One Girl, One Cup

Some say, you officially become a New Yorker when you have lived here for ten years. And when I say “Some Say” I mean…that’s what the fictional female characters on Sex and The City determined. There are other ways to measure one’s inherent “New Yorkness” such as residence in NYC during 9/11, having a “dry cleaner guy”, and insisting on arguing with a anyone who will dare challenge you to the “best slice of pizza/cup of coffee/pedicure” contest.

As a female- I would say that you officially become a New Yorker when you have a confrontational yet educated response to sexual harassment ready to roll trippingly off the tongue. A monologue, if you will, highlighting the fact that you do indeed have a personal space bubble and the violation of such bubble has not gone unnoticed. Now, bear in mind- this speech should be short and to the point, accusatory without screaming “Rape”, and illicit a response not only from the perpetrator but from those around you who might aid in your protection, should you need it.

Now, don’t get me wrong- I am not one of these girls who wants to write a blog about all of the men that yell “hey baby” as we walk to the deli, or even the theatrically inclined midtown dudes who shout “Hey SJP” or “You look like a young Bernadette Peters!” In those situations I just remind myself that men still live on the playground, in a world where the childhood rhyme, “Sticks and Stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”, took on a literal meaning to them and they believe they have done nothing wrong. In these situations, the speech would be uncalled for. It could even confuse the men into thinking you actually want to speak to them- or create an open forum for them to call you a stuck up bitch, prude, or some other terrible name for having the gall to stand up for yourself. They were just playing baby….smile…a pretty girl like you shouldn’t get so mad…You get my drift…

I am talking about the men, strangers to be more specific, who make the bold move to actually touch a woman they don’t know. In public. This has now happened to me on two separate occasions, and due to the repeat performance I have been sitting at home on this rainy day refining the speech that I hope to never use.

When you live here for several years, there are certain things you pick up on other than the best deli’s/coffee shops/nail salons. I am talking about survival skills- such as, avoiding Times Square at all costs, subway pre-walking, and the mastery of the cute yet extremely warm winter coat. All of that being said, all of those lessons learned, I somehow found myself on 42nd St and 8th Ave at 6:00pm on St. Patrick’s Day. It was a mistake. An error in judgment. I wasn’t heading to the Irish Rogue or anything, so I wasn’t a complete fool on a fools errand- but I did have my guard up. As I crossed the overly crowded intersection from Port Authority up to Duane Reade a man in a blazer was heading my way. He looked me right in the eye, and bopped me one in my lady part. Yup. You read that correctly. He cupped my vagina. Fully. My first good old fashioned cupping experience occurred accidentally when my best gay friend became overly enthusiastic while doing some improv-ography at our So You Think You Can Dance Party Aught 6. As jarring as that may have been for myself, and those who witnessed it, I must say I would rather re-live that once a day than this “St. Patty’s Pat” as it is now referred to.

It wasn’t until I arrived at Kodama about 2 and a half minutes later with my mouth agape and the color drained from my face that I was able to fully process what had just happened. I explained to my girlfriends why I was so shaken up and we all did our best to regain both our appetites and some sense of normalcy for the rest of the meal. The more I thought about it the more agitated I became. My inner Gloria Steinam began to take hold and I realized that the most upsetting aspect of this event was not a strange man’s hand on my privates, though that was extremely disturbing, it was the fact that if I had been walking with a man- it never would’ve happened. I was a victim simply because I was a lone female and daring to cross the street.

This idea was infuriating. The notion that if I were with a man, I would be safer, protected, less vulnerable- had never felt so real. The other question that kept nagging at me was why does this guy do it? How often? Has he ever been caught? Is he a banker? Or a teacher? Where was his bus headed? Home to his wife and children? His unfurnished apartment filled with pizza boxes?

And though I was in no mood to be with drunken straights in a loud bar, we headed back to Queens to try and salvage the evening. As I repeated this story to some acquaintances at the pub, the recurring theme after the initial shock and disgust, was to scold me for not doing anything. To ask why I didn’t stop him, yell out, find the police, or any number of other logical solutions. And the truth is- I just kept walking. It didn’t even cross my mind to follow him. Stop him, scream, tell someone who could do something. I suppose I was in shock. It was shocking. And what could anyone have done? This is New York City. We are just lucky to be alive. It would be my word against his. I was wearing make up and a dress, maybe it was my fault. Plus, there’s the fear. If a man can touch you sexually with absolutely no invitation whatsoever, what else might he be capable of? If I can take this and keep walking…what else can I withstand?

After a few days and several showers, the incident began to wear off. My friends found the story both appropriately horrifying and hilarious, I felt cared about and protected, at least for the immediate future, and I continued to wear my boots and dresses on 8th Ave. I started to appreciate the moments when I had a man by my side more than I care to admit, and the thought that there might be something to that feeling began to rise from my romantically stifled consciousness. Of course, seasons changed and walking alone again became my most common mode of transportation, and winter coats protected us all from the elements both natural and human.

Then last night, the warmest night in a long while, I was walking to the train- when an older man in a button down shirt took his hand to my stomach and said hello. He rubbed my stomach once and then proceeded down the street in the opposite direction. I froze. Words came into my mind but didn’t make it as far as my vocal chords. Not sentences or complete thoughts. Just words. Hey. Seriously. Hey you. Wait. Stop.

So, I guess this is progress. I stopped. I thought about defending myself. I began to work on my speech for next time. Third times a charm in the world of street molestation I hear. And I realized that in the same way that this wouldn’t have happened to me if I was walking with a man, he certainly wouldn’t have pulled that shit if he was walking with a woman.