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One night in early October , activists broke a glass door at the entrance of Cornell University’s Day Hall, an administrative building that houses the office of president Michael Kotlikoff. They also vandalized its façade with the messages “Smash the patriarchy” and “At Cornell rapists are protected, protesters are expelled.” The next day, thousands of students and faculty gathered in Cornell’s Ho Plaza. When I stood in front of Day Hall, 36 hours later, much of the evidence had been erased. College life seemed to carry on as normal. Midterms, or “prelims,” were underway; students zoomed stoically past on electric scooters. The shattered panels had been replaced with planks and a sign directing visitors to an alternate entrance, and the graffiti had been power-washed to dark-gray smudges.
Cornell is situated among the gorges of Ithaca, New York, and I drove up from New York City to understand how men were making sense of a civil suit brought in September by an anonymous accuser, called Jane Doe in legal documents and media reports, alleging that she was plied with ketamine and sexually assaulted by seven members of the Chi Phi fraternity in 2024. All the men have denied wrongdoing. Jane Doe’s suit also alleges that Cornell failed to appropriately safeguard her from sexual assault. University administrators acknowledged that they had “fallen short and [are] taking meaningful action.”
According to punishment summaries obtained by The New York Times , Cornell had conducted a Title IX investigation, which resulted in the expulsion of two fraternity brothers and suspension of two others. The Tompkins County District Attorney’s Office declined to pursue criminal charges. (New York governor Kathy Hochul criticized the Cornell police and the Tompkins County DA for their handling of the allegations and appointed attorney general Letitia James as a special prosecutor to investigate.) Among the materials included in Jane Doe’s suit was a photograph of a phone displaying a Chi Phi group chat, with reportedly more than 50 people, in which one of the men advertised Jane Doe’s “free pussy.” Some cheered. One asked if “the shop” was still open. In the screenshot, not a single voice raised an objection.
Men’s perspectives have been underreported during past sexual assault crises, perhaps out of the well-intentioned belief that we should prioritize listening to women. But when such moments to object to a woman’s dehumanization arrive, I wanted to know, why do men so often stay quiet?
Several people told me that my trip coincided with Ithaca’s most beautiful season, and, in person, the landscape did indeed look quintessentially autumnal. (My visit also coincided with the time of year in 2024 that Jane Doe alleges her assault in the Chi Phi house took place.) In the Arts Quad, Oscar, 21, was on his way to class, although he didn’t seem to have anything with him besides his phone. He was dressed in sweats and a boxy yellow tee, and he told me that he had joined a fraternity because he wanted to make friends. He had just left a Sexual Assault Prevention and Safety Club meeting for members of sororities and fraternities, where he and other students had discussed how the Greek system can develop stronger guardrails. One promising approach, he told me, was to delegate prominent members of frats to speak up about sexual assault. “It’s a scary and really hard conversation to have with your friend, especially somebody you think wouldn’t do something like that,” he said. “That’s what our meeting is about: How can we try to make these conversations more normal, more open?” Oscar was generous with his thoughts but grew reserved on the topic of fraternity culture.
The exterior of Cornell’s chapter of Chi Phi, which has been closed since late 2024. Photo: GQ Over by the Library or “Libe” Slope, an idyllic stretch of lawn on a rolling hillside, two guys tossed a Frisbee. I sat on the bench next to theirs while they hydrated. “A lot of people are saying, ‘If you were in that group chat, you should have said something,’ which I agree with,” said Hudson Tumey, who graduated last year. “You absolutely should have.” Tumey is a member of Cru, a Christian ministry on campus, and was visiting with William Canlis, a sophomore, who is also involved in Cru. “If I was in that group chat, I would’ve hoped with all my might that I would’ve said something,” Tumey said. “But I think I’d be lying to say that I would’ve for sure said something.” Tumey and Canlis explained that their faith offers them a man to emulate in Jesus Christ. “If a man doesn’t have that standard to look up to, that’s where bad things happen,” Canlis said. “If you don’t have Him, then what role model is left? The world? Look how broken the world is.”
I started looking around for other male role models. Near Sage Chapel, a non-sectarian church on campus, two clergymen visiting the campus said they hadn’t known about the Chi Phi case until that morning. One of them told me he preferred to stay out of it. Just outside Schoellkopf Field, an associate basketball coach asked me to email him. At the ROTC offices in Barton Hall, an Army poster read “Sexual assault. Sexual harassment. Not in our army.” A master sergeant paused his lunch to talk with me. He sat for a moment, then left to call his superior. After five minutes he returned and, with a half-apologetic inhale, said that he couldn’t speak with me until it’s brought up the chain of command and that I should email him. A roving police officer said that the only person on the force approved to speak with the press was Eric Stickel, Cornell University Police Department’s recently appointed chief of police, and I should email him. Ultimately, I approached almost two dozen non-student men associated with the town or the school and only one talked to me on the record.
At the Morrison Dining Hall, a seven-hour sit-in was underway, roughly matching the length of time Jane Doe spent in the Chi Phi house until she lost consciousness, according to the lawsuit. One of the sit-in’s appointed press contacts was John Hartnett, a 19-year-old sophomore representing Students for a Democratic Cornell, a group that had also helped organize the protest earlier in the week. He was proud of that turnout, as it was one of the largest protests at Cornell since the Vietnam War, but incensed by the irony of the school’s history of suspending students involved in other protests. He was also taking inventory of how he and his peers influence each other.
“It’s a difficult thing because you have to realize that some of your past actions—not sexual assault—perpetuated these things,” he said. “It’s something that men have to ask themselves: What am I not doing in terms of not holding the people around me accountable?” My phone rang. Someone from Cornell’s media-relations team informed me that the school was aware of my presence on campus and that none of the administrators were available for comment.
Reporters from Telemundo, The Ithaca Voice, and Reuters descended on Hartnett, and the sheer number of us bombarding him cast the reticence I encountered from his elders in a new light. While an inevitable chorus rose up to defend fraternities or disparage Jane Doe, some young men on campus seemed to be earnestly reckoning with the case or struggling to find their voice. But their community leaders appeared, at most, disconcerted. Perhaps those older men were grappling internally or opting for silent solidarity; whatever their reasons, I was struck by the persistence of their absence.
Later in the evening, I attended a Common Council meeting downtown at Ithaca City Hall. More than 50 people squeezed into a room set up for half that number. Ithaca mayor Robert G. Cantelmo oversaw the proceedings. A dozen or so students found spots on the floor; the local television station was filming. There were complaints regarding the closure of a parking garage, concerns about winter snow plowing, and, eventually, a proposed moratorium on some of Cornell’s event and noise permits, which was put forth as an effort to limit Greek-life activities. The floor was then opened for public comment, but only to those who had filed a slip.
“I think sacrificing some of the fun is more than justified by protecting people from these heinous crimes until the university gets off its rear,” John King, an Ithaca resident, said in support of the moratorium. “I applaud the city government for being willing to do so instead.” Sam Poole was a freshman when Jane Doe first reported her assault to the Cornell police. “I live in a Cornell co-op,” he said. “Co-ops host parties just like fraternities do, plenty of student organizations do, but we decided we’re not going to host parties until the moratorium is over.” Almost a week after the meeting, Cornell banned frat parties for the current academic year.
A few rows behind me, a man in a C-SPAN hoodie and tech pants was growing agitated that he had not been called on. “Michael Tracey,” he called out repeatedly. Mayor Cantelmo explained that Tracey’s name was not among the comment slips given to him by the clerk. “Motion to reconsider,” Tracey yelled out. “You’re definitely not eligible to make motions, because you’re not a member of this body,” Cantelmo replied. Tracey alleged his slip was thrown in the trash. “You should be ashamed for using the power of your office to conclusorily [sic] declare that any American citizen has committed crimes as heinous as gang rape before any semblance of adjudicative process,” he said as he walked out. I passed him my number.
Independent journalist Michael Tracey films students speaking with the press. Photo: GQ Photo: GQ Tracey asked to meet in the lobby of the Canopy Hotel. On my way there I learned that he is a contrarian Substack journalist , known for social media provocation; recently he argued that aspects of the Jeffrey Epstein case were overblown. He’s made multiple trips to Ithaca, where he’s filmed himself cross-examining students and faculty and showing up to public gatherings. He told me that he had driven from Jersey City to Ithaca to report on the Cornell case, motivated by his belief that Jane Doe’s identity should be made public. The previous week, he tweeted out her name before deleting the post. Internet sleuths published her address online. Then, according to Jane Doe’s lawyer, Thomas Giuffra, on the night before the meeting at City Hall, Jane Doe was swatted—that is, someone made a call to the police reporting invented violence at her home, prompting a large-scale police response. Giuffra told CNN that his client has been “terrified.”
Plaintiff anonymity is “used to manipulate the court system and thereby the public as a PR tactic to create pressure,” Tracey told me. “I have nothing against Jane Doe. She seems kind of cool, actually.” He showed me a text he sent to a number he claims belongs to her: “Given that settlement funds are being sought, especially considering that criminal investigations have been triggered, I consider it in the public interest to report on your identity.” When I pointed out that anonymity enables sexual assault victims to come forward with less fear of vitriol and death threats, he described the death threats he has received. This is what one of the loudest male voices I encountered in Ithaca sounds like.
I walked down Ithaca Commons to peer into Moonies, the bar Jane Doe visited before the alleged assault, but it was closed for the night. On Instagram, it appeared to be business as usual, with promotions for “Flash Friday” and “Saturday Surge” parties. In the suit, Jane Doe says she left a sorority event at this bar, went to another bar, and then “stumbled alone” to a party at the Chi Phi house. (Moonies is named in Jane Doe’s suit and its owners have denied that it illegally served alcohol to the underage Jane Doe.) I got into my car and headed to the frat. Even from the cozy confines of my rented Toyota Corolla, that path seemed uninviting. There’s a brick-and-stone charm to downtown Ithaca that dissolves once you cross over the gorges and onto frat row. Flashy trucks and clusters of mega-mansions run by very young adults bordered the drive. I spotted a handful of bongs resting on windowsills. For a minute, I couldn’t find the actual Chi Phi house and when I finally spotted it—massive, menacing—I was nearly relieved.
The next morning, campus cleared out for fall break. Visiting faculty member Mark Brown Jr. sat on the steps of Goldwin Smith Hall and finished a game of virtual chess before speaking with me. “I think frat culture is incredibly toxic,” he said. Some undergraduates in his art classes preferred to discuss the subject in a “roundabout” way. The potential of repercussions, he said, may be deterring open discussion.
I approached two students sitting under a statue of Andrew Dickson White, Cornell’s first president. “All men are honestly guilty for this,” said Daniel Suh, a junior studying public policy. “You ask any man if rape is okay and they’re going to tell you no. But men expect a perfect victim.” His friend, Anand Patel, also a junior, sat next to him. With their baggy pants and gleaming sneakers, Patel and Suh seemed so sweetly boyish, young, and on the brink of adulthood. But also fed up. While Suh felt regulating frat parties wouldn’t directly address the issue of college sexual assault, Patel was much more critical of frat culture. “Where the true issue lies is what happens when you have a friend who does it, or someone you know. Are you going to act like nothing happened? Are you going to support him, or are you going to cut him off? Because that’s ultimately what happens in these frats,” Patel said. “These men don’t draw a line in the sand saying, ‘Okay, you’re out now.’ ”
These students offered a stark contrast with the many older men I had tried to speak to, on and off campus, who couldn’t or wouldn’t add their voices to the conversation. For Patel and the other students I spoke to on campus, things seemed so clear: We should all call out bad behavior when we see it, because we know what bad behavior looks like. When did that get so complicated? ◼︎
Fraternities control access to coveted resources. They use humiliating rituals to bond with each other, enforce hierarchy, and belittle outsiders. Sound familiar?
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