“There is no excuse and never an invitation to rape.”
I keep returning to this sentence because of how simple it is and how often the world seems to forget it. Denim Day matters for that exact reason: It pushes back against the habit of turning cases of sexual violence into discussions about everything except the violence itself.
Denim is everywhere. It is worn to class, to the library and to late-night walks across campus when the air still carries a trace of winter. Because it is so common, denim rarely draws attention to itself. But there was a moment when a pair of jeans was treated as evidence in a courtroom—not as evidence of violence, but as a way to deny that violence had occurred.
In 1992 in Italy a young woman reported that she had been raped by her driving instructor. He was convicted. For a brief moment, the legal system seemed to recognize what had been done to her. Then the Italian Supreme Court overturned the conviction. Their reasoning rested on something disturbingly mundane: Her jeans were too tight. She must have helped remove them. That, they argued, meant consent.
The reaction to the decision was immediate. Women in the Italian Parliament arrived at work wearing jeans, standing together in quiet anger. There was no need to argue with the Court’s reasoning point by point. Wearing denim itself rejected the Court’s claim that tight jeans could imply consent. Photographs of those lawmakers in jeans quickly circulated beyond Italy, because the message was unmistakable: Ordinary clothing cannot be used to explain or justify sexual violence.
Years later, the Los Angeles-based nonprofit organization Peace Over Violence transformed that Italian case into Denim Day. What began as a protest in Italy became an annual campaign in the United States, now observed on the last Wednesday of April, Sexual Assault Awareness Month. People wear jeans that day with a specific awareness of what they stand against: the idea that clothing can be used to question or dismiss violence. The fabric does not change. What changes is how we choose to interpret it.
I think about how easily attention drifts. When someone recounts an experience of sexual violence, the conversation often shifts almost immediately to details that feel easier to question—what the person was wearing, what time it happened or why certain choices were made. These details are treated as if they help explain the situation, but in reality they redirect the focus away from the act itself. They turn a clear account of harm into something that can be debated and dissected. What slips out of view is the central fact that someone was harmed and that harm was inflicted by another person.
I think we should resist that shift deliberately. When we hear these stories, we should keep our attention on what was done and who is responsible, rather than searching for surrounding details to analyze. That means refusing to ask questions that imply justification and refusing to treat ordinary circumstances like clothing or timing as relevant explanations. If Denim Day asks anything of us, I think it asks for this discipline: to hold the focus steady, even when it would be easier to let it move elsewhere.
I have seen this pattern repeat beyond that one case in Italy. In 2015, a Stanford University student named Brock Turner sexually assaulted an unconscious woman behind a dumpster. Two witnesses intervened and testified, and he was later convicted. Yet, much of the public discussion did not stay with the violence he committed. Instead, attention shifted to his background as a swimmer, his future and whether the punishment would be too harsh for him. While those accounts described patterns of coercion and abuse, public conversations often focused on the women’s careers, their past choices or why they had not spoken out earlier.
That is why I will be wearing denim. Not as a general sign of awareness, but as a deliberate refusal to follow that pattern. I think we should be more precise about where we place our attention. When we talk about sexual violence, we should keep the focus on what was done and who is responsible. Denim Day is a small action, but it draws a clear line: Ordinary details are not explanations for harm, and they should not be treated as such.
Next week, when Denim Day arrives on April 29, the jeans we wear will look no different from any other day. But they will carry a history of refusal and a choice about whether we continue it. You should wear denim because it takes a position. It resists the instinct to explain, to soften and to shift attention elsewhere. It keeps the focus where it belongs.
“There is no excuse and never an invitation to rape.”
The sentence is still simple. The question is whether we are willing to defend it.