a woman’s life apart and the woman feeling as if it were somehow her fault! I want to let you know your story has really touched so many people. So many woman out there have been so scared or ashamed to tell their story, but you have! I am so proud of you for standing up to that horrible man who decided to ruin what you held dear! Your an amazing woman and a true hero for expressing your true thoughts to the world! I wish nothing but the best for your future and know that since you shared your story…..it will forever be engraved in our hearts! R.I.P Teresa forever~

  4. Thank you for sharing, thank you for your awe-inspiring bravery and grace, thank you for your activist work. I wish you the best.

  5. Ever since reading Eli’s heartbreaking coverage of your courage in the trial I’ve wished I could tell the bravest woman in Seattle how awesome she is. Whatever involuntary emotional distance I might otherwise have had for a “news” story was immediately obliterated by Eli’s descriptions of your grace and bravery. It is impossible to read these pieces without caring deeply about you and Teresa. Reading through tears each time, once or twice I found myself smiling in disbelief, I was that struck by the bad-assness of the unnamed survivor. It seemed important to try to imagine myself in your place, as a means of somehow actually making you a little less alone. What you’ve written here is incredible. Your forthrightness blurs the line between the people who did suffer this crime and loss, and the people who could have–all of us.

  9. you are amazing. thank you for sharing this and reminding all of us that there is life after tragedy and hope after devastating pain. my thoughts and love go out to you.

  10. Jen,

    Grandmas are always right, and when the time is right and you’ve come to that place in your heart, or that moment in your day when you feel “okay” again, you’ll know that the deepest kind of healing has begun. And, Grandma will smile.

    This community and this city embraces you with a love and protectiveness that will be there for you through anything, so please reach out when needed. We won’t let you down. And, Teresa’s spirit will be right there with all of us, as it will always be with you.

    Thank you. Eli said it best, though I know it wasn’t a title you ever intended to earn. You are the bravest woman in Seattle, Jennifer Hopper. You will find peace.

  12. I’ve never been violated in the way that your home, your person, your life was. You are incredible just *for* keeping it together, not mentioning your intelligence or compassion. I want to say a heartfelt, sky-shouting thank-you for writing this. As I said, I haven’t experienced what you have, but I have been in dark places. Everything you said for yourself, I drew strength from. Everything you said reminds me, pushes me, to live life- to grit my teeth through the pain, the pain of life, and keep going. So thank you for that, and for speaking. Thank you for living, thank you for being. And maybe this is weird- but I apologize to you, I apologize from the bottom of my heart, that such an experience, such pain had to happen. I offer sincere blessings.

  14. Your first sentence brought me to tears. I never thought I could be prouder of you…until I read your opening sentence. I love you, J.

  16. I don’t have words, but I will try. You are brave and strong and an incredible woman. We are very lucky to have you.

    Love and peace to you Jennifer.

  18. pretty amazing stuff. all the best, Jen, as you continue your (inspiring) journey. thank you for sharing parts of that journey and for being so courageous.

  19. Best of luck today (the 12th). Thanks so much for sharing your story. Luckily, few will have to experience something so horrific as you have, but many will suffer. For them, your words are beautiful, compassionate, and inspiring.

  20. Jen,
    Best of luck today (the 12th). Thanks so much for sharing your story. Luckily, few will have to experience something so horrific as you have, but many will suffer. For them, your words are beautiful, compassionate, and inspiring.

  21. Thank you for telling the world what happened, people need to hear the truths and be bombarded by the real truths to believe that something like this does happen in the real life. You’re brave, not only by being truthful and testifying, not only by cherishing what the loss of Teresa’s life had been exchanged for, but also by your ability to live everyday with what you have. Thank you again for you also helped us with your courage.

  22. Jennifer,
    I am glad I read your story today, on sentencing day. I have read Eli’s work and been so completely moved. Your words made it whole. I wish you peace and will be thinking of you today. Be well.

  23. Thank you for your beautiful courage and humility Ms. Hopper. I am so sorry that you have had to experience so much. My best friend was sexually assaulted and murdered twenty yrs ago and I miss her dearly. I can only say that i was lucky and unlucky enough to not be there when it happened. It will always affect me. My best wishes go out to you as you continue through this.

  24. Hi Ms Hopper, I tried to post earlier but I don’t think it worked. I admire your courage and humility. My very best to you as you move through this.

  26. That just stopped me right in my tracks. You are brave, and so was Teresa. All the way from Vermont, I’m sending up a prayer for you and everyone who lost Teresa that night.

  27. Your words moved me more than anything else I have read in my life. My tears are wishes of peace, happiness, and continued healing, for you, Teresa, and both of your families and friends. Your words have reached far reaching shores, and will impact the world. thank you.
    -Emily
    Kontum, Vietnam

  28. Your words moved me more than anything else I have read in my life. My tears are wishes of peace, happiness, and continued healing, for you, Teresa, and both of your families and friends. Your words have reached far reaching shores, and will impact the world. thank you.
    -Emily
    Kontum, Vietnam

  29. Amazing. You WILL find the words to say today. You are an inspiration. Best wishes for a safe, fulfilling, loved, courageous future. Thank you.

  30. Your words moved me more than anything else I have read in my life. My tears are wishes of peace, happiness, and continued healing, for you, Teresa, and both of your families and friends. Your words have reached far reaching shores, and will impact the world. thank you.
    -Emily
    Kontum, Vietnam

  31. I still cry when I think about what happened to you. And I am so, so sorry that you had to live through that. And I am so amazed at your ability to continue to live even after all that happened to you. Your story has truly touched my heart and changed some part of me. I will never forget you or Teresa though I will never know either of you.

    May the rest of your life be full of happiness and peace.

  32. “Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them” – Shakespeare.

    I’d rather not analyze where you fall in that spectrum, but it is what I thought of when I read all the columns about you. You have done a great service. Good luck to you in the future.

  33. This story is truly amazing and so inspirational. I can’t imagine the pain you experienced when you went through all that you did. When I read the original counts of this unspeakable event, all I could think was “what if this had happened to my Mom and her partner”. You’re a strong woman, Jennifer and I will continue to pray for you and your family, the family and friends of Theresa and that you continue to push through your recovery. God and angels above are looking over you and I truly believe that you survived for many, many reasons and you will live to grow stronger every day. Thank you for sharing your story, being strong and providing us all with the updates. Knowing that you’re surviving every day is enough to make the big things seem small. Love and Prayers from Arizona.

  34. Thank you for telling us your heartbreaking story. I am so sorry for what happened to you and your partner. I hope you find peace and happiness in the future.

  36. I don’t know you like your Grandma does, but I think I have to agree with her. You are a brave and exceptional person. I hope you can feel the love all of us are sending through the Universe to you as we think about what happened and cry for all victims of violence and assault.

  37. My heart is heavy and lifted all at the same time. I truley wish you as much peace and laughter that is possible. I’m sure Teresa is proud and smiling, wishing for you all the good that can be.

  38. This is an exceptional piece of writing. My heart goes out to Ms. Hopper and her family and friends, and the memory of Ms. Butz.

  39. What an amazing tribute in Teresa’s honor your life has become, and will continue to be. Very beautifully put. I wish you, your new love, and all of your angels the best from the bottom of my heart.

  41. Jennifer, thank you so much for sharing this. I’ve been thinking of you since the attack. You see, something similar happened to me when I was twelve years old. I awoke in the middle of the night to a man stabbing me. He broke into our home through a window. The knife wounds left me a paraplegic. Unfortunately, my case went unsolved. I know too well the intense fear that follows an attack such as this. I never wanted anyone else to have to experience it and it pained me greatly when I read about your attack when it happened, knowing what you’d be facing. I find myself thinking of you often and wondering how you’re coping, if you’re able to sleep. Please know that although the fear may never go away completely, it does get significantly better. From what you’ve written in this article, it sounds as if you have a superb support system and I’m relieved to know that. However, if you feel at any point now or in the future it would be at all helpful to you to speak with someone who has also lived through a violent attack, I would be honored to lend you my ear. I’m thinking back to when my attack happened (25 years ago) and think that may have been helpful for me. If anything else, it would have validated some of the feelings I was having at the time. I will email Eli my contact information. If you want to talk via email or phone at any time, please don’t hesitate. Either way, I will continue to hold you in my thoughts. Sending you wishes for peace and healing. ~Amanda

  42. Jennifer, you are so brave and your beautiful spirit shines through this piece. I watched you face your attacker today and the compassion you showed is beyond remarkable. You didn’t let him take your humanity and I am crying just thinking about it. Teresa’s dad and brother were amazing also. You all taught us a lesson today. Thank you. Peace and love to you and the Butz Family.
    Gina, a survivor of an attack at home at age 16.

  43. Dear Jennifer, Thank you for sharing your story with us…the public. When this happened to you and Theresa, my heart broke for you, your family & her family. I did not follow the trial….I didn’t want to feel hatred & anger towards your attacker or the judicial system. But I do want you to know that I have thought of you and your partner every single day since. Not as two women attacked, with one surviving…….but as a lost soul in need of all of the positive energy could you could possibly receive to go on and to some day have faith in the goodness of humanity again. Even though sometimes it’s so hard to see. I’ve wanted to write you, hug you and extend my friendship to you. I’m so fortunate to be surrounded in a large community of amazingly talented and loving women. I’ve wanted to make sure every day that you have the strength and hope to go on. And one day, to find joy again and not be afraid to go to sleep. I too have spent some time of my life living in fear from an intruder that came in to the home that I shared with my partner, 13 years ago. He was not able to hurt us. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this! From your story, I can tell that you are a strong & courageous woman. I don’t know you. I would love to. Please know that even after the verdict is read and he is imprisoned for life…..I will never forget you or your Theresa. There will always be a piece of me that thinks of you daily and sends you positive energy. Love to you!!

  44. Ms. Hopper, thank you so much for what you’ve written here. It has given me the strength to report my own assault and I can only hope that I will be able to deal with what follows with the same bravery as you. You wrote that when people say you’re brave, you say “I don’t know.”

    I know. We all know, after reading this today.

    My prayers and thoughts are with you as you close this chapter and move forward through life. I wish you all the best.

  45. Your journey has been traveled by too many women. It has never been commented upon more eloquently or compassionately. Your survival and progress is incredible. I wish you all the best in life.

  48. I have just read your article and I can truly say that I have never read any piece that has moved me so much. Your bravery, and that of your partner, are inspirational. Thank you for writing.

  50. Death is nothing at all

    I have only slipped away into the next room

    I am I and you are you

    Whatever we were to each other

    That we are still

    Call me by my old familiar name

    Speak to me in the easy way you always used

    Put no difference into your tone

    Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow

    Laugh as we always laughed

    At the little jokes we always enjoyed together

    Play, smile, think of me, pray for me

    Let my name be ever the household word that it always was

    Let it be spoken without effort

    Without the ghost of a shadow in it

    Life means all that it ever meant

    It is the same as it ever was

    There is absolute unbroken continuity

    What is death but a negligible accident?

    Why should I be out of mind

    Because I am out of sight?

    I am waiting for you for an interval

    Somewhere very near

    Just around the corner

    All is well.

    Nothing is past; nothing is lost

    One brief moment and all will be as it was before

    How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

    Canon Henry Scott-Holland, 1847-1918, Canon of St Paul’s Cathedral

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