So I Was on the Six Train...

Good stories never start that way, and this story doesn't start well, although it ends brighter than anticipated. This is a story of sexual assault, and fear, and a few very brave, very kind men who helped me out of a terrifying situation. 

I was on the 6 train, headed downtown to the Flute Bar for a friend's concert. My roommate and I were dressed up, a rare occasion for make-up (though we couldn't bring ourselves to travel in heels, so we carried them in our hands) and fancy clothes. A middle schooler gave me a once-over and I was amused. She was sitting, and I was standing, holding the bar over her head.

We were two stops away from our destination when it happened. A burly man, reeking of beer, his eyes rolling around disturbingly in his head, tugged at my sleeve.

"You look so beautiful."

"Uh, thanks!"

"None of the other girls here even compare."

I smiled, flattered, but a little wary. Then he stood up, lurched towards me with his hand out, offering a slurred, incomprehensible version of his full name. Marcello? Mark? Marmaduke? Hard to say. He asked for mine.

"Uh, Lars."

"Where are you from?"

"Uh...here. New York." 

I started to wish I had lied more about my name, given an alias rather than a nickname.

"What's your last name? You're from here?"

My roommate stepped in, trying to deflect attention. "She's from this subway car. The very one." He didn't even react to her.

Then time slowed to a crawl while events escalated. The drunk lurched forward again and kissed me, putting an arm across my back. Instinctively I began to back away, now terrified where I had been only creeped out. His arm held me in place, though. I was shooting panicked looks around the train, from my roommate to other people on the seats, but no one seemed to know what to do. When the drunk realized I was trying to back away, he began whispering threats in my ear.

"I'm an ex-marine, you know. You can't run away from me." He started fumbling in his jacket, and suddenly I was worried he might have a gun; he could certainly over power me, particularly in my current state, literally paralyzed with fear, so scared I couldn't even cry.

At that moment, two men who had been conversing urgently behind me sprang into action. The first, a short but broad-shouldered middle-aged man hustled his way under the drunks arm, pushing me back and breaking the hold, letting me free. At the same time, a tall, lanky man in his late 20s or early 30s began ushering me and my roommate towards the door as the train approached a station.

"Don't touch her. Get away from this creep, girl, just go. Don't you put your hands on her. I will fucking punch your face in if I have to, you stay away."

I heard myself yelling "This is my stop!" as though I had just had a friendly encounter with a kind person, then bolted from the train. The drunk tried to follow, but the first man held him back, the second stepping onto the platform to make sure we got into the next car ok. 

I was shaken; my legs were trembling, and my heart was racing. I thought I was one of those girls who could stand up for herself, protect herself from creeps and crazies, but when the moment came, I forgot everything I ever learned about how to handle the situation. The only thought running through my head was "Don't make him mad, don't give him a reason to hurt you," like I somehow owed it to this man to be nice, as though his advances were a consequence of my behavior. I don't like it. I didn't like feeling that way. I never want to feel that way again. I never want to be in that situation again. But instead of feeling completely disgusted, totally disheartened with men, I feel an immense gratitude. The heroes in this story out number the villain. Two total strangers were willing to stick their necks on the line to help a scared girl out of a scary moment. Two people who know nothing about me were brave enough and strong enough to fight a battle I couldn't. In a city where so many blind eyes are turned, how grateful I am that those two were watching.

Being Happy

Often, it involves skipping through the streets of New York, singing. It can also involve late night coffee, Jersey Shore transcripts gone Wilde , learning new things about Billy Joel, bacon chicken pizza, antique boots, friends, NaNoWriMo, Bible study with darling girls, and unexpectedly wonderful blind dates. :)

Themes and Learning

So, earlier this week, I went to a poetry reading which is just about as exciting as it gets. Especially because of Jerry Williams. Go get his books from your local library, and try not to pee your pants. But also, I realized that my poetry is incredibly narrative, and not as thematic as it could be. What I've done with this next piece is taken different instances with similar feelings (both in my experience and in the experiences of other people, from my viewpoint) and synthesized it into one piece. Let me know what y'all think!

Interdit

When I was born
I imagine you were reading Salinger;
I imagine it was simultaneous:
your teenage angst, my infant struggle.
Your dreams were made of ideas
intellectual prowess academic progression.
I am your interruption.
I am the idea that chases your fingers
around and around in your hair;
I am the voice that spills your coffee,
forming perfect rings on an essay
left over from before my entrance.
I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an ipod?
By plugging our ears in,
we wired our brains together,
but you weren't allowed to hold my hand.
You could do it now,
If you could reach across
all of these rivers,
if I could stop
burning all of these bridges.

Every time I kissed you
I tried to narrate it in my head:
How did we lead up to this?
What brought your face so close to mine?
Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?
This is why you stopped kissing
(me).

This puts all the coffee
back into your cup, and
runs a comb through your hair,
slicked back with river water;
This places brick on top of brick,
not a bridge but a wall:
a solid, tangible obstacle.
I don't bother reaching towards it.
Your fingers will never
graze the rough red surface,
nor wish it were my face.
But I can put my back against it,
and sneer at all those phonies,
fingers interlocking tightly,
and pretend that
I don't believe in love.

Two Nights

Have you ever accidentally gone on a date? I don't recommend it, particularly not when you are new to a city, and therefore must rely on your accidental date's knowledge to prevent getting lost, even though they are making you increasingly uncomfortable. True story. We went to a show on Broadway, and I paid for my ticket which caused him to insist on buying me cake and a cab ride home. What an awkwardly silent cab ride it was. Eventually, I started composing poetry because the cab driver's French phone call was getting too fast for me to understand.

i.
Sometimes-
in the corner of my eyes-
I think you are
Someone else.
Those particular glasses,
The way your voice
pitches when impassioned-
a subtle perfume
of clumsiness and pretension.

ii.
Last night-
it was almost this morning-
I was huddled in a blanket
and he was giggling madly.
Beside me.
I wanted him
(both to stop and to hold)
but I could not reach out.
I would not speak.
Even in sleep
I am afraid.

iii.
Now-
that I am sitting across from you-
I see you have
that same 5 o'clock shadow
speckled by acne,
broken by a sneer.
Your hands are the same shape,
nails trimmed identically.
I am not speaking;
on the inside
I am determined not to give you
a reason to comfort me.
I do not want to feel your hands.

iv.
Later-
crawling from a bumbling taxi-
I understand.
You have two eyes
that can't see everything;
a voice
that knows its birdsong;
an air
that colors your actions;
a cleft chin
that spouts oil and hair;
and ten fingers
that grow strong from listing facts.
You are human.
He is human.
I am lonely.
It is all the same.

This Poem Has a Horribly Long Title

There Are Other Dimensions Where This Never Happened, Probably Because We Died in a Horrible Car Accident or Because We Simply Never Met, But I'm Sorry, Regardless

The first night was bliss.

The car smelled like make-up and stale perfume,

and my pulse was building in sync with my anticipation.

You weren't there, but I could tell it was a place you could belong to.

This was the kind of place where I want to be anonymous, loudly.

That is why I painted my face and covered my body in silk (barely).

I drank in the atmosphere like precious water in a barren desert.

I felt alive, every cell burning with energy and healing light;

He was there, an old wound still waiting patiently for a suture.

On fire, I grabbed a needle and made the first stitches, starting over.

I came home with the scents of the evening tangled in my hair.

I've never wanted to touch a cigarette, but I liked the way I smelled like they'd been touching me.

It was a brand-new happiness

And it lasted for days.

The second night was turmoil.

The car was warm,but static, like a foul green pond.

My anticipation was beginning to smell an awful lot like dread.

I felt like we'd entered the wrong dimension, the one where bad decisions get made repeatedly.

The aura of smoke turned my stomach and made me hungry for a change and violently ill, alternately.

I overcompensated for your melancholy and drove deeper your pain, clumsily, cruelly.

Your eyes were too clear and too sad to ignore, your suspicion palpable.

Who could blame you? You never saw the silk-fueled happiness on my face.

You only saw my face and his face, the image of those faces together.

This isn't the dimension where he takes my hand and we fall in love.

This is the dimension where I find an unlikely friend.

This is a wound in my heart.

And it will last for longer.

There will not be a third night, chronologically.

But the fourth night will bring an uneasy peace.

In a Sick Way, Karma Is Always Good to Me

Let's All Be Uncomfortable

This week is officially Let's All Be Uncomfortable week. I've had awkward experiences literally everyday of this week. Let's break it down.

Monday: Actually, let's not talk about this one. We'll just say it started with me reading library books in a park because I couldn't be in my house, and it just got more uncomfortable from there. Some things are better left unsaid.

Tuesday: Ok. Confession. I drown my sorrows in Taco Bell. And I eat there a lot when I'm not drowning my sorrows. My bff and I often go there for Taco Bonding Time, where we sit and spill our guts while eating tacos. Fun fact? The employees recognize me. I'm pretty sure they know all about my life. I'm also 100% positive I applied for a job there. Ginger Drive-Thru Employee Man gives me this knowing smile every time I go in. He definitely gave me one on Tuesday when I ordered the 1/2 lb potato burrito.

Wednesday: The Realtor forgot to call. I was patching and painting when the Potential Home Buyers arrived. After a quick escape, my sister kindly informed me that I'd been walking around in public, waving at people we knew, with an enormous amount of paint on my butt. Yay.

Thursday: Beluga decided she needed a new engine. For a one-car family, this is a disaster. When the mechanics simultaneously inform you of the time frame of the repair and ask you to fill out paperwork for a ride home, you often look like an idiot. The silent twenty minute drive home in the courtesy van is fun, too, particularly when you manage to get lost.

This will all be really funny. Next week.

Periphery

We are peripheral,

And our eyes do not meet.

I feel you

Sinking into my spaces

Filling those gaps,

Plugging ancient holes

With nonchalance,

Detached.

Our fingers intertwined,

Their form and texture

Is as familiar as the

Slow churn of disappointment

Dripping from head to stomach.

We are connected,

But we are not one.

We are tangled,

But we are not touching.

We are peripheral,

And our eyes cannot meet.

Your Smile is Like Springtime

The corners

resemble tiny caves,

warm and perhaps cozy,

certainly full

of some dormant creature,

poised to emerge.

The center

is like a promise

about to be fulfilled,

a flower

about to bloom.

The break is a crash of waves,

sending the sands of my serenity

into frenetic dancing.

The crests send fire

through the stars.

Springtime

is my favorite season.

Fishing

This keeps coming back to me. I choreographed it back in December, it's been performed twice now, and the final performance is on Thursday. Perhaps, after this finale, it will be resolved...