once and again

Posted March 30th, 2008 by Michelle

I’m on the train from New York to D.C., which is one of my favorite legs of this annual NY/DC trip. This is the third year running that I’ve come back east this time of year, first to New York to see family, and then on to D.C. for a conference. I love traveling by train, and I’m lucky enough to have had an hour in the car with Sean on the way here, and then a sunny window seat for the three- hour train ride.

I just went to the snack car for a bottle of water, and on my way back to my seat, I had to squeeze by several people who were standing around the snack car and the loo (which share an unfortunate proximity). I squeezed by one guy in particular, who as I passed bumped closer to me and said, “Hey, baby” in a very low, very slimy, somewhat threatening voice. And I was transported back to a time when I was 13 years old and riding the bus from New York into New Jersey.

I was with a former family friend, who could be called many things except a “guardian” of any kind, but we didn’t know that at the time. I don’t know why I was traveling with her, but it was late, and we were late catching the bus, and we took the last two seats, which were not together. I sat in a front seat next to a man by himself, and all I remember about him now is he was wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt, and his hair was longish. I spent the ride staring out of the front window into the NY/NJ night. About halfway through, I thought I felt a slight tugging on my sleeve. I froze. I saw through the corner of my eye that the man next to me was sitting with his arms crossed, and that his hand was probably very near my arm where I felt a tug on my sleeve. But no, I must have imagined it. A couple minutes later, I felt it again… and then again.

I was terrified. I was anything but naïve, even at that tender age, but I wasn’t entirely sure what this tugging meant. I didn’t move for the rest of the ride, both dreading and waiting for the next little tug. He finally gave up, and when it was time for him to get off the train, before I could get up to let him pass, he squeezed his way out, pressing the front of his legs into mine and basically shoving his crotch into my face.

I spent the rest of the ride bewildered. What exactly was he hoping for? If he was a normal guy, wouldn’t he just have said “hello” if he wanted to engage me? Did he realize I was only 13? Was he a rapist or a horny bastard or just a lonely guy? In essence, what the fuck? I, at that point, was used to the attentions of older men. I generated an unfortunate amount of that attention, even though I was emotionally (if not physically) very much still a child. So while I was accustomed to that attention, I don’t think I had any idea just how dangerous it could be.

The woman I was with, upon hearing about my little encounter, thought it was hilarious that I’d been “hit on”. I didn’t find it so hilarious, and if that exact thing happened to me now, I think I’d be equally bewildered; but I’d also either switch seats, confront the guy, or take some other kind of action, particularly if he didn’t get off the bus before I did.

Fast forward twenty-two years, and this nasty man on the train to D.C. makes me feel that same sort of yuck. Public cat-calling or just saying hello or even sweet but misguided overtures are one thing; whispered, dark come-ons meant for my ears only- or my sleeve only- are something else altogether. You can argue that it was a harmless come-on, but I would ask, what is the end game? This guy was not going out of his way to tell me he found me attractive or appealing in any sort of appreciative way. The only way I can describe the feeling is that he wanted to possess a part of me. Rape, abuse, all of it is about control and rage and little else, and even though all this guy did is rub up against me an utter two little words, it makes me want to kick him in the nads. It makes me want to take retribution. It makes me want to put him in a situation where he feels threatened and scared, even for a minute, even in the sunshine with a train full of passengers.

Of all the battles I regularly fight alone, this is one that actually makes me feel lonely.

I think it was particularly difficult because of just having left one of the safest places I know. When I’m at Sean and Jordi’s, I’m realizing, I don’t feel “defined”, in a way. I don’t feel like a single person, I don’t feel attractive or unattractive, I don’t feel even happy or sad or angry or righteous or anything particularly specific. I just, sorta, “am”. I don’t worry about anything other than figuring out who happens to be awake or who might be watching Barnaby or who might need a snack- including me. It’s a wonderfully peaceful and safe feeling, and sometimes when I’m in Queens for a stretch and I leave the house, I’m jarred by having to interact with the world.

But- here I am, going from a houseful of babies to a town full of elected officials, many of whom will have to put up with me in the next couple of days. Both worlds are important to me, and along the way, there are going to be dicks that I’ll have to deal with. But it’s no surprise to me, really, that since I was quite young, I’ve been attracted only to taller, stronger men, I think with the primal, unconscious hope that when I do have to deal with these dicks, someone will have my back. Funny how that hasn’t ever actually worked in my favor. It’s not hard to imagine, though, that someday, I just might snap, and actually, finally, kick some nasty dude in the nads.