Image Courtesy of Netflix
How the bus scene from Sex Education helped me through a small blizzard. Content Warning: Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, Misogyny
January 2015, The Great North American Blizzard. I was a junior in High School and in Symposium, a few weeks during the school year where we could take fun, non-academic classes. Mine was about art and museums. We spent our winter days sketching in the art room and taking trips to galleries on the Lower East Side and Chelsea. Ordering too much food at restaurants in Chinatown for lunch because Mr. R’s budget allowed for some generous excursions. He was a great teacher, by the way.
On January 26th, we went to Dia Beacon in Hudson, New York. One of my first times taking the Metro-North. I watched the terrain change from harsh lines and steel to idyllic riverscapes and trees. There was supposed to be an enormous blizzard that day, but I’m not sure how much we knew. Not sure how much we would’ve cared, either. I spent the day exploring the museum, taking silly pictures next to exhibits that tickled me, and musing over the ones that seemed inexplicable.
On the way back, news of the storm became worse. The subway would shut down after a specific time, and people clamored onto trains, trying to fit themselves home. I had to get on the last train downtown from Grand Central to Brooklyn. I also lived on the last stop of the 2 and 5 lines, meaning that I had to ride the subway to its end. I was used to that, though. Stuffing into the train with my two friends, I chatted as I tried to reach for a pole and hold myself steady in the tight crush. Trying to stand still on a packed, moving train car is always hard but this day proved extra difficult. Suddenly and unceremoniously, TAM (TAM, for The Awful Man) began rubbing his penis against my butt while I chatted. I remember not believing it was happening… because that stuff didn’t actually happen, right? But indeed it did, and I talked with my friends while he grinded against me. I’m not sure when or at what stop he got off, but I do remember wishing, very badly, that it would end. Of course, I felt icky, but I had no context for what it meant. Not that big of a deal, I thought. I still kind of think that.
When I got home, I wrote a Facebook status. Ehem, and I quote, “Today on a crowded train with my friends I had what I felt like was a man continuously pressing his prick against my butt. I didn’t say anything because the train was so packed, and I wasn’t even sure if that’s what I was feeling. When I realized I was right, I stayed quiet. I don’t want to make a bigger deal out of this than it was and I usually don’t post statuses but I realized that that was not ok at all and NO ONE should ever have to feel uncomfortable like that on a train ride — or anywhere else. Girls SHOULD NOT have to accept that kind of disgusting behavior from men. Girls SHOULD NOT have to feel like their bodies are for public consumption (whether that be unwanted comments or physical touching). I encourage girls and women, when they feel brave enough, to challenge the actions of anyone who infringes on their personal space! It’s so important! On the bright side, I realize how everyday my belief in feminism multiplies!”
Isn’t it funny how Facebook was EVERYTHING in 2015? I stand by my emerging vocalness about feminism. Smart gal’. I wrapped up this experience neatly, chalked it up to good ol’ sexism, and called it a day. Filed under weird, train experiences. That’s just what you get living in NYC, I thought. My mom, who also grew up here, had the same kind of response when I told her. Sad, but doable, as far as bad things that could happen to you go. You can hear me doubting myself in my words: “What I felt like was a man continuously pressing his prick against my butt.” One foot in and one foot out of what happened. The curse of rape culture is that you don’t even believe yourself.
Even now, I’m like, this isn’t a big deal. I’ve had a much scarier run in on the train that made me think of darker outcomes (A story for another blog post, I’m afraid.) But there is an ick with this one. What do I do with this ick?
What has helped me enormously was an episode of the Netflix Original Sex Education. It is one of my favorite shows because it is so damn funny and so damn honest and so damn colorful. You may know the scene I’m talking about. Happy-go-lucky character Aimee, gets on the bus one day, oversized headphones on, holding a cake she made for her friend Maeve’s birthday. The viewers sense that Aimee is excited, looking forward to celebrating with Maeve. Aimee holds onto the pole as the bus jolts, and she bumps against the man behind her. She apologizes before looking backwards to see the man jerking off against her butt. “What are you doing?” She questions incredulously, before demanding the bus driver let her off the bus. When Aimee steps off, she sees his cum smeared against her jean pocket. After arriving to school, Aimee nonchalantly recounts what happened to Maeve, and Maeve recommends she report it. Maeve soberly tells her friend, “You’ve been assaulted.” From then on, we see Aimee struggle to cope with what happened. Seeing the man’s face when she tries to get on the bus, Aimee chooses to walk a long way to school every day instead.
At the end of the season, in a moment of bonding with other women (just shaking my head that women can bond over experiences of assault and harassment), she tells them that what scared her most was that the man who did it had a kind face. If a kind-faced man could do that to her, then so could anyone. Aimee had always felt safe on the bus, and now she didn’t.
Do you get why I was unnerved by Aimee’s storyline? Challenged, even? I always thought about my small moment as NO BIG DEAL. If that were really true, why did Aimee’s experience make me feel so exposed? Watching her react to her assault made me question my interpretation of my TAM, miles away and years before Aimee’s, but still so similar. I don’t remember how I felt the rest of that blizzard ride. I kept taking the train after that day: headphones in, people watching, mind wandering. I wasn’t scared like Amy. I’m not saying that I wanted to be scared, but I wanted to know that feeling scared was an option. How would things be different, if I knew that then?
Taking the train was a big part of my life. It’s so god damn cliche, but it’s true. I grew up there, beginning to take the train far into the West Village for middle school by twelve. It’s where I practiced my independence. The pride I felt after completing my solo ride to middle school, I can’t really describe. I credit the train for sharpening my skills of observence, one of the things I love most about myself. But it’s a lawless place, every day bringing a new funny or weird experience to tell someone about. And because I lived at the last stop, I would never have walked to school like Amy. I didn’t feel it was an option, just like how I didn’t feel speaking up about TAM was an option. Telling my friends wasn’t an option. I’m disgusted that my body was used as an instrument—a non sentient blow-up doll to rub against. Maybe what I’m most mad about is that I can access that file of feeling easily by just thinking of that day. The embarrassment. The shame. Blech, you know?
If I’m honest with you all, I’m angry I didn’t say anything in the moment. I know that’s item number one on the list of things you shouldn’t be mad about. How did I talk to my friends like it wasn’t happening? TAM still makes me feel like an accomplice in his crime against me.
Aimee said if someone who looked that kind could do this to her, so could anyone. That too is a tragedy. Many women know the exhaustion of feeling like constant prey. Another gift TAM left me in passing. The heightened suspicion. The paranoia. The mistrust. Like I needed any more of it than I already had. My home, which I still adore, became a bit greyer. Less magical. The surprise encounters I expect to have are never the friendly kind. I plan to meet more bad strangers on the train than I do good ones.
My day began full of art and exploration and teenage shenanigans and ended with watching the snow dust the ground at home. It didn’t even blizzard where we were, which meant that the packed train car experience was a waste. I’m trying to explain how the significance of January 26th, 2015 crept up on me. Saying that it wasn’t a BIG DEAL became less satisfying to me as I got older and maybe a little wiser. What TAM did wasn’t so much damage me but damage my world. Like bad graffiti on a wall that deserves better. Ugly street art in a place it doesn’t fit. An eyesore in an otherwise lovely memoryscape. He fucked up a good day when good days are hard to come by. Only the nastiest, evilest people can do that so easily and so carelessly.
Thank you, Aimee, for helping me realize how that’s a crime. I’ve closed a door I didn’t realize was open. And I hope TAM has had many ruined, rainy, blizzardy days since!
This feels all gloom and doom. I won’t lie, I SHOCKED myself by crying (just a lil’) while writing it. Still not sure what I’m crying about, 5 years later. Isn’t that something? I didn’t realize I needed to talk about TAM until I started writing a poem about growing up in the city. (I know that assault and harassment are not limited to specific place or times, it’s just how I contextualize what I’ve experienced.) That original poem included a line about the incident, but upon revising, I made the whole poem about TAM. Which still wasn’t enough. Now, I feel almost buoyantly happy I’ve shared this. Thank you for listening. If you want to see the poem, look below. I have moments when I remember I’m a good writer and this is one of them.
Heroine's Journey Home Cut my teeth on this grid Skycraped the skin off my cheek and tried not to wince Tough girl, roaming at night, praying to the image of her door like a homing beacon, like she hasn’t envisioned a dozen hair-raised endings to this odyssey, which never does unfold how you imagine, anyway. Have you ever had someone rub his dick against your ass on the Last Train downtown from Grand Central The day of the “storm” which ended up being a sprinkle White-knuckle-gripping the steel pole for comfort, cuz New York girls ache for metal Talking with my friends while he grinds against me towards 14th street Pretending It's not happening, this quietly Cuz a real protagonist would dismember any serpentine beast Let the chorus sing about shame glowing hot and neon like an OPEN sign. After, I nestled in my apartment, sat watching flakes dust the ground Disappointed at the lack of disaster Have you ever wished New York City could be buried in snow Our heroines rarely make it home unscathed. The cost of this; she could never love a city that didn’t smell like rust.
Maya Layne 