January of my 13th year was an interesting one, full of firsts and lasts. I was finally a teenager. I had joined the unavoidable gaggle of brace-faced 8th graders, who roamed the streets of New York, by getting my own pink and lavender braces. I had convinced my parents to let me to go to my first concert at Webster Hall. The most important milestone however, was finally getting my parents to let me go places by myself. I was a teenager after all.
As for lasts? This was the last time (I continue to hope) that I would be put in physical danger by a man fiending for a sexual fix. When I was 13 years old a grown man in a deli, just down the street from my apartment, attacked me.
The day was one of those half school days that takes place on holidays or snow-days. It was bitterly cold outside and the snow had stopped from the night before, but was piled on the streets in mountainous lumps. I remember coming home from school and asking my mother for some money. I was going to go to the bodega for a pack of my favorite gum and a candy bar. She obliged and sent me on my way. As I entered the store, in a coat that reached my knees, opaque black tights, and black ballet flats, the man behind the counter called me sexy.
I knew this man, or so I thought. He was the man who sold me candy and always let me take an extra for free. He had a thick Middle Eastern accent, a black mustache, and olive skin. He was larger and much stronger looking than me. At five-foot-six and 98 pounds, you could snap me in half if you tried. As a young girl, I was accustomed to lewd comments. Sexy was a word I learned to hate before it was something I could learn to be.
“Wow, it’s my little friend. How are you today? No school? You look so sexy!” He said, grinning, sizing me up like a dog surveying its dinner. I was instantly uncomfortable, and noticeably alone. I felt small, insignificant, and suddenly hot. “I had a half a day. Just came to get some candy.” I said, quickly looking around for what I intended to buy.
That was when he left his place from behind the counter. The man sauntered over to the frozen version of myself that existed in his very reach. He started petting my left arm, and pulling me closer to him. The thought of this makes me want to burn my arm off. “Why are you so dressed up? Come here, sexy. I have something to show you.”
There are moments when you can tell you’re in trouble. Moments where your skin gets goose bumps and your hairs stand up. Moments where your heartbeat quickens and your stomach feels like a black hole. This was one of those moments. “I’m in my uniform from school. I don’t really want to go anywhere. I just want to buy this.” I pleaded as I showed him the candy and gum I had managed to snatch. Then his petting turned to a strong grip. My left arm was in both of his hands and his voice was no longer friendly.
“I said come here. Let me show you something. Do you want beer? Do you want any of this?” He said frantic, angry even, pointing to a refrigerator full of standard bodega alcoholic drinks. As he was growling at me, my arm still tightly locked in his grip; the man began to forcibly walk me toward the back of the deli. I saw the door that I was being lead toward and I realized what was about to happen—where I was going. But what did he want to show me? I couldn’t speak. Should I yell? Should I fight back? Who would hear me? We were alone. I was fragile and small. I had never before felt terror like I did in that moment. It was paralyzing and silencing. What would happen to me? I thought, why did I have to wear these stupid tights and this stupid skirt? Why couldn’t I have worn pants today?
In a twist of fate, the door to the bodega opened. An older couple walked in and as soon as the bell atop the door chimed, the man’s grip loosened enough for me to push past him. This was my way out. I threw the candy in a corner and quickly scurried by. He followed me halfway, then stopped to speak with these potential customers. As the man was talking to the couple, I could feel his eyes on me. I was hurriedly trying to leave without him noticing, in fear that I would have been chased. “Where are you going, my little friend? Don’t you want your candy?” He yelled after me as I ran toward the door. My voice still nowhere to be found. “I wanted to show you something!” With that I was gone.
What would have happened to me if that couple had not come in looking for magazines and cheap snacks? What would have happened to me if I had stayed… for whatever reason? What would have happened to me if I hadn’t made it out?
It took me two weeks to tell my mother, and then my sisters. I remember I was in a Gristedes with my mom, looking for flour, when I mustered the courage to speak up. I told my sisters in our bedroom. I never told my dad or brothers. I worried for what would happen to this man and ultimately what would happen to my family. My dad would have the man brutally beaten, or do it himself. My brothers? They would eagerly join the post-traumatic revenge ceremony, which I could not allow to take place.
So, I kept my secret. Because victims know this truth all too well, as much as it was not my fault, I took a strange comfort in the silence. It could have been worse, so get over it. The encounter felt like a big, “What if?” What ifs don’t exactly constitute as a crime. This was my first physical encounter with sexual assault. I think about it everyday. I have not been back to that deli since. My deepest regret is losing my voice when I needed it most.
This past summer I entered my twentieth year. To celebrate, I decided to throw a birthday party. My father took me to our favorite restaurant one night, in order to make reservations.
While we waited to speak with the manager, we grabbed drinks at the bar. As one does, we ended up in conversation with a seemingly nice couple of friends. One man, and an unassuming woman. One thing lead to the next and as conversations go, we exchanged “what do you do” questions. Upon hearing I was a writer, the man (who worked in finance) mentioned how his brother-in-law just resigned as VP of one of the largest publishing companies in the world. Sirens went off in my head. This was the connection of all connections to make as an aspiring writer. It felt too good to be true. My father and the man exchanged information, he said he hoped to see me soon.
About a week later I was summoned to my father’s office. A visitor was here to speak with the both of us, but mainly with me. The important man with the publishing connection was back. He wanted to make it clear that I meet with him before he left New York for the remainder of the summer. After speaking about books and film with me, then future financial endeavors with my father, the man invited us to dinner with his powerful stepbrother. He subtly stressed that I should come alone, though my father would be welcome.
As the day went on, and we waited to hear back about where to meet and when, things took a turn that my father was not used to; a turn that women everywhere have to face daily. “I know you’re busy during the day, so send your daughter to meet with me before dinner. We can talk about her writing.” Was how it started. Then, “Why don’t we have drinks in my hotel room before the dinner?” Finally, “Send your daughter to my hotel room, alone. I want to speak with her before dinner and get to know her better.”
The realization that I was being used as a pawn, my sexuality as some sort of currency, sent my dad reeling. While my dad was enraged. I was disappointed, yet unsurprised. I am 20 years old, my father is 59. My mother always tells me, “You never want to meet your future employer at a bar.” That statement doesn’t apply to my dad, but it means the world to me. I am eye candy, while my dad was a potential partner. This is not new. I never went to the man with the important connections’ hotel room. There was no need. He was clearly dishonest and trying to levy a faux writing career against me. What would I get besides scarred and a feeling of defeat?
I bring this up, because now more than ever it is important to share these stories. We have to keep the conversation going if we want to effect change. The other day I was watching an episode of CW hit television show, “Riverdale” when I was reminded of my own close call in the deli. Cheryl was drugged and lured back to a hotel room by a friend’s friend. If the encounter had not been interrupted by her girl squad, Cheryl would have been raped—but she wasn’t. Throughout the episode she has to face this truth of wondering, does this even count? Do I get to be upset? But see, that is the problem.
Women should not have to endure a full assault in order for it to count. We shouldn’t have to endure it period. Through all of the close calls, and the almost’s, and the have-nots, and the never was’ the feelings of shame, blame, and doubt continue to persist. There is a reinforced notion that you are not a victim if you didn’t go all the way and so your voice should not be heard. Or, that if you are heard—your story is rendered insignificant. We are in a time where women finally have the mic and so far, there’s a lot to be said. A lot to be touched upon, for lack of a better term. We are finally saying, me too, but no more. Stop, look, and listen to these words because if you didn’t know before, you will learn now that words not only hurt... they matter.
These people exist everywhere. They are in plain sight. If you aren’t aware, it is because you are immune to the unwelcome offers. Your eyes are shut, this is our normal. I wish I had the time, energy, and space to detail every single encounter and close call I have had with sexual assault. However, this is not about blame, so I won’t even bother. It is about accountability and change. In this moment in time we have the power to change the way in which people approach one another, treat each other, and behave in terms of respect for another person’s space.
In my thirteenth year, a man tried to lure me in with candy and booze. At the start of my twentieth year, the reward was a career. To all of my female readers, I urge you to speak up and contribute to this new call-out culture. The only way for things to change is for us to say, #MeToo and never again.