Will you recognize 35 years of crisis care with me? Sexual assault support group's Consent Prom will mark a milestone

QuickTake:

The nonprofit organization SASS is celebrating its anniversary with a ’90s-themed evening of music, dancing and fun at the WOW Hall in downtown Eugene.

When it comes to how we talk about and address sexual assault, a lot has changed over the years: the way people understand consent, the technology used to meet people where they are, the need for support beyond the aftermath of an assault.

But a lot hasn’t changed at all, said Martina Shabram, executive director of Eugene’s Sexual Assault Support Services, which opened in 1991 after a rape crisis center closed in the city.

“In some ways, we’re still really doing the same kind of education we were doing 35 years ago, which is to say: What is consent? What is violence? What are the differences between those two things?” Shabram said. “A significant amount of the education we end up doing is about, ‘Does what happened to me count? What happened to me, it wasn’t rape, so I don’t want to take up your time.’”

This weekend, the organization is celebrating 35 years with Consent Prom, a 1990s-themed evening of music, dancing and fun at the WOW Hall in Eugene.

A nostalgic throwback dance might not sound like the most obvious way to recognize close to four decades of hard work supporting survivors of sexual assault. But for SASS, it’s a way to take back the idea of prom itself.

“In the United States, prom is such a significant cultural standpoint for coming into adulthood, a rite of passage for teenagers,” Shabram said. “And also, prom is so deeply, deeply embedded in a culture of sexual violence that for so many people, prom is an experience of harm, not of celebration.”

“So we thought, how could we reclaim that?” she said. “What would it look like to have a reparative experience where we could come together and have all of the silly, fun trappings of prom, but do it in a way that values bodily autonomy and consent?”

Martina Shabram, the executive director of SASS, in the room dedicated for clients. Shabram said that vicarious trauma is a part of sexual assault support work, but that having fun and turning to the community is an important way to stay afloat. Credit: Annie Aguiar / Lookout Eugene-Springfield

The team offers a 24-hour crisis line, medical and legal advocacy for survivors and emotional support for people navigating what to do after an assault; staff and volunteers are glued to the phones in case someone calls.

Emergency services manager Madi Potter schedules staff to field calls so that two people are on call at any given time of day. Those duties are split between all levels of staff and volunteers; during an interview for this story, Shabram had to leave early to pick up one such call.

Madi Potter, the emergency services manager, checks the schedule of employees and volunteers staffing the crisis line. Credit: Annie Aguiar / Lookout Eugene-Springfield

Besides the crisis line, the primary point of contact between SASS and a survivor is in a hospital, which Shabram said is the case for around 250 people a year who are seen immediately in the hospital setting.

But Eugene is a small city, she said. She’s run into friends from graduate school at the hospital. The team swears to strict confidentiality and are not mandatory reporters. The phone system is anonymous; no demographic information is collected. And SASS staff can only disclose information about a client with express, written, time-limited consent.

The SASS offices are open by appointment to clients. There, a light-filled room with gauzy, orange curtains, a soft couch, inspirational art and stuffed animals waits for anyone who needs it.

This room is available for SASS’s survivor clients to have a safe, cozy space to do things like safety planning, applying for a protective order, or giving a statement to police officers.

“We can get them tea,” Shabram said. “We can give them a snack. Sometimes a dog will be here.”

The soft room at SASS, with snacks and stuffed animals. Credit: Annie Aguiar / Lookout Eugene-Springfield

A piece of art hangs in a room for clients who need a safe, comfortable space. Credit: Annie Aguiar / Lookout Eugene-Springfield

No wrong door

Community programs manager Syd Reed said part of what she sees as particularly valuable about SASS is the focus on people’s autonomy and decision-making. Even when Reed doesn’t think the decision someone is making is the one she would make for herself, she said, it’s fulfilling to shepherd someone’s next steps throughout the process.

“We say there’s no wrong door to get to SASS,” Reed said. “They come in, and my job is to just meet them where they’re at, assess what their priorities are and needs are, and then do what I can do to help be able to accomplish that.”

Syd Reed has worked at SASS since 2023. She says the organization’s way of meeting people where they are is fulfilling. Credit: Annie Aguiar / Lookout Eugene-Springfield

But the work can be hard, especially as government funding has diminished in recent years for the type of services SASS provides — in particular, the work of supporting gender-nonconforming survivors of sexual assault.

Shabram said SASS makes an intentional point of supporting its staff members and having fun, through things like novelty staff photo shoots and this weekend’s Consent Prom, where staff, volunteers and supporters can spend time together.

“It can all often feel kind of like we’re climbing a big hill, and that can feel really lonely,” Shabram said. “Being reminded that none of us are in this fight alone is sustaining for a lot of us in the work.”

One of the SASS staff’s novelty photo shoots. Martina Shabram, the SASS executive director, is in the middle of the bottom row. Credit: Annie Aguiar / Lookout Eugene-Springfield

The SASS offices carry a daily reminder of just how vital that is: On the office wall is a small framed three-panel comic called “Burnout,” drawn by Jane Brinkley.

Brinkley volunteered with SASS staff as a Eugene high school student, taking calls on the crisis support line. In 2022, she died by suicide in her dorm room at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts.

“I had a pretty tiring call today,” reads the first panel, where a hand is planting seeds.

“Maybe it helps to remember that, in the (very) long run,” reads the next panel, with someone watering a plant.

Then, underneath the final image of clouds raining down on the person watering the plant, like the universe is chipping in to help: “Caring for other creatures can make us feel cared for too!”