Minor Violation

At 1:30am, I hopped off the 6 train...cursing the 4/5 for continuing its haitus on service south of Brooklyn Bridge and flipped open my phone for the walk home.

It was a ghost town, per usual, as I ambled--without weaving--down Beekman under some scaffolding that seems to permanently live on that buildings, texting with a fury that only a strong buzz could bring on. A small, Mexican-looking man suddenly reached out and honked my boob. This complete stranger was not just touching me--he had grabbed an entire breast and squeezed it. My reaction rate may have been quicker if I'd been sober but I think the sheer shock of what was happening may have slowed me down anyway. I spat in his face and began hurling epithets which would have made a sailor blush.

I felt outrage wash over me, followed by humiliation--shortly after he walked away and I continued insulting him loudly (there was no one to hear!), I felt fear. Fear that if he had wanted to fight me, I would have lost. Fear that had he chosen to rape me, then and there, I'm not sure I would have been unscathed. Fear that walking home from the subway at night alone just wasn't safe--especially in my desolate neighborhood--that was the fear that stopped me in my tracks.

I think it needs to be noted that I was wearing a black tunic with long-sleeved thermal underwear under it--nothing even remotely revealing--and loosely-fitted jeans. In fact, it is one of the few going out clothes that I have that is modest and proper.

As I got further from the scene of the event, I came to terms with the reality that it was a minor violation at best--passing the cop car on Fulton Street, I imagined myself telling the police what had happened and whilst they might not have laughed at me, it's hardly an offense worth mentioning in the context of crime in New York City. To say it simpler, I got over it!