Oh Nan, This essay just gutted me. I could feel for you, that lost innocence, your dashed excitement because of a predator. And I totally understood your fear, why you didn't back away from him in line, why you shook his hand. I have so much compassion for that 13-year-old Nan. Of course you didn't say anything. Everything in the way we were raised, especially then, and in society even now, is to be a good girl, not make waves. I am so glad you told the story now. I also have compassion for the 12-year-old me who was beckoned to come near a car on my way home from school in suburban Long Island. As I neared the vehicle, I saw the man, in some kind of beige uniform, like the kind gas attendants or mechanics wore ,holding something in his hands, down near the bottom of his chest. To my great horror, I realized it was his erect penis. I backed away and ran like hell for home. He didn't follow me. My mother called the police. I never saw the man or that car again, but like you, I think I stopped being a kid that day. Thank you for sharing these stories and you read them so well!
Amy, thank you. Your response made me cry. For you, for me, for all of us, (most of us?) who've experienced any kind of violation. It's so sick and so awful. Suburban Long Island! Syosset for me. At 18, I couldn't get out fast enough. Hugs to you, and more appreciation than I can express. I'm happy to know that you listen. I love recording my essays. xo
Thanks for this heartfelt response. So many tears to be shed. I grew up in Westbury. And yes, at 18, I, too, never turned back. I record my essays, too, and I think I could learn a thing or two from your reading voice. You sound like one of my favorite NPR voices, like Nina Totenberg or Susan Stamberg.
OHHH. Thank you for the Nina Totenberg and Susan Stamberg comparison! I hated the sound of my own voice for years. But I LOVE storytelling. My writing started as brief forays, penning 4 minute stories for a local Slam. I fell in love not only with the writing but with the performance aspect. I want to work on refining my vocals. I don't breathe properly while I'm recording, trying to figure that out! Lately, I've come to love the sound of my recorded voice. My father was and my brother is possessed of gorgeous sounding voices. Funny how we perceive or mis-perceive ourselves. Westbury was so close. We have to do a did you go to camp and where game...I'm 63 going on...older! And I read in my welcome email that you're headed for Barcelona! That's exciting. I've always wanted to go there. Maybe one day! I feel like I made a new friend in you, today. Thanks, Amy. xo
Yes, you did make a friend, Nan. I love learning more about you. Glad you are in the storytelling business now. I've made a livelihood as a business writer and newspaper journalist since I graduated college in 1982 but my own writing passions--fiction, and now, the creative non-fiction essays I didn't even know I had in me--that's what gets me up in the morning.
You'll have someone to visit in Barcelona one day.
And as for camp: I went to 4-H camp in Riverhead, Long Island. That opening camp scene in the film of "Are you There God It's Me Margaret?" --oh, how I could identify! You, too, maybe.
Yay! I’m glad to hear that about our new bond. I’d love to visit one day. I have the aesthetic hots for Gaudi.
I went to a couple of day camps. A horrible first one called camp Sureka, my second summer in LI. The summer of never-ending rain where sat in some classroom in a circle of desks, waiting for something to happen, day after day. Then, Fiedel in Glen Cove for a summer, then Usdan for a summer, back to Fiedel for 2 summers, then to Buck’s Rock for two, and then…working at Fiedel. Aren’t you glad I asked? I moved around a lot! xo
In all honesty, I felt where this was going and stopped reading because it was triggering. But then I thought, it's Nan, my friend and sister writer, and I read as much of her work as time allows. So, I came back to this piece, read it through.
I'm sorry that happened to you, and ended the age your age of innocence so cruelly and abruptly. I'm also glad you're here writing about it, getting it out for yourself and for all of us who have had similar experiences - perhaps much much worse.
In our own unique way we find the ways in which to heal those fractured parts of ourself. Writing is one of those ways. Thank you dear, Nan.
I love you, Paulette. Thank you for taking that risk of staying with the piece. That's a very generous and loving thing to do. I'm so very moved by your choice. I have other stories about similar things that have happened to me, especially in my youth. I want to tell them, because I think it makes a difference, supports my healing, and could be helpful to someone else. I know it can be a major trigger for some, but I need to do it, and I don't think trigger warnings are particularly helpful, even though they are well-intentioned. xo
I support you telling your stories and writing them, Nan. I agree that they can and do make a difference to readers, and to you the writer. That's interesting, I don't necessarily feel that trigger warnings are particularly helpful or necessary either, but I've not given voice to that feeling, thanks for sharing that. For me, the reading, it's an intuitive sense of my readiness. In coming back to this piece I was in a place to do so. Keep on keeping on with the Next Write Thing. I'm here for it!
Thanks, Paulette, and thank you for mention your intuitive sense of readiness. It is all about learning to check in with ourselves and trusting the messages. I'm getting close to a 1000 subscribers if I combine my two stacks. I'm super excited!
Late to the conversation, and so very sorry about that. I was thinking about you, and how helpless and afraid you felt, and wanted to reach out immediately. Couldn’t understand why I didn’t. Reading through the comments, I see how many of us have been through the same thing. All of us? Will we ever know? I thought of the things I’ve experienced as an adult, how horrible they were, and continue to take up space in my head, bringing tremendous shame. Too long and complicated a story.
And when I got about three-quarters of the way through, I was hit with a memory so deeply buried that I didn’t know it existed. When I was twelve, enjoying a swim at the neighborhood pool, a boy I didn’t know grabbed my crotch and pinched. Hard. I got out of the water, in pain and confusion. Didn’t tell anyone, not even the friend I was with. I never went back to that pool. I was “sick” on swim days in school. As an adult, I took a few swimming lessons, but have not gone swimming for decades.
This is NOT to say I was “triggered.” It is a good feeling, a huge relief, to know at last that my fear of being in a pool wasn’t a matter of cowardice. It was trauma. And now my body can let it go.
Thank you, Nan for your courage. And thanks to all who have written these comments. You have helped me more than you can possibly know.
Mary. I love you even more than I did before I read your comment. I thought about doing a trigger warning at the beginning of the story, but for the most part, I don't believe in them. I think a trigger warning is a possibly manipulative way to pull some one in, even if it's well-intentioned because I think it's hard for us to resist possible titillation. I don't know if that makes sense, and now I'm wandering. Sorry. I decided against the warning, because we all share the distinction of being touched inappropriately, spoken to abusively, and hurt in other ways that I care not to list. I have too many of these stories. We all do.
I'm furious and so saddened to know that that kid took something beautiful from you. I'm so sorry. We have to unearth all these stories. It's healing, it's empowering and it's necessary. I will tell more of them in time.
I salute and thank you for your courage. To tell your story, to have it arise suddenly and then immediately share it. You've given us a gift. Let's talk soon. Sending love to you.
How awful, Nan. And I know that feeling, being so frozen with fear that you do what is expected even though it makes you scream inside. Very brave of you to share such a traumatic experience.
Thank you, lovely Troy. I'm glad to know you understand that feeling. It's so frustrating, and hard not to berate oneself about it, instead of extending understanding and empathy toward ourselves. xo
Yeah. That. I don't think there is a hell. And honestly, I think in some cases the mental illness runs so deep, that it can't be fixed in people like him. And that's not a pass for what he did at all. BUT we need to make change and keep talking about it, calling men out when they step over that boundary that's glaringly clear to us as women, AND teaching boys about those boundaries, about that attitude of ownership they seem to adopt as they grow in our culture and in too many others, as well. It sucks. It always has, it always will. Enraging. Thank you, Marguerite for your comment. I get it. xoxo
Aargh. I don’t know what else to say. I get angrier and angrier. The constant violation and disrespect and dismissal. The attitudes of our culture fosters this kind of behavior. I mean that you can’t just have a good time out-foxing your moms!
Yes, to that out-foxing thing. Life for girls isn't like life for boys. Aaarrgggghhh is a good place to start, for sure...but obviously, it's not enough. How do we change the culture? That's the question. I have no idea what the answer is, but I'm going to keep talking and writing about it. xoxo
Oh Nan. Reading this, and reading all the comments, made my blood boil. So many Me Too stories... and yes, me too, more than once. First time on the subway when I was 8 or 9, sitting next to my mother. The man on the other side was had a large folded rug on his lap and under cover of that he slid his hand under my skirt and panties. I was scared to get up because if his hand got stuck my panties might pull down and everyone on the subway would see, and it would be my fault. I remember his face photographically; I could pick him out of a police lineup 60 years later. We need a group howl of rage to exorcise these memories. Writing about them is a great place to start.
Thanks for sharing your terrifying story. My goodness, so much sickness in the world. And yes, I remember Lou's face as if it happened yesterday and not 50 years later. It's disgusting and infuriating to feel trapped in a public place with other people around you. What's more upsetting, as evidenced by some of the stories shared here, is that the other people witness and do nothing. A group howl might be a good start. Don't know if it would exorcise the memories of violation (I have more than one, unfortunately), but it would bond us together more tightly and lessen the sting. The thing is change. Will that ever happen? Love to you. xo
So very sorry that this happened to you and your friend. It's appalling in ANY location (and your comments are full of other examples), but it really adds to the hurt that it was at an art museum. (That reads like a very shallow comment, but it isn't intended that way.) The disjunct between the hopeful and optimistic and shiny day the two of you had planned and what happened is heartbreaking.
Not shallow at all, Amy. The way I interpreted your meaning is that it’s a sacred space. At least that’s what it means to me. Any space that is dedicated to displaying the wonders, creativity, and brilliance of humanity is holy ground in my book. And yes. It was heartbreaking.
Well written! Creepy as hell and I’m so sorry this happened to you.
I can recall similar situations in which I too did not or was not able to speak or act in ways which would have honored my own body. I’ve grown a lot, but I’m still not perfect at this.
Gosh! I wish they would make an edit option for those of us using phones. I wanted to add, I was nearly sexually abused by a brother, and was saved at the last minute by someone at the door. I remember feeling how “wrong” it felt, but I don’t remember much resistance at all.
It's hard to resist if you're terrified or frozen. And then we get shamed for not fighting back. It's a tough one. The thing is, we shouldn't have to be perfect at this at all. We shouldn't have to anything, right? xo
Yup. You said it. And unfortunately for me, it wasn't the first, and wouldn't be the last. I'm hoping that at some point change will come, but I'm doubtful. This has been happening forever.
My Lou story: I was in Rome in May 1981 traveling with friends after our semester abroad in London. My friend Kate and I were taking a city bus back to our hostel. I think we'd been at the Vatican or the Coliseum. The bus was packed so we had to stand for the first few stops, but eventually a seat opened up. I asked Kate if she wanted to sit and she said no, I should take the seat. It was an aisle seat. There were nuns and priests all over the bus, plus a lot of ordinary folks, both young and old. I was looking out the window when I felt Kate poking my arm. But when I looked up, it wasn't Kate, it was some strange man's crotch. I was utterly and completely horrified. He must have moved away quickly because all I remember is rubbing my arm furiously to get the very feel of him off me. And all around me, people noticed and instead of offering looks of sympathy, they laughed. I felt so alone. When Kate made her way back to the bus and I told her what happened, I recall her saying, "Why do you think I didn't want to sit there?" which in retrospect, given that she was kind and gentle, I kind of can't believe. Maybe she was trying to make a joke out of it because she was as horrified as I was. I don't recall us talking about it after that. But it still gives me the chills, just thinking about it.
I'll bet it gives you the chills. Hard to get the taint out. The part that makes me angriest about the story besides the insensitivity of your friend is that people on the bus laughed about it. Fuck that. Horrible. I'm sorry that happened to you. I hope that's all of it and that it isn't a one story of many from your life. Thank you for commenting, Debbie. Thank you. xo
Thank you, Nan. Not even the nuns and priests tried to comfort me. I remember thinking, "Isn't that your job? To give solace to people? What's the matter with you?" If something like that happened to me today, I'd stand up and knee the guy. Or punch him.
Why is it that every woman I know has a Lou story - from every phase of their lives? And it never seems to end. Doesn't matter if you are pre-pubescent teen or a post menopausal woman and everything in between.
In the 1970s, I went with my mother to the opening of the new reference library in Toronto - she was a teacher librarian and was very pleased to be invited - and while touring the facility, I noticed a man approach her and stand very, very close to her, almost touching, even though there was lots of space on the balcony she was on overlooking the main area. She would've been in her fifties at the time and I in my twenties. I walked nearer to her and stood there staring at him. My anger was palpable, and he could see I was ready to rumble, and he backed off and slunk away. Now, she was beautiful and had spent her life fending off these types, but it doesn't really seem to matter what you look like or how old or young you are, they're out there.
My daughter has risen through the ranks and while pregnant in her thirties with her first child, a colleague started telling her how much he enjoyed having sex with his wife when she was pregnant. WTF? He put it in a text too - the fool. When she told him that she was feeling uncomfortable with his comment, instead of apologizing, he continued to to send her texts in the same vein. She expressed a touch of remorse for reporting it because he was fired over it, but goddamnit it, that was in 2022!
Well, maybe we are making a little progress if the dude who harassed your daughter was fired. But I think it's such a vast issue, more of ingrained mindset of male privilege, and obvious mental illness and sociopathy in the case of pedophiles. We have to keep telling the stories, we have to let go of fear of speaking out (not easy) and remember that WE have nothing to be ashamed of. But they do...
He was pretty f'ing stupid. I neglected to mention she was HIS BOSS!
While going through university, she worked in retail at Lululemon. The Manager of the store was a pig who would brush up against the young women who worked there and make lewd comments. They were afraid to say anything because he controlled the shifts they were given. My daughter is gorgeous, but she is 6'1", works out, and doesn't take any shit from anyone so she confronted him on it and reported it to their Head Office. Instead of dealing with it, he was transferred to another store. I asked her at the time if she was working for Lululemon, or the Catholic Church?
Oh Nan, This essay just gutted me. I could feel for you, that lost innocence, your dashed excitement because of a predator. And I totally understood your fear, why you didn't back away from him in line, why you shook his hand. I have so much compassion for that 13-year-old Nan. Of course you didn't say anything. Everything in the way we were raised, especially then, and in society even now, is to be a good girl, not make waves. I am so glad you told the story now. I also have compassion for the 12-year-old me who was beckoned to come near a car on my way home from school in suburban Long Island. As I neared the vehicle, I saw the man, in some kind of beige uniform, like the kind gas attendants or mechanics wore ,holding something in his hands, down near the bottom of his chest. To my great horror, I realized it was his erect penis. I backed away and ran like hell for home. He didn't follow me. My mother called the police. I never saw the man or that car again, but like you, I think I stopped being a kid that day. Thank you for sharing these stories and you read them so well!
Amy, thank you. Your response made me cry. For you, for me, for all of us, (most of us?) who've experienced any kind of violation. It's so sick and so awful. Suburban Long Island! Syosset for me. At 18, I couldn't get out fast enough. Hugs to you, and more appreciation than I can express. I'm happy to know that you listen. I love recording my essays. xo
Thanks for this heartfelt response. So many tears to be shed. I grew up in Westbury. And yes, at 18, I, too, never turned back. I record my essays, too, and I think I could learn a thing or two from your reading voice. You sound like one of my favorite NPR voices, like Nina Totenberg or Susan Stamberg.
OHHH. Thank you for the Nina Totenberg and Susan Stamberg comparison! I hated the sound of my own voice for years. But I LOVE storytelling. My writing started as brief forays, penning 4 minute stories for a local Slam. I fell in love not only with the writing but with the performance aspect. I want to work on refining my vocals. I don't breathe properly while I'm recording, trying to figure that out! Lately, I've come to love the sound of my recorded voice. My father was and my brother is possessed of gorgeous sounding voices. Funny how we perceive or mis-perceive ourselves. Westbury was so close. We have to do a did you go to camp and where game...I'm 63 going on...older! And I read in my welcome email that you're headed for Barcelona! That's exciting. I've always wanted to go there. Maybe one day! I feel like I made a new friend in you, today. Thanks, Amy. xo
Yes, you did make a friend, Nan. I love learning more about you. Glad you are in the storytelling business now. I've made a livelihood as a business writer and newspaper journalist since I graduated college in 1982 but my own writing passions--fiction, and now, the creative non-fiction essays I didn't even know I had in me--that's what gets me up in the morning.
You'll have someone to visit in Barcelona one day.
And as for camp: I went to 4-H camp in Riverhead, Long Island. That opening camp scene in the film of "Are you There God It's Me Margaret?" --oh, how I could identify! You, too, maybe.
Yay! I’m glad to hear that about our new bond. I’d love to visit one day. I have the aesthetic hots for Gaudi.
I went to a couple of day camps. A horrible first one called camp Sureka, my second summer in LI. The summer of never-ending rain where sat in some classroom in a circle of desks, waiting for something to happen, day after day. Then, Fiedel in Glen Cove for a summer, then Usdan for a summer, back to Fiedel for 2 summers, then to Buck’s Rock for two, and then…working at Fiedel. Aren’t you glad I asked? I moved around a lot! xo
Your camp experience like another essay in the works, Nan!
In all honesty, I felt where this was going and stopped reading because it was triggering. But then I thought, it's Nan, my friend and sister writer, and I read as much of her work as time allows. So, I came back to this piece, read it through.
I'm sorry that happened to you, and ended the age your age of innocence so cruelly and abruptly. I'm also glad you're here writing about it, getting it out for yourself and for all of us who have had similar experiences - perhaps much much worse.
In our own unique way we find the ways in which to heal those fractured parts of ourself. Writing is one of those ways. Thank you dear, Nan.
I love you, Paulette. Thank you for taking that risk of staying with the piece. That's a very generous and loving thing to do. I'm so very moved by your choice. I have other stories about similar things that have happened to me, especially in my youth. I want to tell them, because I think it makes a difference, supports my healing, and could be helpful to someone else. I know it can be a major trigger for some, but I need to do it, and I don't think trigger warnings are particularly helpful, even though they are well-intentioned. xo
I support you telling your stories and writing them, Nan. I agree that they can and do make a difference to readers, and to you the writer. That's interesting, I don't necessarily feel that trigger warnings are particularly helpful or necessary either, but I've not given voice to that feeling, thanks for sharing that. For me, the reading, it's an intuitive sense of my readiness. In coming back to this piece I was in a place to do so. Keep on keeping on with the Next Write Thing. I'm here for it!
That’s fabulous!! 👏❤️🎉
It's cray-cray, is what it is!
Thanks, Paulette, and thank you for mention your intuitive sense of readiness. It is all about learning to check in with ourselves and trusting the messages. I'm getting close to a 1000 subscribers if I combine my two stacks. I'm super excited!
I’m glad you were eventually ready to break the silence. Good god, how this makes my blood boil!
Well written. A potent message. Thank you!
Thank you, Elizabeth. I have a lot of other stories to tell. Writing them gives me clarity.
I think writing does that for many of us. Glad to be on the journey with you.
Yes. Me too. xo
Late to the conversation, and so very sorry about that. I was thinking about you, and how helpless and afraid you felt, and wanted to reach out immediately. Couldn’t understand why I didn’t. Reading through the comments, I see how many of us have been through the same thing. All of us? Will we ever know? I thought of the things I’ve experienced as an adult, how horrible they were, and continue to take up space in my head, bringing tremendous shame. Too long and complicated a story.
And when I got about three-quarters of the way through, I was hit with a memory so deeply buried that I didn’t know it existed. When I was twelve, enjoying a swim at the neighborhood pool, a boy I didn’t know grabbed my crotch and pinched. Hard. I got out of the water, in pain and confusion. Didn’t tell anyone, not even the friend I was with. I never went back to that pool. I was “sick” on swim days in school. As an adult, I took a few swimming lessons, but have not gone swimming for decades.
This is NOT to say I was “triggered.” It is a good feeling, a huge relief, to know at last that my fear of being in a pool wasn’t a matter of cowardice. It was trauma. And now my body can let it go.
Thank you, Nan for your courage. And thanks to all who have written these comments. You have helped me more than you can possibly know.
Love to you too, Nan.💕
Mary. I love you even more than I did before I read your comment. I thought about doing a trigger warning at the beginning of the story, but for the most part, I don't believe in them. I think a trigger warning is a possibly manipulative way to pull some one in, even if it's well-intentioned because I think it's hard for us to resist possible titillation. I don't know if that makes sense, and now I'm wandering. Sorry. I decided against the warning, because we all share the distinction of being touched inappropriately, spoken to abusively, and hurt in other ways that I care not to list. I have too many of these stories. We all do.
I'm furious and so saddened to know that that kid took something beautiful from you. I'm so sorry. We have to unearth all these stories. It's healing, it's empowering and it's necessary. I will tell more of them in time.
I salute and thank you for your courage. To tell your story, to have it arise suddenly and then immediately share it. You've given us a gift. Let's talk soon. Sending love to you.
How awful, Nan. And I know that feeling, being so frozen with fear that you do what is expected even though it makes you scream inside. Very brave of you to share such a traumatic experience.
Thank you, lovely Troy. I'm glad to know you understand that feeling. It's so frustrating, and hard not to berate oneself about it, instead of extending understanding and empathy toward ourselves. xo
Fuck,Fuck,Fuck! Fuck all the measley,depraved,cowardly Lous out there. God protect us from them. I hope they get help in Hell.
Yeah. That. I don't think there is a hell. And honestly, I think in some cases the mental illness runs so deep, that it can't be fixed in people like him. And that's not a pass for what he did at all. BUT we need to make change and keep talking about it, calling men out when they step over that boundary that's glaringly clear to us as women, AND teaching boys about those boundaries, about that attitude of ownership they seem to adopt as they grow in our culture and in too many others, as well. It sucks. It always has, it always will. Enraging. Thank you, Marguerite for your comment. I get it. xoxo
Aargh. I don’t know what else to say. I get angrier and angrier. The constant violation and disrespect and dismissal. The attitudes of our culture fosters this kind of behavior. I mean that you can’t just have a good time out-foxing your moms!
Yes, to that out-foxing thing. Life for girls isn't like life for boys. Aaarrgggghhh is a good place to start, for sure...but obviously, it's not enough. How do we change the culture? That's the question. I have no idea what the answer is, but I'm going to keep talking and writing about it. xoxo
Oh Nan. Reading this, and reading all the comments, made my blood boil. So many Me Too stories... and yes, me too, more than once. First time on the subway when I was 8 or 9, sitting next to my mother. The man on the other side was had a large folded rug on his lap and under cover of that he slid his hand under my skirt and panties. I was scared to get up because if his hand got stuck my panties might pull down and everyone on the subway would see, and it would be my fault. I remember his face photographically; I could pick him out of a police lineup 60 years later. We need a group howl of rage to exorcise these memories. Writing about them is a great place to start.
Thanks for sharing your terrifying story. My goodness, so much sickness in the world. And yes, I remember Lou's face as if it happened yesterday and not 50 years later. It's disgusting and infuriating to feel trapped in a public place with other people around you. What's more upsetting, as evidenced by some of the stories shared here, is that the other people witness and do nothing. A group howl might be a good start. Don't know if it would exorcise the memories of violation (I have more than one, unfortunately), but it would bond us together more tightly and lessen the sting. The thing is change. Will that ever happen? Love to you. xo
So very sorry that this happened to you and your friend. It's appalling in ANY location (and your comments are full of other examples), but it really adds to the hurt that it was at an art museum. (That reads like a very shallow comment, but it isn't intended that way.) The disjunct between the hopeful and optimistic and shiny day the two of you had planned and what happened is heartbreaking.
Not shallow at all, Amy. The way I interpreted your meaning is that it’s a sacred space. At least that’s what it means to me. Any space that is dedicated to displaying the wonders, creativity, and brilliance of humanity is holy ground in my book. And yes. It was heartbreaking.
Well written! Creepy as hell and I’m so sorry this happened to you.
I can recall similar situations in which I too did not or was not able to speak or act in ways which would have honored my own body. I’ve grown a lot, but I’m still not perfect at this.
Thank you for sharing this. 🌹
Right!!! Xo
Gosh! I wish they would make an edit option for those of us using phones. I wanted to add, I was nearly sexually abused by a brother, and was saved at the last minute by someone at the door. I remember feeling how “wrong” it felt, but I don’t remember much resistance at all.
It's hard to resist if you're terrified or frozen. And then we get shamed for not fighting back. It's a tough one. The thing is, we shouldn't have to be perfect at this at all. We shouldn't have to anything, right? xo
Your knack for capturing these moments is just eerie. So glad I found you!
Thanks, Seth. Same back at you! xo
Keep writing my darling daughter. You make a difference in women’s lives. It happened to me on the subway when I was 12 years old.
I didn’t know how to tell Meme and I kept it a secret. 🙏🏻❣️
Thanks, Mom. Yeah. I get it. Women go through one indignity after another. I hope that's about to change. I pray that it's about to change. xo
It makes me disgusted that all the women I know have a Lou story. I’m sorry this happened to you, to me and all the women I know.
Yup. You said it. And unfortunately for me, it wasn't the first, and wouldn't be the last. I'm hoping that at some point change will come, but I'm doubtful. This has been happening forever.
My Lou story: I was in Rome in May 1981 traveling with friends after our semester abroad in London. My friend Kate and I were taking a city bus back to our hostel. I think we'd been at the Vatican or the Coliseum. The bus was packed so we had to stand for the first few stops, but eventually a seat opened up. I asked Kate if she wanted to sit and she said no, I should take the seat. It was an aisle seat. There were nuns and priests all over the bus, plus a lot of ordinary folks, both young and old. I was looking out the window when I felt Kate poking my arm. But when I looked up, it wasn't Kate, it was some strange man's crotch. I was utterly and completely horrified. He must have moved away quickly because all I remember is rubbing my arm furiously to get the very feel of him off me. And all around me, people noticed and instead of offering looks of sympathy, they laughed. I felt so alone. When Kate made her way back to the bus and I told her what happened, I recall her saying, "Why do you think I didn't want to sit there?" which in retrospect, given that she was kind and gentle, I kind of can't believe. Maybe she was trying to make a joke out of it because she was as horrified as I was. I don't recall us talking about it after that. But it still gives me the chills, just thinking about it.
I'll bet it gives you the chills. Hard to get the taint out. The part that makes me angriest about the story besides the insensitivity of your friend is that people on the bus laughed about it. Fuck that. Horrible. I'm sorry that happened to you. I hope that's all of it and that it isn't a one story of many from your life. Thank you for commenting, Debbie. Thank you. xo
Thank you, Nan. Not even the nuns and priests tried to comfort me. I remember thinking, "Isn't that your job? To give solace to people? What's the matter with you?" If something like that happened to me today, I'd stand up and knee the guy. Or punch him.
Women with this type of experience could start a whole new Section on Substack with their stories. Unfortunately - Me Too.
Absolutely agree, unfortunately. Thanks for reading and commenting, Kate. xo
Why is it that every woman I know has a Lou story - from every phase of their lives? And it never seems to end. Doesn't matter if you are pre-pubescent teen or a post menopausal woman and everything in between.
In the 1970s, I went with my mother to the opening of the new reference library in Toronto - she was a teacher librarian and was very pleased to be invited - and while touring the facility, I noticed a man approach her and stand very, very close to her, almost touching, even though there was lots of space on the balcony she was on overlooking the main area. She would've been in her fifties at the time and I in my twenties. I walked nearer to her and stood there staring at him. My anger was palpable, and he could see I was ready to rumble, and he backed off and slunk away. Now, she was beautiful and had spent her life fending off these types, but it doesn't really seem to matter what you look like or how old or young you are, they're out there.
My daughter has risen through the ranks and while pregnant in her thirties with her first child, a colleague started telling her how much he enjoyed having sex with his wife when she was pregnant. WTF? He put it in a text too - the fool. When she told him that she was feeling uncomfortable with his comment, instead of apologizing, he continued to to send her texts in the same vein. She expressed a touch of remorse for reporting it because he was fired over it, but goddamnit it, that was in 2022!
Are we making no progress?
Well, maybe we are making a little progress if the dude who harassed your daughter was fired. But I think it's such a vast issue, more of ingrained mindset of male privilege, and obvious mental illness and sociopathy in the case of pedophiles. We have to keep telling the stories, we have to let go of fear of speaking out (not easy) and remember that WE have nothing to be ashamed of. But they do...
He was pretty f'ing stupid. I neglected to mention she was HIS BOSS!
While going through university, she worked in retail at Lululemon. The Manager of the store was a pig who would brush up against the young women who worked there and make lewd comments. They were afraid to say anything because he controlled the shifts they were given. My daughter is gorgeous, but she is 6'1", works out, and doesn't take any shit from anyone so she confronted him on it and reported it to their Head Office. Instead of dealing with it, he was transferred to another store. I asked her at the time if she was working for Lululemon, or the Catholic Church?
I hear you. It's infuriating.