面对地铁“咸猪手”，勇敢说No！

Almost two years ago， I was groped1） on a New York City subway for the first time. Many of the details are now long gone—I couldnt tell you what train I was on， or where I was going—but I can tell you I was wearing shorts， because I can also tell you exactly the way his hands cupped the backs of my bare upper thighs， grazing my bottom and then moving inward and down to my inner knees. I can tell you all the thoughts that flashed through my mind as it happened， and how not one of them allowed me to actually acknowledge what was going on.

I thought， “this must be someone I know just messing with me” as I turned around， expecting to see a familiar face sitting in the seat I was standing in front of. I thought surely it would be a girlfriend， despite the thick calloused2） hands I felt finally leaving my skin. But I didnt recognize the face. I thought surely it cant be this strange man， who is looking back at me as he walks off the train. But there was no one else. I thought， theres no way I can accuse a stranger.

I cant tell you why I was filled with such self-doubt， when there was zero doubt he was my molester3）. But I can tell you the exact words I managed to half-heartedly call out as he stepped through the now open doors and onto the platform： “Excuse me. Thats not how you touch a stranger.” As if I were scolding a small child for pulling a dogs tail. As if I were too afraid to offend anyone， despite the 0% chance that I misunderstood the intention of his touch. As if I might be to blame. He stands on the platform， still holding me with his gaze as the doors close and I finally yell out loud， “That man just groped me.” I frantically look to others around me—for help， for comfort， for acknowledgement—but I get nothing but averted4） eyes and a small shrug from a woman who clearly does not want me to involve her. It was awful—I was ashamed that I could barely find my voice to confront my offender. I was embarrassed when the people who witnessed it couldnt find their voice at all. Id never felt so violated and alone as I did riding those next few stops.

When I got off the train， I approached two officers on the platform， telling them I had been groped and that I didnt know what to do. I remember asking myself why I sounded like I was apologizing for it. I remember them unemotionally telling me that unless I knew who the man was， there was nothing they could do about it. That I could file a report “if I felt like it，” but that nothing would come of it. So I didnt.endprint

Since then， I have many times recited in my head all the things I would say the next time this happened. I promised that next time， I wouldnt second-guess myself. I wouldnt assume I was wrong in what I felt. I wouldnt wait until it was too late. I wouldnt let this happen again. I would speak up.

And then yesterday happened. Yesterday， I was on a crowded L train from Union Square to Bedford Avenue during an early afternoon rush. The train was crowded—not so crowded that we were sardines5） packed together， but crowded like a puzzle， with each person perfectly positioned in their own personal， albeit6） tiny， bubble. Then I felt him behind me. I felt him pushing closer and closer into that bubble， against me. I moved forward what precious centimeters I could and placated myself with the following thoughts： “The train must just be more crowded than I realize” and “Someone must be pushing him into me， hes not doing this on purpose” and then， finally， as I could feel his shoes now inch onto the heels of my sandals and his body continuing to press against mine， “There is no way you are right in what you are feeling. Stop assuming the worst. He is innocent. You are overreacting.”

In this same moment， the woman next to me shifts in her bubble and offers me sanctuary7）. I dont know if she understood what was happening， but she graciously gave me a few inches that felt like a mile. But soon I feel him turn toward me once again. More cautiously this time， as there is more space between us to make up for. He shifts toward me once more. And still， my self-doubt persists： “he just wants a piece of the newly created room” and “hes just an inconsiderate jerk that doesnt care about peoples space” and “you cannot accuse him of anything.”

And then I hear it. The entire train car hears it. A man just a couple feet away yelling angrily， “Hey man！ I see you！ I see what youre trying to do to her and you better knock it off8）！ I see you！”

From that point on， my memory is fuzzy. Theres yelling. Theres confusion. There are a lot of blank faces and averting eyes from people not wanting to get involved. Only now am I realizing that I am， in fact， the victim. That someone else saw what I was too afraid to acknowledge. I mouth the words “thank you” to him. I wish I shouted them. Theres more yelling. Theres a threat to get the police involved. Then suddenly the doors open and people flood away， including myself.

All morning long， Ive been replaying the scene in my head—trying to better understand how Ive found myself in this situation again. How I failed to trust my instincts. How， once again， I failed to find my voice. And how I am so grateful that this time， someone else did. I write this because its important to speak up. To speak up in your own head， and listen to the voice that is telling you something is wrong， because its probably right. To speak up if something like this does happen to you， because staying quiet only empowers predators to victimize others. To speak up for others， because they may not be able to. And to speak up after， in hopes that it might encourage others to speak up too.endprint

The unfortunate truth that motivated me to write this piece in the first place was realizing that had that man not spoken up for me， I would have dismissed the incident altogether. I wouldve called the voice in my head “crazy” and “overly sensitive，” adjectives that we， as women， are callously9） called far too frequently， and thus conditioned to avoid at what can be a very high cost. Thats not okay. We need to be sensitive. We need to not develop such a thick skin that we dont allow ourselves to own our own voices. We need to speak up.

Standing on the platform after the train doors closed to whisk10） my predator deeper into Brooklyn， I see the guy who spoke up for me already halfway up the stairs. I wish Id run after him to thank him out loud. Even more， I wish Id spoken up for myself so he didnt have to. Next time， I hope I will. And I hope that in reading this， you will too.

大约两年前，我在纽约的地铁上第一次遭遇了咸猪手。如今很多细节我已经记不清了——我无法说出当时乘坐的是哪趟车，或者那时我要去哪里——但我可以告诉你，当时我穿着短裤，因为我还清楚地记得那人的手是怎样从后面覆上我裸露的大腿，擦过我的臀部，继而向里向下移到我两膝之间。我能告诉你当这一切发生时，我脑海中闪过的所有念头，以及为什么没有哪个念头允许我承认到底发生了什么。

我想，“一定是某个认识的人在跟我开玩笑。”这么想着，我转过身，期待我所站之处后面的座位上出现一张熟悉的脸。那时我以为肯定是哪个女性朋友，尽管离开我皮肤的那双手上覆着厚茧。然而，那张脸我并不认识。当他走下车，回过头来看我时，我还在想不可能是这个陌生的男人。但是没有别人。我想，我总不能指控一个陌生人吧？

我不知道那时自己为何对这个无疑是骚扰者的家伙有那么不确定。但我确切地记得，当车门打开，他走到站台上时，我心不在焉地大声说道：“请等一下。你不该这么摸一个陌生人。”那时我觉得就好像我在责备一个孩子扯了狗尾巴；就好像我明知道自己不可能误会他碰我的意图，却太过害怕冒犯他人；就好像这一切都是我的错。那个陌生男人立在站台上，直到车门合上时仍在盯着我。就在那时，我终于大喊道：“那个男的刚才摸我了！”我疯狂地看向周围的人——寻求帮助、安慰和认同——但除了躲避的眼神和一个明显不想和我扯上关系的女人微微地耸了耸肩，什么回应也没有。当时场面难堪——我居然不敢质问冒犯我的人，这令我羞愧难当。而那些目击者都默不作声，这令我尴尬不已。在之后的几站路上，我从未感到像这样受到侵犯和如此孤独。

下了地铁，我找到站台上的两个警察，并告诉他们我被性骚扰了，不知道该怎么办。我还记得那时我暗自问自己为什么说话的语气像是在道歉。我也记得他们非常漠然，告诉我除非知道那个人是谁，不然他们也爱莫能助。他们还说，“如果我愿意的话”，可以填一个报告，但不会有什么结果。因此我并没有填。

在那之后，我许多次在脑海中重复下次遇到这种情况时会说的话。我暗自保证下次我绝不会怀疑自己。我不会怀疑自己是不是感觉错了。我不会等到为时已晚。我绝不会让这种事再发生。我会大声说出来。

然而，昨天我又遭到了骚扰。昨天下午出行高峰时，我乘坐一辆拥挤的L线地铁从联合广场到贝德福德大道。车厢非常挤——乘客虽没有挤到像罐头里的沙丁鱼人叠人的程度，也像拼图一样，一个挨一个地站着，但周身稀薄的“保护罩”还在。就在那时，我感觉到有个人在我身后。我感到他越挤越近，渐渐挤进我的保护层，靠着我。我向前挪了宝贵的几厘米，还在想：“车里一定是比我想的要挤”以及“一定是有人把他往我这边推，他不是故意要这么做的”。然而，当我感觉到他的鞋已经踩在我凉鞋的后跟上、他的身体继续贴向我时，我想：“不可能是你感觉的那样。别总往坏处想。他不是故意的。你反应过度了。”

也就在这时，我旁边的一位女士在她的保护罩里挪了挪位置，给我腾出了一点躲避的空间。我不确定她是不是知道发生了什么，但她高尚地让出的那几英寸对我来讲像是一英里那么宽。然而，很快我就感觉到那个人又靠了过来。这次他更加小心了，因为我们两人间多出来了一些空间。那人又一次向我靠过来。但是，我仍不确定：“他只是想占点新腾出来的空地儿”“他只是一个不在乎别人空间的混蛋”“你无法指责他”。

然后，我听到了，整节车厢都听到了。离我两英尺远的一个男人愤怒地喊道：“喂，我看到你了。我看到你想对那个女孩做什么。你省省吧。我看见你了。”

那个时刻开始，我的记忆开始有些模糊。记忆里有喊叫，有混乱，有一张张面无表情的脸和不想牽扯进来的人们回避的眼神。直到此刻，我才意识到，事实上，我是受害者。我意识到有人看见了我害怕承认的那事情。我对他道了声谢。我希望自己大声感谢了他。记忆里还有很多的叫喊和找警察介入的威胁。然后，门突然间开了，人们涌了出去，也包括我自己。

整个上午，我都在脑海中回放那个场景——试图弄明白自己为何又陷入那样的境地，为何不相信自己的直觉，为何我又一次不发声，以及我有多感激这次有人帮我说话。我写这篇文章是因为大声说出来很重要。在自己脑海里，说出来，倾听内心的声音告诉你那是错的，因为这个声音很可能是对的。如果这种事发生在你身上，说出来，因为保持沉默只会放任施害者骚扰其他人。为了他人说出来，因为他们自己可能不敢说。事情发生之后，说出来，希望能鼓励其他人说出来。

促使我写下这篇文章的不幸真相使我首先意识到的是：如果那位男士没有出来为我说话，我会让整件事情不了了之。我会认为自己脑子里的声音是“疯狂的”“过于敏感”。这些形容词常常被冷酷地用来形容女性，而作为女性，我们也习惯性地回避这些词，却往往导致高昂的代价。这样不行。我们需要敏感。我们不能让自己的脸皮变厚，以至于不允许自己发出自己的声音。我们要说出来。

列车关门，载着那个骚扰我的人飞驰向布鲁克林后，我站在站台上，看着那个为我说话的人已经走上楼梯了。我希望自己跑过去，大声对他道谢。我甚至希望当时自己能说出来，这样他就不用说了。下一次，我希望我能说出来。我也希望，读过这篇文章的你也能说出来。endprint