Red Lipstick and Other Not-So-Subtle Symbols of Women’s Solidarity

By Emma Seel

“I like your lip color.” I told a stranger as she applied the scarlet shade in the women’s bathroom of Columbia’s Philosophy Hall.

“Thank you,” the older woman replied. “Red lipstick is an important armor.” 

We exchanged these words on September 29th, 2026, 13 days after an anonymous former student filed a civil suit against Cornell University and members of the Chi Phi fraternity. The lawsuit alleges that the plaintiff—referred to as Jane Doe—was pressured into consuming ketamine, marijuana, and alcohol before seven fraternity men gang raped her over the course of seven hours. She lost consciousness around 5:45am on October 20th, 2024, and dropped out of school that same academic year.

Every detail of this case is horrific, along with the countless similar experiences women have shared in the weeks since Jane Doe brought her story to the public. By September 29th, the outcry was inescapable. My Instagram feed was a stream of commentary condemning the Cornell 7, and every female-dominated group chat on my phone was filled with all-caps messages along the lines of “F*CK THE ENTIRE SYSTEM THAT ALLOWS THIS TO HAPPEN.”

My peers and I were angry. We were grieving. We were reckoning with memories better left buried. But outside of the group chats and social media posts, our campuses and workplaces remained silent.

That’s why I mentioned a stranger’s lip color: Because I know its history. Suffragettes wore red lipstick in the early 1900s, Chilean women used it to protest sexual violence in 2019-2020, and it was on the faces of those I walked with during the 2017 Women’s March. I understood what it meant for this woman to wear red lipstick the day after Jane Doe’s story went viral, and I wanted to share in her solidarity.

A week later, I went to Foley Square and stood outside the district courthouse with a sign reading “Justice for Every Jane Doe.” The women around me held similar words: “Protect Survivors.” “Believe Women.” “Safety for Girls.” These sentences should not feel controversial, yet they reference the fact that Jane Doe was neither protected nor believed.

By far the most common phrase outside that courthouse was also the simplest: I AM JANE DOE. These signs are an answer to men online announcing their intention to uncover Jane Doe’s identity. Already, they have posted her phone number and address, leading to countless swatting incidents and death threats.

The resulting movement was founded in the knowledge that there is safety in numbers. If thousands of women announce they are Jane Doe, it becomes harder to single one out. While this may not deter every man committed to harassing a woman seeking justice, the words have become a rallying cry. “I am Jane Doe” reflects the collective pain—and the collective strength—of women who have survived sexual assault and are stepping forward to stand as one.

The power of this message is moving, but my mindset has not changed since late September. I am still angry that women face a constant threat of violence, and I still grieve the justice so many survivors go without.

But most of all, I’m scared.

I’m scared that the Cornell 7 won’t be held accountable for the harm they caused. I’m scared that my country will elect another predator to office, and the next generation of women will grow up clutching their keys and locking memories away.

I’m scared that Jane Doe’s story will fade, and with it the opportunity for others to speak up as part of a collective voice. Most face their trauma in secret, and this case demonstrates why: Our legal system places an immense burden on survivors, who often endure retaliatory character assassination, social isolation, and the kind of institutional betrayal Cornell committed. Combined with the digital harrassment and threats to physical safety now experienced by Jane Doe, it is unsurprising that sexual assault is underreported by nearly 80 percent in the United States.

Yet history gives me hope. #MeToo empowered thousands of survivors to demand accountability, showing them that they were not alone. While there are millions more who may not see their abusers pay—either because the system failed them or because they watched it fail others—there is strength in numbers and even a small movement can make a big impact on one person’s life. 

Thousands may appear insignificant among millions, but in each of those cases, a woman walked through hell with a movement behind her and survived. Solidarity, like red lipstick, can be a powerful weapon. We should take every opportunity to wield it.