23rd and Irving

I was fifteen when I walked early one fall evening to my friend, Charlotte’s, house. Puberty had taken over my body seemingly overnight. In a matter of months my breasts ballooned from an A to nearly a D cup. I was not accustomed to my new body. I was even less accustomed to the attention my mammary glands now bestowed upon me. Unknown men in cars now honked and yelled words about my breasts. Boys sat behind me in class so they could pop my bra straps. One boy got a quarter from the other boys for each time he successfully copped a full-hand feel of my breasts while I walked down the hallway. My button down shirts no longer buttoned. Even my girlfriends teased me about my copious breasts.

But that evening, the boys who called out to me from across the street didn’t say anything about my boobs. They crossed 23rd Avenue to walk with me. They said they went to the same school as me. And they may have, although I questioned if the younger of the two was old enough to be in high school yet. They joked with me about something or other. They asked me where I was going. I kept it vague. “To a friend’s,” I said. I was getting comfortable walking with these two, and even a little grateful for the company, when it happened. As we approached a vacant lot on Irving and 23rd, the larger boy stepped behind me and grabbed me by my crotch, lifting me up off the ground and started carrying me into the vacant lot. I was so surprised. It took a few steps before I began to squirm and object and try to wrestle free. The other boy grabbed at my flailing arms trying to contain them. “Put me down.” “Let go of me.” “Stop,” I said over and over and over.

Once in the tall weeds of the vacant lot, they began to force me down to the ground. I could, maybe, wrestle myself away from one of them, but having the two of them working together, I felt my ability to control what was happening slip away.  (When processing this later, it seemed to me that this wasn’t the first time these two had done something like this. They had too much of an unspoken system already worked out between them.)

What happened next surprised even me. What happened next is that I screamed. But it wasn’t my scream that surprised these boys. They were ready with a hand to muffle me. But it was the words that I screamed, I believe, that surprised them. I screamed the most unexpected nine words ever to come out of my mouth. I never said them before, nor I have said these words since. But I don’t want what I screamed to detract from the point of why I am finally writing down this event. I screamed these unexpected words, and the boys both let go of their hold on me, and ran away.

There I was. In the dirt. In the dark. About eight blocks from home. What did I do next?

I got up, brushed myself off, and continued walking to Charlotte’s.  

I guess I was stunned. I didn’t know what to call what had just happened to me. I understood rape at the time to mean when a man unknown to a woman forces his penis inside her vagina. That clearly had not happened in this instance. And, I didn’t get hurt. I mean, there were no marks or bruises. Now, some 46 years later, I realize I was hurt - - but not in a physical way.

I continued on to Charlotte’s, where after several minutes of usual teenage girl chit chat, I confided in her what happened on my way to her house. Charlotte’s face grew serious. I was grateful for that, because I hoped it meant she understood the fear I starting to feel. Then she asked me in a low, hushed tone, “Did they touch you? You know, down there?” Her face looked a little horrified. I wanted to soothe her concerns. “No," I said. "Not directly. Just over my clothes.” Such a look of relief Charlotte had when I reassured her that my vagina remained untouched. “We should tell George,” Charlotte said next. George was her older brother. He drove a car, had a job, and was regarded as a stand-up kind of guy in the 'hood. I was both willing and unwilling to share my story with George. Willing, in case he wanted to defend my virtue. Unwilling, if it meant he might think less of me. But, in the end, I did tell George. After hearing my story, George sat pensive, looking down at his hands for a long while. Finally he spoke. “Why were you out walking after dark all by yourself, Patty?” he asked.

I was crushed. It had been my fault! Poor judgement on my part. Foolish risk taking. And this sense of shame stayed with me. I haven’t told more than two or three people since about this event. I can go weeks, even months without thinking about this night. But every time I find myself on the corner of 23rd and Irving, and see the small flower garden behind the wrought iron fence that has since replaced the vacant lot, all the details about that night come rushing in.  

Every. Single. Time.

Adventures While Camping Solo

I recently found myself camping in bear country. Alone in a canyon with just my dog
and a small air horn that I bring for emotional protection. After a series
of campsites flooded with people, I was happy to find this empty site located alongside
a babbling creek a few miles up a canyon off a gravel road. Zoey (dog) and I arrived in

early afternoon just as a mountain rainstorm began to descend upon us. We sat in the
van, me eating my chicken salad and Zoey wishing I'd share, waiting for the rain to
stop. Once it did, we set up our camping spot in quick order, explored a path as far as
it would go in one direction and then back to the van. Not another vehicle passed on
the road. No other camper arrived to share our large group site. It was only 3 pm - -
still hours before dark - - and we were already quite bored. I decided to head back to
town for a quick tour of its cemetery, and to pick up a bottle of tequila.

A few hours later, back at our solitary campsite, I sipped on the tequila as I prepared
and ate my evening meal. After dinner, I took a couple more sips of the tequila and
was enjoying its warmth ooze through my veins when I noticed the scratches.

Tell tale vertical scratches on the trees. Bear scratches. Fresh bear scratches. The
bark was shredded in places well above my head. The nail marks left deep grooves in
the tree's soft exposed flesh. A large bear, no doubt.

"Oh sh*!" was my first tequila-clouded thought. It was almost dark and my brain was
racing. What to do? What to do?! Somehow I extracted from my foggy memory a host
of bear safety skills. I put all food, cooking gear and the clothes I had worn to cook in,
inside a two man tent I had brought along, "just in case". Then, I set the ice chest
outside of the tent, and rigged it with every metal pan or chair I had so I'd hear the
clanging of an intruding bear. Next, I moved the van, where Zoey and I planned to sleep,
to the furthest end of the campsite and turned it around so I could shine the headlights
on the offending bears as they crashed and clanged their way into the ice chest and
nylon tent.

Then it was time for bed. I carefully stowed my glasses in the center compartment. I kept
the airhorn within easy reach. I studied one last time the exit path I would need to navigate
in the dark to reach the road. I hung the van's keys on the turn signal. And then I laid down
to sleep.

Or not.

Images of a large ban of marauding bears kept sleep at bay for most of the night. When
I looked at the clock for the 100th time and saw it was nearly sunrise, such a sense of relief
washed over me. I was still alive and our campsite intact.

This event became a metaphor for me. This isn't the first time I've turned an idyllic scene
complete with babbling creek, into a band of marauding bears. How often am I afraid of what
might happen? How often do I have the skills to navigate a potential hazard, but then doubt
my own abilities?

Yet, in this instance, I put together a plan. And executed it. And, for all intents and purposes,
I survived. Maybe not as gracefully or as confidently as I might've liked. But I didn't go back to town looking for a motel room. Good for me.