We measure time in neat, evenly spaced increments, but we grow up in sudden, erratic jolts. I was nineteen, slim and confident as my sandals clicked on the dirty concrete steps of the Kings Highway subway station in Brooklyn. It was the summer after my sophomore year of college and I was working for a non-profit environmental organization doing door-to-door fund-raising. I was headed into the city to meet friends for lunch before my shift began at 2pm, so it must have been around noon as I climbed toward the July sunshine that warmed the station’s elevated platform. 

    Suddenly, a hand on the back of my upper thigh interrupted the steady click-clack of my sandals. My thin sundress provided a meager barrier between my skin and a stranger’s foul intentions. Chubby fingers squeezed hard and the world seemed to stop. It was a mere moment, but even now, eleven years later, the terror is vividly etched in my mind. Who is this? Am I going to be raped? Should I run? I could no longer hear the busy shoppers in their variety of native languages and the noisy brakes of the passing buses on the street below. The scents of stale urine and McDonald’s containers no longer registered. I only felt fear, and in that instant I stumbled into adulthood, leaving my sheltered childhood and innocent naïveté behind.

      My head snapped around to meet the dark eyes of a man who actually looked just as scared as he did menacing. He stood several steps below me, so I couldn’t gauge his height, but he was broad-shouldered and wore a t-shirt and jeans. I screamed and shoved him backward, but he was already bolting in that direction. I threw my bag down and took off after him, but as I rounded a wide pillar and neared the turnstile, I caught a glimpse of him already on the street and sprinting into the crowd. I slumped against the tile wall, my hair sticking to my sweaty temples. I panted for a minute or two, letting the rage escape as I concluded that he resembled a million other New Yorkers. I considered telling the station clerk or calling the police, but the sudden realization that my bag laid unattended upstairs led me back toward the platform.

     Through the panic echoing in my head I could hear the Q train pulling into the station. My small backpack remained untouched, so I grabbed it quickly and boarded the train. The orange plastic seat felt cool against my skin, and I could still feel the spot on my thigh that his grimy hand had touched. All at once the tears began to fall, not in delicate droplets, but in a furious torrent. I rummaged through my bag in search of my sunglasses, though they couldn’t have concealed my outburst.

     “What’s wrong?” a gentle voice asked. I looked up into the eyes of a tall woman. She held the bar overhead but was bent over me, her countenance revealing sincere concern. I only shook my head, too upset to utter a word. “Do you need money?” Her thin hands reached into her purse even as I refused with another shake of the head. “Did something happen to you?”

     I nodded and finally mumbled, “I’m okay, just upset.” By then another woman had approached and was holding out a tissue. “Thanks,” I said, almost smiling. They sat on either side of me and continued to offer things like gum, mints, quarters for a pay phone, a subway map, all the things women have in their seemingly bottomless handbags. I confessed that I wasn’t hurt and was feeling rather foolish to be crying so hysterically in public over one squeeze of one thigh. They assured me that my fear was justified and I switched trains at Atlantic Avenue after bidding the two strangers goodbye.

     What young woman hasn’t been groped or flashed or propositioned or offended in some way during an adventure on New York’s subways? That experience taught me to be wary, even at 12 noon, and that confidence can negate level-headedness. More importantly, after a sheltered childhood surrounded by the safety net of a multitude of aunts, uncles and cousins, it gave me a long-overdue push toward adulthood. In retrospect, it amazes me that any child of Brooklyn could have so few street smarts.

     We measure time in neat, evenly spaced increments, but we grow up in sudden, erratic jolts. I was nineteen, frail and fearful, but the women of New York had cushioned my fall with their support.

Michele Wallach teaches creative writing at Mark Twain Intermediate School in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn.