What Were You Wearing?

Let me tell you a little story:

There was this park that pretty much everyone we knew who walked to school, to the high school, would cut through.  There wasn't exactly a proper path from the park to the school, but generations of students cutting through the park had worn down a pretty clear trail to follow.  It would bring you out right next to the ice rink, cutting out a good 15 minutes of the walk.  

When I was in high school, I was part of those usual feet that blazened that path.  Usually with a friend or two.  Junior year, however, a scandal had erupted.  A man started approaching girls while they walked through the park.  He propositioned them.  He grabbed them.  He tried to touch them in places that he shouldn’t.  We were warned, “Do not cut through the park.”  We would walk the long way around.  Staying to the actual sidewalks, not the twisting forest hidden path of the park.  But every day we saw police cars pulling in and out of the park’s entrances.  Patrolling the area for the culprit.  

I had gotten into a fight with my best friend.  She was no longer talking to me.  And I was left to walking to school by myself.  I had seen those police cars in the park.  That was good, right?  Police presence meant it was safe.  So I cut through the park.  And I cut through that park every day.  And nothing happened.  

One day, about half way into the park’s entrance drive - in the exact place where I could not see the road, nor could I see the open area of the park itself.  Where all that surrounded me were plants and trees, and the filtered morning light through the branches.  A man jogged past me.  Coming from the park, towards the road, the opposite way that I was traveling.   A few seconds past, and he turned around and jogged back towards me again.  Stopping to walk next to me.  

“Hello”  he said.  

“hello.”  I said.  I knew who this man was.  No, I didn’t know him.  He wasn’t a friend of mine.  I had never seen him before in my life, but I knew exactly who he was.   I wanted to say it outloud, “I know who you are.”  “You are the man who has been attacking girls.”  I wasn’t scared.  This thought didn’t scare me.  He smiled.  

“Whatta got there?”  He asked pointing to my chest.  My small, teenage chest.  I ignored the question.  “Can I see?”  he asked.  

“No.”  I answered.  I still was not scared.  Was this the naivety of youth?  That feeling of invincibility that everyone talks about?  I’m not exactly sure.

He moved very fast, and scooped me up in his arms.  I am a little embarrassed now as to how I let that happen.  I was, and still am, pretty short.  He was taller than I was, but not hulking.  In fact he was fairly average in height and weight.  But he still was able to wrap his arms around me, and lift me off my feet, to pull me to the side of the path, closer to the trees.  I flailed, I kicked.   I tried to punch.  My arms were pinned to my chest, bent at my elbows, so I could not get enough force between my body and his to punch him, or push him away.  He used his own weight to bind my arms to me, and pulled out a knife.  A knife.  Well, that was new.  That was never on the news.  They never said he had a weapon.  Yes this is what I was thinking at the moment.  

“I’m going to fuck you.” he said.  Or something along those lines.

“No.  No you’re not.”  I said. I was still trying to kick out at him.  I knew that a good kick to the groin would be the best way to get out of this.  But my legs were then pinned backwards, whereas I was pushed to my knees, and then forced backwards, my knees bent beneath me, caged in this position by my own weight and his weight on top of me.  

“Then I will kill you.”  he said, almost with a smile, as if he was trying to be charming.

I never told the police my next words, because I was afraid that they would scold me for being a silly stupid foolish girl.  I said, “Kill me then.”  Because I was not going to let this man, as he put it, “fuck me”.  I was going to fight him until my dying breath.  He was going to have to kill me. And truly, these were the thoughts that spun through my mind more than anything else.

With a quick motion he ripped at my shirt.  Tearing a few stitches that I had labored over that very morning, because I was actually concerned that the shirt was too low cut.  So I sewed the top closed for just another half inch or so.  He didn’t actually end up ripping the shirt, as it turned out, just the new threads.  It was with the very same hand that he held the knife.  It was a kitchen knife.  The kind you use at dinner with your parents when cutting steak or chicken.  Brown or black wooden handle.  Serrated edge.

I screamed.  A loud, piercing scream.  I’m not sure why I didn't scream before.  Perhaps I thought my talking or begging or challenging was going to have more of an effect on him.  But the scream that came out of me was not voluntary.  It was primal and instinctual.  He dropped me then.  Jumping off of me, and glancing both ways down the path to and from the park.  He ran off towards the road.  

I stood.  My legs were shaky.  My adrenaline was through the roof.  But I was fine.  I started to walk again.  A normal, casual pace - my destination just a few minutes away.  It wasn't but a few seconds before I realized that I was walking, and that I probably should be running.  So I ran.  I ran into school.  I ran to my closest teacher.  One that I knew would take care of things.  

I remember their faces.  It was a mixture of sympathy, fear and worry.  They escorted me to the principal’s office, and I remember feeling like everyone was looking at me funny as we walked through the halls.  Like they knew.  They probably weren't.    

But here is really the reason that I am telling you this story.  The police came.  My parents came.  I had to tell the story over and over.  One of the first questions they asked me was, “What were YOU wearing?”  

The question at first confused me.  What was I wearing?  How is that going to help catch this guy?   I motioned to myself.  “This”  

“Were you wearing anything revealing?”  the police man asked, as if he was repeating himself.   

I was wearing a burgundy short sleeved, peasant styled,  cotton shirt, with embroidered designs along the collar.  A pair of regular 1989 style jeans - black, probably a little acid washed.  The collar came to a slight V. True I had felt a little self conscious about the depth of the V; so I had stitched it about a half inch that morning.  But I really didn’t have to.  No cleavage would have been showing.  If you were to relate it to a 3 button shirt, I sewed the collar to match the closing further upwards than closing of 2 buttons.  This is what he ripped open.  Again I motioned to my shirt, “This.  Is this revealing?”  I asked.  The police officer looked me head to toe and shook his head.  No.

I was asked “Why did you walk through the park?  We have been telling people not to cut through the park.”

“I had seen police cars patrolling the area.”  I said, “I thought it was safe.”   

The police office looked as though I had punched him in the stomach.  His face crumpled and he admitted, “I was called away this morning.”  He knew that I was depending on him - the police - to keep me safe, and he was not able to do that.  Not that it was his fault in the least, but I could see his disappointment.  This was why he was a cop.  To protect people.  and this morning, he couldn’t.  And perhaps those types of things happen all the time.  They can’t protect everyone, all the time.

And then I perhaps added insult to that injury, pointing out even more so a failure of the police force,  I said, “I thought you had caught the guy.”  No.  obviously not.

So.  There you have it.  I am lucky.  I was not hurt.  I was scared and flustered, and they gave me some sort of sleeping pills to help me sleep the day away.  Some family members gave me gifts.  Which seems weird, I know.  But I got it.  It was  because they didn’t know how else to react or what else to do for me, and they wanted to do something.  To make me feel better in some way.  I understood that.    My parents made sure that my friends called or stopped by to be there with me.  (except the one I wasn’t speaking with at the time, naturally).  The sound of footsteps on crunchy autumn leaves from behind me freaked me out for a very  long time.   

As it turns out - it was the first time this man had ever had a weapon.  I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.  The police made it sound like this was a sign that he was getting desperate, that he had reached a new level, that it would be easier to catch him now.   Attempted Sexual Assault was what they called it.  

They didn’t catch him.

I lost track of the local news in that area for awhile.  But one day, nearly 8-10 years later, there was a news story of someone attacking girls walking to school through the park.  I dropped to my knees in front of the TV screen.  They showed the police sketch.  It could have been a different man.  It could have been.  But I saw that face.  It very much matched the drawing that they did 10 years prior from my description.  Could it be the same man?  Yes.  It very well could be.  They hadn’t caught him.  And my cousin was attending that high school.  And they hadn’t caught him.  Some how the news didn’t mention that this had been happening 10 years prior.  How did they not see the connection?

I still don’t know if they ever caught him.

p.s.  And here is really why I am telling you this:  

I cannot tell how many times I have heard people say what they would do if put in bad situations.  “I would have done xyz.”  You don’t know.  You honestly don’t know until you are in it.  Especially if you were never taught or trained  how to act in these situations.   Its so easy to say, “Shove your thumbs in his eyeballs.” , “Kick him in the groin”; “Scream bloody murder”.  Your body sometimes isn’t exactly allowing you to think that straight.  Teach your children how to defend themselves.  I mean really teach them, not just tell them what to do, or something that you can refer to as “I’ve always told you to do xyz.”  No.  Send them to martial arts, or the YMCA, or boxing, or something that will actually train them to be able to get away.  

AND:   Do not blame the victim.  For goodness sakes.  A teenager should be safe to walk through a park and not be attacked.  Don’t blame them for being in that park.  And don’t even think of asking her what she was wearing.  That doesn’t matter.  It never matters.  And don’t think - don’t ever think - that this doesn’t happen.  Maybe you think that police are asking only the ‘bad girls’ or the girls who look like they might be wearing something ‘inappropriate’ these questions.  No.  I was a National Honor Society Student, clean cut and non-promiscuous as you can get - and still they were looking for a hint of a reason to blame me.  I have used this story, or even just parts of it, to show people - people who disregard feminists and anti-rape culturists squawking about the “what was she wearing” issue - because they think it is not an issue.  Do not blame the victim.  It was not my fault.  It was that predatory misogynistic sexual terrorist.