Me Too

Bundled up in the warmest clothes we had, my church youth group jammed ourselves into the crowd lined up along the curb waiting for the Rose Parade to start. It was unusually chilly for a Southern California January 1st morning. 

Some people blew on their hands or rubbed them together to generate heat. When my butt was touched, I assumed the person behind me was doing likewise, and I inched forward the few inches I could to give that person more room. Then the rhythmic stroking began. I was a naïve 15-year-old girl, but my gut sent me a message of uneasiness.

I am not sure why I turned my head to look at that person as I wouldn't have the courage for confrontation. I saw a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a deadpan face except for the challenging eyes. Before I pivoted back to look ahead, I glanced down at his hands stuffed into the pockets of his light-weight overcoat. Mercifully, the touching stopped. He knew that I knew there was something not right. I never spoke of it to anyone.

As I matured and became more sexually aware, I knew that act that day was intentional and for the man's gratification. It was a small and relatively insignificant incident compared to the sexual assault and sexual harassment experiences of the women now speaking and tweeting out ; yet, more than 5 decades later I can clearly picture that man's face.