Anxiety of Place
The Museum of Lost Things, oil on canvas, Lisa Careau.
Since revelations of sexual predatory behavior perpetrated upon women by prominent and powerful men came screaming onto the news scene over the last several months, other stories, some tangential, have followed. This morning, as I was reviewing the daily headlines in the Boston Globe one article in particular immediately grabbed my attention, “‘Good Girls Revolt’ puts ‘60s-era sexism in its place”. Perhaps it was an amalgamation of all of these headlines, but, I found myself reminded of an ugly episode from my own past that I had moved on from long ago once swift action was taken to ensure it would not happen again.
The incident began, on a typical Monday morning at my job in a lovely, small public library in central Massachusetts, where I worked as the library’s director. I had been serving this community for the better part of 6 years, and knew the patrons by name, making a point to say at least hello to all I encountered each day.
One patron, an elderly man, entered the library this day, as he did most Mondays when we opened at 9:00 a.m. Typically, he avoided interacting with staff and other patrons by making a beeline through the front doors and up to the second floor where he stayed for the better part of the morning reading the daily newspapers. Often times the only way staff was aware he had come and gone was by the sound of the front doors opening and closing. He came and went, ghost-like, without ever being seen or heard from by the librarians, that is, unless staff happened to walk through the second floor, as I often did, for the purpose of shelving books.
As was customary, I greeted this man who was sitting in a designated reading area replete with comfortable leather chairs, a coffee table and end tables, upon which popular magazines and newspapers were displayed. I exchanged a few friendly words with him about the weather, and as usual, he did not engage in any further conversation with me, so I continued with the work of shelving the contents of my book cart.
I was on my hands and knees concentrating on correctly placing the books in their proper location on a bottom shelf, when I first became aware of a pair of shoes standing directly aside of me. My eyes followed upward, and standing over me was this man. I rose to my feet to inquire if I might be of assistance to him. Initially, I felt nothing more than curious, as I had never interacted with him beyond the aforementioned. He mumbled something about how kind and welcoming I had always been to him, and just as I began to say it was nothing, that being kind and welcoming was part of my job, he interjected that he wanted to thank me properly, and leaned in to kiss me, on the lips, with his tongue protruding from his mouth. I quickly turned my head aside to avoid him, and raised my arms to stop his further advances, but he grabbed my wrists. I was stunned by his strength, as we began to struggle. As if on cue, a volunteer, who normally shelved these books but had been delayed, began calling up to me, letting me know she had arrived, and was making her way up to me on the second floor. At this, the man immediately released me, and returned to his chair, resuming his newspaper reading, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.
In a state of shock, I remained silent beyond a few simple instructions I gave to the volunteer, and then made my way back to the circulation desk where my co-worker was fulfilling her daily routine. I blurted out the details of what had just happened to me, and she instantaneously burst out laughing, finding the whole situation humorous, owing to the patron’s elderly appearance. Her reaction vastly diminished my capacity to grasp the gravity of this violation or engage my internal compass to navigate the next steps to take. In essence, I was shut down.
Not long after, I heard the sound of the front door closing as the man exited the building like he had so many times before. My colleague continued to chuckle about the story as the day progressed, further planting doubt in me that what had happened was anything more than laughable. I was in full victim mode.
Later that day, the library’s part time custodian stopped by the circulation desk, as he often did to touch base. My associate related the morning’s events to him. He patiently listened to her retell the whole story in hilarious detail, and then turned and approached me in my office. He asked what I was going to do about it. I floundered. He pressed on, wanting to know if I was going to go to the police. I was unsure. He then said if I didn’t report the incident he would, and offered to walk across the street to the police station with me. That gesture, that act of solidarity, redefined the incident for me, and shifted it from an embarrassing encounter to a transgression. Together, we paid the local police department a visit, where a written report was filed and an investigation launched.
The next day, the police chief and his sergeant walked into the library where they approached my predator who had assumed his place, right on time, in the second floor reading room. They confronted him, sparing him no kindness about what he had done. Deeply flustered, he responded that he had never been in trouble with the law (which the police had earlier confirmed was true), and that his actions were a result of simply being lonely. He was given a perp walk out of the library and a stern warning to never return, to which he complied, at least for the duration of my tenure that lasted another 8 years.
What I encountered about myself, both sexes, and law enforcement over that incident was nothing short of revelatory. Then, as now, we each maintain a personal definition of what constitutes sexual misconduct. There is a sense of sanctity that allows us to live, to work, to go about our everyday lives, and when that sanctity is breached, so much depends upon the collective definition of predatory behavior. Until we reach a true consensus regarding that definition there will be, like me, countless wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters—in general, fellow women, who, sadly, will remain silent, diminished, and anguished, save for those individuals who mercifully step forward, out of the bunkum, to call a spade a spade.