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.