Eighteen years old. My first job out of high school. Commuting to downtown Philadelphia on the SEPTA 66 bus from City Line to Bridge Street.
A man sits next to me; the bus trudges on. Sleepy, I close my eyes. Suddenly my eyes snap open. The man next to me has his hand on my thigh, just below my miniskirt. Aauuugh! What do I do? I cannot see myself making a scene; I'm too shy. I jump in my seat, my whole body shakes. The man jerks his hand away. I do not close my eyes for the rest of the trip but ride, mortified and silent. I'm just a kid, for god's sake, and I do not know about these things or how to handle them.
The 66 trundles along; I sit there silent and petrified. The man is on his guard but even the 18-year-old girl knows he yearns to do it again. I imagine myself standing up, haughtily, and pushing past him out of the seat. I also imagine him mauling me as I squeeze past. I just sit there. There are people standing in the aisle. They'll see and stop him if he tries to grope me again. Won't they?
Finally, we pull into the El station. I try to stand and discover that he has somehow wedged his foot between my feet and our legs become tangled. I jerk my leg free. He exits. I hang back a while and I never see him again.
My first year of commuting to the city, at eighteen then nineteen, I have a series of horrible experiences in the Philadelphia public transit system. Then never again. That first year I must have been so innocent, so naive and assailable. Having earned my stripes after a year of commuting, the creeps and freaks must have recognized my jadedness, the thick skin I had grown. They never bothered me again.
A man sits next to me; the bus trudges on. Sleepy, I close my eyes. Suddenly my eyes snap open. The man next to me has his hand on my thigh, just below my miniskirt. Aauuugh! What do I do? I cannot see myself making a scene; I'm too shy. I jump in my seat, my whole body shakes. The man jerks his hand away. I do not close my eyes for the rest of the trip but ride, mortified and silent. I'm just a kid, for god's sake, and I do not know about these things or how to handle them.
The 66 trundles along; I sit there silent and petrified. The man is on his guard but even the 18-year-old girl knows he yearns to do it again. I imagine myself standing up, haughtily, and pushing past him out of the seat. I also imagine him mauling me as I squeeze past. I just sit there. There are people standing in the aisle. They'll see and stop him if he tries to grope me again. Won't they?
Finally, we pull into the El station. I try to stand and discover that he has somehow wedged his foot between my feet and our legs become tangled. I jerk my leg free. He exits. I hang back a while and I never see him again.
My first year of commuting to the city, at eighteen then nineteen, I have a series of horrible experiences in the Philadelphia public transit system. Then never again. That first year I must have been so innocent, so naive and assailable. Having earned my stripes after a year of commuting, the creeps and freaks must have recognized my jadedness, the thick skin I had grown. They never bothered me again.
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