LUCA
TZIMAS

PREFACE

I came to see it as a challenge: understanding how a man I identified as having raped and stalked me had gained influence within my own organization. What troubled me most was how secrecy, social relationships, and institutional authority could complicate accountability.

Time to clear the smoke and mirrors left for me to clean by a shady predator.

The first police report was where I expected the factual record to begin. I had reported sexual violence and undergone a sexual assault forensic examination. I allowed the report to be filed but asked law enforcement to pause a formal investigation until I returned. I expected the eventual investigation to examine evidence, test competing accounts where possible, and document what could—and could not—be established.

Instead, much of the work of reconstructing the surrounding chronology fell to me. The first report was made while I was injured and relying partly on information from people I trusted. I later compared messages, photographs, transportation records, timestamps, and conversations. That work exposed errors in the initial location, timing, and identification. Correcting those errors did not mean inventing a different assault. It meant separating what I personally experienced from what others told me.

When I returned to law enforcement in July with Luca’s name and the Airbnb bathroom location, I was trying to move the record toward what I knew firsthand. I also pursued Title IX and other reporting avenues. Different entities had different jurisdictions, standards, and limits; none produced a finding holding Luca responsible for the sexual violence I reported. Those outcomes matter. So does what they did not decide: the absence of a finding is not a determination that the reported violence did not occur.

What surprised me was how quickly the discussion could move away from the original allegation. My relationships, my distress, my behavior, and even my eating habits became subjects of conversation. My former roommate supplied statements about my mental health and eating that I dispute. I am examining where those statements traveled, how they were treated, and whether they affected any decision. The available dismissal alone does not establish that they caused the Title IX case to close.

Meanwhile, life continued for everyone involved. Luca and I graduated in the same period. For me, graduation did not settle the underlying questions. It marked the end of college while the work of understanding its final year was still underway. I have advocated for myself since 2022; publishing this account is a further step in making the chronology, documents, and institutional decisions available for scrutiny.

This is also a warning about what can happen when a serious allegation enters a network of friendships, student leadership, and university procedures. A person can spend years answering questions about her credibility while the original evidence remains contested or unexamined.

An institution can close a matter within its rules without answering every question that matters to the people involved. Those are not the same outcomes, and the difference deserves attention.

I thought the first investigation would establish the record. Instead, I spent years assembling it—and learning how easily a discussion about evidence could become a discussion about the person presenting it.

It Started With Access

Before Luca became a central figure in this story, he was a relatively minor one in mine.

I was pursuing a future in law, taking courses that reflected that ambition, and building a life around the people and institutions I believed would help me get there. Luca entered that life as the teaching assistant in a small, law-focused writing course I had deliberately chosen. His position gave him an entirely ordinary reason to read my personal writing, learn about my aspirations, and become familiar with parts of my life that I would not ordinarily share with a stranger.

At the time, I understood that familiarity for exactly what it appeared to be: academic. There was no obvious reason to regard a teaching assistant’s interest in my work as anything more complicated than the job he had been assigned to do.

Then came Phi Alpha Delta.

By the time Luca joined, I had already established myself within the fraternity. I had friendships, leadership experience, a roommate who belonged to the organization, and a history there that existed entirely independently of him. He was the newcomer. I was not.

His membership changed the nature of his access. The man who had initially known me through coursework could now develop relationships within my social circle, attend the same events, and establish a reputation among people who had known me long before they knew him.

None of these developments arrived with a warning label. A teaching assistant belonged in a classroom. A fraternity member belonged at fraternity events. A friend of a friend belonged in familiar company. Each new point of contact had its own perfectly reasonable explanation.

That was precisely what made the larger picture so difficult to recognize while I was living inside it.

In hindsight, I can trace how his presence extended from one part of my life into another. At the time, I was simply going about a life I had worked hard to build.

The distinction matters. This was my world before it became a setting for allegations I would spend years trying to have meaningfully examined.

The Life Luca Entered

I did not meet Luca while searching for direction. Law was already the direction I had chosen, and I was building my coursework, experience, and commitments accordingly. He entered a life already in motion.

Phi Alpha Delta was part of that plan before Luca knew me. I had intended to join the university’s law fraternity since my freshman year and waited until campus activities returned in person after COVID restrictions. When I joined during my sophomore year, I became president of my joining class and my roommate became vice president.

After crossing into the organization, I was elected Professional Development Chair. My roommate and I became much closer through that process. This was the environment Luca later entered.

The Course That Gave Luca Access to Me

In a small law-focused Writing and Critical Inquiry course, I submitted analytical and self-reflective work, including an early law-school personal statement. Luca was the teaching assistant. A course that asked for personal writing also gave him a legitimate academic reason to read it.

That relationship made personal disclosure part of ordinary academic work. I was expected to submit writing, accept feedback, and discuss subjects that would not normally arise with a stranger. He did not initially approach me as someone I understood to be threatening. Over time, conversation moved beyond coursework into personal interests and similarities, and the distinction between academic familiarity and friendship became less clear.

I cannot establish that he sought the role to learn about me or predict what he would later do. I can explain why the access appeared legitimate to me at the time: he was someone the university had placed in a position to read my work and help me develop it.

Then My TA Entered My Fraternity

Only a few weeks into the semester, Luca told me he was considering interviewing for Phi Alpha Delta. Before he became independently known there, people primarily knew him through me: he was “Belli’s TA.”

During his interview, Luca chose to reenact a rape scene from a television show and selected me to play the victim. I treated it as bizarre and inappropriate. My roommate took a photograph because of how absurd the moment seemed.

No one in the room treated it as something that required intervention, and I did not understand it as a warning about what Luca would later do.

My Roommate Became His Independent Access Point

Luca first met my roommate through me. During his first Phi Alpha Delta one-on-one, I was the brother assigned to him, and we planned to go to Chili’s. My roommate and I were close, so we decided to combine our separate one-on-ones and meet there. The new members picked us up separately: Luca picked me up, while the other new member picked up my roommate.

When I got into Luca’s car, he had made sure “All of Me” was playing. I took a photo and told him he was insane for playing it.

That dinner was the first time Luca and my roommate really spoke. They connected quickly. From that interaction, their relationship developed independently of me, and she later became his fraternity “big” — his mentor within the organization.

HE ENTERED THROUGH ME. HE DID NOT NEED ME TO STAY.

At the time, it looked ordinary: fraternity bonding, new friendships, mentorship. What matters to me now is the progression of access. Before Phi Alpha Delta, much of Luca’s connection to my social world ran through me. After that night, it no longer had to. He had his own place inside the organization, his own relationships, and a direct connection to the person I lived with and one of the people who knew me best.

The Things I Explained Away

I noticed more than I knew how to name. The problem was never a complete failure of perception; it was trying to interpret a warning before I knew what it was warning me about.

Less than two weeks before April 22, I discovered a tracking device inside my backpack that I understood Luca had placed there without my permission. I removed its battery and told several fraternity members, including my roommate, about what I found. I later returned the device to him in class.

I was disturbed by the device, but I did not yet understand what it meant in relation to everything else. I cannot establish his motive from the device alone. The incident nonetheless changed how I later understood questions about my privacy and safety.

I was alarmed by the object. I was not sufficiently alarmed by him.

The First Report

My first police report was filed while I was injured, receiving medical care, and trying to put April 22 into a reliable sequence. It placed the assault at approximately 11 p.m. in my dormitory and listed a person who was not the man who raped me. I had permitted the report to be filed, but those details came in part from information supplied by my roommate and another close fraternity friend. They were not the result of my independently identifying that person as my assailant.

I told law enforcement that I was not ready to proceed with a formal investigation and asked that it remain paused until I came back. The initial report documented an early, incomplete account; it was not the final chronology and it was not a completed investigation. Uber departure records and supporting Apple Maps location data later contradicted its account of an 11 p.m. assault in my dormitory. I did not ask police to wait for the sexual assault forensic examination results before I could identify the person who assaulted me.

In July 2022, I returned to law enforcement. I identified Luca Tzimas by name and told investigators that the assault occurred in the downstairs bathroom of the Airbnb. I was describing my own recollection of the location and physical struggle, not repeating the account someone else had supplied. Luca Tzimas is the only person I have personally identified by name to law enforcement or another official entity as responsible for the sexual violence I reported. An incorrect name appearing in the initial report should not be confused with a name I independently gave officials. The report was incomplete. My experience was not.

The inaccuracies in my initial police report require context, not speculation about my mental health. I was reporting sexual violence while injured and attempting to understand an incomplete sequence of events. Certain details in that first report, including the location, timing, and identity initially recorded, came from information supplied by people I trusted. I had not independently verified those details.

I did not knowingly fabricate an allegation or invent a fictional account. Nor should discrepancies in that initial report be treated, without evidence, as proof of psychiatric impairment. In July 2022, I identified Luca Tzimas to University Police. In August, Uber and Apple Maps records provided a means of testing the earlier chronology.

An inaccurate report is not necessarily a fabricated report. Correcting a record is not evidence that the person correcting it was dishonest.

When the People I Trusted Made Reality Harder to Understand

After the sexual assault forensic examination, I was injured, exhausted, and trying to reconstruct a night whose surrounding chronology remained incomplete. My roommate and another close fraternity friend were the only two people I initially confided in. I trusted them not only because they were close to me, but because they had attended the event and seemed positioned to help me understand what had happened.

Instead, the people I turned to for answers began giving me new questions.

At one point, they told me that someone had been accessing my phone. That suspicion did not originate with me. They introduced it, and then refused to tell me who they were talking about. I was left trying to understand an alleged violation of my privacy without being given the information necessary to evaluate it.

Their behavior toward me also began to change. They became cold and distant, and I could not understand why. I confronted the change directly, both in person and in a group chat, asking why they were suddenly acting differently. I was assured that everything was fine, even as their behavior suggested otherwise.

The contradiction was difficult to ignore. These were the same people who had supplied information shaping my earliest understanding of April 22. Now they were withdrawing from me, introducing concerns they would not explain, and leaving me to reconcile their reassurances with their actions.

I was still attending the writing course in which Luca remained my teaching assistant. My ordinary responsibilities continued while I was trying to understand the assault, the information I had been given, and the increasingly strange behavior of the people I had trusted.

I cannot establish every motive behind their conduct or why they withheld the identity of the person they said had accessed my phone. But I can describe what their actions did to me.

I needed answers, not an assessment of my mental state. Yet somehow, the more I questioned what I was being told, the more my questioning itself became the subject of concern. My confusion was treated as something to explain away rather than something worth helping me resolve.

I had trusted these people to help me make sense of what happened. Instead, I found myself having to make sense of them, too.

There is a particular cruelty in being left to reconstruct a violation while simultaneously being made to defend the very distress it caused.

Reconstructing the Night

At the beginning of May, after escalating conflict and isolation, I cut off contact with the two friends on whose accounts I had depended. After they told me someone had accessed my phone but refused to say who, a dispute culminated in university police becoming involved. I experienced the encounter as an attempt to initiate psychiatric intervention against me. I was not involuntarily admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Nor did the encounter establish a psychiatric diagnosis, prove that I was inventing events, or explain away the discrepancies in my initial police report. I cannot establish what others told police or what motivated their actions without the relevant records. What I can describe is the effect: the focus shifted from the questions I was asking to assumptions about my mental state.

After returning to my dorm, I finally had some distance from the conflict. Another roommate, who was not in Phi Alpha Delta, had been home on the night of the wedding with her boyfriend. Their recollections of our return and the time spent together afterward became relevant to assessing the initial timeline. I moved home in May and began recovering enough space to reconsider what I remembered and what I had been told.

In July 2022, I told my parents for the first time that Luca Tzimas had sexually assaulted me. I intended to resume the University Police investigation when I returned. I had already asked police to pause the investigation until I was ready to proceed; I was not waiting for forensic results. My intention was to formally identify Luca and move forward with the investigation. The surrounding chronology still required reconstruction, but the identity of the person I was accusing was not in question.

That July, I began therapy for the first time in my life, working with a therapist who specialized in sexual trauma. Over the following two years, I continued therapy, including EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). I credit that treatment, particularly EMDR, with saving my life. It gave me a place to process what had happened while so much of my life remained consumed by explaining, documenting, and defending it.

There is an important distinction between the psychiatric intervention I understood others to be seeking in May and the trauma-focused therapy I voluntarily began in July. Choosing treatment to recover from sexual violence did not validate other people's characterizations of my mental health. Neither event, by itself, established that my report was fabricated or that the errors in its initial chronology were the product of psychiatric impairment.

By July 2022, I had returned to University Police with Luca Tzimas’s name and identified the downstairs bathroom of the Airbnb as the location of my assault. I had already corrected the central errors in my initial report. What remained unresolved was the surrounding chronology, not the identity of the person I had accused.

I had not yet contacted fraternity members to investigate the events of April 22. I wanted to get my own information in order before involving people who had attended the party.

In mid-August 2022, after the semester began, I spoke for the first time with the friend my roommate had previously accused. I had already given University Police Luca Tzimas’s name and the correct location in July, and until that August conversation I had not contacted fraternity members to investigate the wedding. I wanted to get my own information in order first.

During that conversation, the friend my roommate had accused showed me Uber records indicating that we left the Airbnb at approximately 12:05 a.m., supported by Apple Maps location data. That evidence directly contradicted the original police report’s account of an assault at approximately 11 p.m. in my dormitory: the departure records placed us at the Airbnb well after the time the initial report placed me elsewhere. The discrepancy mattered because the first report had incorporated details supplied by people I trusted, not because I had independently identified that reported location or assailant.

From there, I contacted other people who had attended the event and sought photographs, videos, timestamps, recollections, and additional records. Those materials helped test the surrounding sequence; the Uber and Apple Maps data did not, by themselves, prove every detail of the assault. The records undermined the first report’s chronology, not my account of the violence. I had already identified Luca to University Police in July. I was reconstructing the timeline, not searching for someone to accuse.

After the Assault, Access Became Position

For years, I treated April 22 as a dividing line: before it, Luca had access to my life; after it, I faced the consequences. The timeline was never that tidy. His position within my social world did not vanish because I reported what I say he did.

By then, Luca was no longer only my teaching assistant. My roommate had become his fraternity big, and he had developed independent relationships within the organization I had joined and helped lead before he arrived.

After I identified him as the person who raped me, access was no longer merely about proximity. It was also about who could speak to whom, whose version of events sounded familiar, who remained comfortable in the group, and whose questions were treated as disruption.

I cannot know every private conversation or establish that Luca directed every response. I can describe the structural change: relationships that had once been part of my support system also connected directly to the person I accused. The violence happened once. The social positioning kept moving.

The violence happened once. The social positioning kept moving.

The Fraternity Had Been Mine First

The hardest part of Phi Alpha Delta is also the simplest: it was my community before Luca ever entered it. I did not wander into his circle. He entered mine.

I had led my joining class, held leadership positions, developed friendships, had a big of my own and a couple of littles (some later moved around), and understood many of the people around me as brothers and part of my support system.

By April 22, those relationships were no longer arranged only around me. My roommate was also Luca’s big. Other people I trusted had their own relationships with him. The same network that had once made the fraternity feel stable to me now contained overlapping loyalties and competing versions of events.

Then I became the person reporting sexual violence. I told fraternity leadership that Luca raped me.

I expected the central question to be what it meant to keep him inside an organization where I was already a member and leader. Instead, I increasingly found myself having to explain my reactions, defend my presence, and navigate people who were no longer connected only to me.

THE SOCIAL STRUCTURE HAD CHANGED BEFORE I NEEDED IT MOST.

The people I would ordinarily have turned to for stability had relationships with Luca of their own. The network was still there. Its loyalties were no longer straightforward.

My Assault Was Not a Fraternity Secret

By early September, I had already identified Luca to police in July. I was speaking with people connected to the April 22 fraternity wedding and collecting information for the Title IX complaint I was preparing. I was also trying to understand why fraternity leadership had not responded to my concerns about Luca during the summer.

At my twenty-first birthday party, friends from college and Buffalo were celebrating with me. Some did not attend the University at Albany, and none of my Buffalo friends owed Phi Alpha Delta any organizational loyalty.

That evening, while intoxicated, I called Luca. Looking back, I would not make that call again. To me, that call speaks to how little I yet understood about the dynamic between us—a dynamic it would take me years to make sense of. But the call was not what made the episode unforgettable.

My fraternity president became very upset that my friends knew about the assault and had been trying to stop me from calling him. As I remember it, she referred to the matter as a fraternity secret. I told her my life was not a fraternity secret. We were not doing that here. Of course my friends knew what I had experienced and reported.

After I went to bed, she spoke to my friends in a manner they experienced as patronizing—as though they were her students. The next morning, they told me we needed to sit down in the living room and discuss what had happened. They were deeply unsettled by her reaction and by being treated, as they understood it, as though they answered to a fraternity they had never joined.

I cannot know every motive behind her reaction. I can explain the contradiction I perceived: I was trying to report serious violence and prepare an institutional complaint, while the immediate concern expressed to me was that people outside the organization knew about it. I had been asking her since July to remove Luca.

Confidentiality can protect privacy and the fairness of a proceeding. It does not mean a student organization owns a member’s account of her own experience. The distinction between protecting a process and controlling a narrative became increasingly important to me.

Title IX

By September 2022, I had identified Luca to police, undergone a sexual assault forensic examination, and spent months reconstructing the events of April 22. I filed a formal sexual-misconduct complaint with the University at Albany because I believed an institutional investigation could examine the evidence and address questions that remained unresolved.

I entered that process with medical documentation, photographs, transportation records, messages, potential witnesses, and a chronology I had worked to reconstruct myself. The evidence was not neatly packaged. Neither was the experience. That was precisely why I believed an investigation was necessary.

Instead, my complaint was dismissed.

I challenged that decision through an appeal exceeding 120 pages, addressing what I understood to be procedural irregularities, failures to investigate, evidentiary concerns, and the treatment of information about my mental health. I sent the appeal, accompanied by supporting materials, to senior university administrators.

I understood that Title IX operated within particular legal and procedural boundaries. What I struggled to accept was how a process could reach its conclusion while leaving so many of the questions that brought me there unanswered.

A CLOSED CASE AND AN ANSWERED ALLEGATION ARE NOT NECESSARILY THE SAME THING.

The university’s procedural decision was an outcome. It was not the factual resolution I had sought. Learning to name that difference changed how I understood accountability across the separate institutions to which I reported.

The Speech Changed What the Fraternity Could Pretend Not to Know

By the time I addressed the Student Senate, I had spent months pursuing answers through the very channels designed for circumstances like mine. At some point, a process that continually requires patience also has to explain what the patience is for.

I spoke publicly about my allegation against Luca and my experience with the university’s response. That same day, I circulated my appeal, exceeding 120 pages, to senior administrators. I was no longer willing to let the seriousness of what I had reported be reduced to conversations held behind closed doors.

There was nothing particularly convenient about speaking publicly. I was still a student, still connected to the people and institutions I was criticizing, and still living with the consequences of an allegation that had already transformed my final year of college.

But silence had not protected me. It had not answered my questions. And it certainly had not made the underlying events disappear.

Following my speech, Phi Alpha Delta convened an emergency meeting.

I had publicly identified the person I accused of raping me. Yet the organization’s immediate response was to gather its members for a meeting in which my credibility, behavior, and mental health became subjects of discussion.

The irony was difficult to miss. I had spent months asking people to take an allegation of sexual violence seriously. Once I spoke about it publicly, the emergency appeared to be that I had spoken.

I REPORTED AN EMERGENCY. SOMEHOW, I BECAME ONE.

That meeting would reveal something I had not fully understood about the organization I once helped lead: how dramatically the balance of social power had shifted, and how easily the person raising the allegation could become the person expected to defend herself.

The Emergency Meeting

After my Student Senate speech, Phi Alpha Delta convened an emergency meeting. The urgency was striking: the allegation had been known to leadership, but speaking about it publicly had apparently changed the organization’s timetable.

Some had been present on April 22. Some knew Luca socially. Some knew me before Luca ever entered the fraternity. Some had leadership roles. Some had information potentially relevant to understanding the night. Yet the meeting became a place where people discussed whether I was credible, what they believed about me, how they interpreted my behavior, and what they thought might be wrong with me.

That is not a minor detail. People who existed inside the factual universe of the allegation were simultaneously participating in a social discussion about whether the person making the allegation should be believed.

I had publicly said that Luca raped me. The organization responded by urgently gathering to discuss whether something might be wrong with me.

The Emergency Became Me

The revealing question is not merely why people discussed me in my absence. It is what, exactly, the organization had decided was the emergency: the allegation I raised, or the disruption of my having raised it publicly.

My allegation against Luca was not new to fraternity leadership. By that point, the fraternity president had known since July 2022 that I had identified Luca as the person who raped me and that I had an open NYPD investigation concerning him. She also knew about my Title IX case. In fact, one reason I pursued the university process was because I had been told that doing so would provide a basis for removing him from the fraternity.

And yet Luca remained.

So the emergency meeting was not a sudden institutional reaction to learning that one member had been accused of raping another. The organization had already been living with that information.

What changed was that I spoke publicly.

My Student Senate remarks made visible information that had previously circulated privately: conversations between fraternity members, institutional knowledge, and details about the handling of the situation that even some members of the organization apparently did not know. I was no longer only making an allegation. I was publicly describing a structure of knowledge around it.

That should have raised obvious questions for the fraternity: Who knew what? When did they know it? Why had Luca remained? What had leadership told different people? Why was information being handled differently depending on who was asking?

Instead, the scrutiny moved toward me. Whether I was believable. Whether I was stable. Whether I was causing problems. Whether there was some alternative explanation for what I was saying. Whether my behavior, rather than the underlying facts I was describing, could explain why the organization had suddenly become uncomfortable.

That distinction matters. From my perspective, the meeting was not the beginning of the confusion surrounding me. It was an extension of it. I had already spent months trying to understand events while receiving conflicting information, navigating institutional processes, and questioning my own interpretation of what had happened. Now the same displacement was occurring collectively: rather than examining the information I had placed in public view, people began examining me.

People Were Making Credibility Decisions Before the Facts Were Finished

One of the most disturbing aspects of the emergency meeting was timing. The factual process was not finished. I was still producing information, reconstructing the night, dealing with institutional processes, and trying to understand contradictions.

The fact-finding was unfinished. The social verdicts, it seemed, had no such scheduling problem.

A formal process might require documents, interviews, records, timelines, and evidentiary standards. A social group requires almost none of that. Within an hour, an informal credibility system can form. People leave the room with impressions, and those impressions become the next person's background information.

That is how reputation can begin replacing evidence.

When My Mental Health Became Easier to Discuss Than His Conduct

One of the ugliest labels attached to me during this period was “schizophrenic.” That word describes a specific psychiatric diagnosis, not a conclusion that can be drawn from distress, disagreement, or persistent questioning. I dispute the characterization. I am not presenting anyone else's speculation as a clinical finding, and nothing about that label establishes that I fabricated my account or knowingly supplied false information to police.

Once people begin framing a person as unstable, almost every later reaction can be filtered through that assumption. If I found a contradiction, perhaps I was paranoid. If I documented something, perhaps I was obsessive. If I was angry, perhaps I was irrational.

Meanwhile, Luca's conduct became easier to move away from. The tracker became secondary. The assault became secondary. The inconsistent stories became secondary.

The Meeting Made the Power Shift Visible

The shift cannot be reduced to people simply “choosing him.” It was quieter than that, and perhaps more consequential: his continued presence could pass for normal, while every response I had to it became a subject for discussion.

Power looked like him being able to remain while I had to defend my right to be there. It looked like people discussing my credibility and mental health while the conduct I was describing remained unresolved.

Power looked like my fraternity holding an emergency meeting after my speech and discovering that I could be treated as the emergency.

The Election Changed Both of Our Positions

The recorded emergency meeting after my Student Senate speech was not the end of the organizational response. I also retained screenshots and other materials concerning the leadership process, and I say I supplied relevant materials to UAlbany Greek Life and Phi Alpha Delta National.

At a subsequent leadership meeting, I was unanimously voted out of my position as secretary and a replacement secretary was elected. During that same meeting, Luca—the person I had identified as having raped me—became treasurer. These were parts of the same proceeding, not separate episodes.

The meeting and vote did not determine the truth of my allegation. They did change who held organizational authority. The meeting recording, election timeline, communications, and any institutional responses are important to evaluating what happened and why.

A vote can establish who has the numbers. It cannot, by itself, establish who has the facts.

What Was Alleged, What Was Reported, and What Was Charged

I identify Luca Tzimas as the person who sexually assaulted me on April 22, 2022, and describe earlier tracking and later organizational events in this first-person account. These are my allegations and recollections, not findings of a criminal court.

I reported the incident to law enforcement and describe later contact with investigators. A police report, an investigation, a university complaint, and a criminal charge are distinct processes. This site does not claim that criminal charges were filed against Luca because I have not included a charging document or docket establishing that fact.

I say the university Greek Life office and Phi Alpha Delta National received materials concerning the fraternity meeting and election. The date, recipient, attachments, and any responses should be checked against the original correspondence before treating institutional notice or inaction as established by the public record.

Institutional resources

Phi Alpha Delta National — Official website

Phi Alpha Delta — About and values

Phi Alpha Delta — Resources and policies

UAlbany — Fraternity and Sorority Life

UAlbany — Title IX grievance policy

Related project — UALBANYPAD.com

These links provide context, not proof of any specific policy violation. The rules in force in 2022 and the documents actually received by each institution should be verified separately.

The Aftermath Was Not Socially Neutral

For years I called everything after April 22 “the aftermath,” as though it were weather: unfortunate, inevitable, and nobody’s particular responsibility. That word no longer does the work I need it to do.

The confusion had consequences. So did the inaccurate first timeline, Luca's independent relationships inside the fraternity, the organization's preference for normalcy, and the growing focus on my mental health and behavior. Whatever the intent of any individual person, those conditions did not affect us equally.

I do not need to claim that Luca engineered every outcome to describe who benefited from the arrangement. A social system can protect someone's position without that person directing every conversation inside it.

The Record the Process Did Not Produce

When I first understood that I had been raped, reporting seemed like a duty and accountability like the purpose of reporting. I assumed those ideas belonged to the same sentence. I did not yet know how many procedures could fit between them.

I reported, documented, reconstructed, pursued Title IX, appealed the dismissal, and spoke publicly before the Student Senate. Each avenue had a different purpose and different limits. None gave me the resolution I had sought. A proceeding can end without answering every factual or ethical question that brought someone into it.

A birthday argument, an election, and a meeting can look peripheral in isolation. In sequence, they document how the allegation affected relationships and organizational power.

Phi Alpha Delta was part of my intended legal path before Luca joined. I loved the organization. Its transformation, as I experienced it, was astonishing: I went from leadership and belonging to exclusion, while Luca later held the position of treasurer. The language of legal principle means little when its application is governed by social convenience.

My interest in law preceded these events. It shaped my coursework, my involvement in Phi Alpha Delta, and the direction I hoped to take professionally. My criticism of the people and institutions involved is not a rejection of the legal field. It comes from believing that legal authority demands more than credentials, prestige, or an ability to speak in the vocabulary of justice.

Luca has continued on a legal education path at Notre Dame Law, as I understand it. I have also heard that he joined the Navy, although I do not have independent documentation of that detail for this account. To me, the broader question is how institutions confer public signals of trustworthiness while serious allegations may remain unresolved. Admission, employment, and service are not findings about an unrelated allegation, either for or against the person involved.

I made the allegations, submitted the evidence, pursued the processes, and continued asking questions. This website is the record I have spent years assembling: a chronology of my experience, the documents I can identify, the responses I received, and the limits of what can honestly be concluded.

Why This Site Exists

This site exists because the institutional record is scattered across different systems and decisions. A police report, a Title IX outcome, a fraternity meeting, and a leadership vote answer different questions. Reading any one of them as the entire story would leave out much of what happened between them.

I have advocated since 2022. This is a more public phase of that work, not a claim to have resolved every uncertainty. I will not pretend to know what people said in private or why they made every choice. I can show what I experienced, what was recorded, what was decided, and where the explanations still fall short.

For years, other people had extraordinary freedom to explain me. Here, the record gets room to speak.