The Persistence of a Memory
It was March 1980, and I was at the Statler-Hilton Hotel in New York City. I was at a party, but I was bored and on the whole pretty miserable.
I was at the hotel as part of the National High School Model United Nations (NHSMUN). After a successful run in 1979 representing Nigeria, this time I'd been tapped for a coveted Security Council spot representing France. There, I got to support France's pro-nuclear energy stance, in the aftermath of Three Mile Island. 38 years later, that's about all I can remember of my positions that week. I also remember one of the delegates from the USA and the USSR, but only because we all went to the same college a few months later.
In 1979, the delegation from my high school had been somewhat small. But I'd met up with my old camp friend Andy the first day, he was working the event on "security," and we had skipped out across the street one evening to sit courtside for a Knicks game. That was fun even though the Spurs got a 3 point play in the final seconds to win the game. On the final night, I had run in to another old camp friend at the big dance, and ended up spending the rest of the evening with her high school group. That included a quick trip across the street to the Blarney Rock, where I had my first mixed drink -- she got a screwdriver, so I did too. In the room, the radio played the new George Harrison single "Blow Away," and some of the kids decided to get high and have a séance, and that seemed kind of cute but a bit weird so we didn't join. I stayed so late I ended up taking the service elevator back up to my room; after all I didn't want to get "caught." Other details are long gone. I can't remember who else from my high school went that year, not a single one of them. It's in the yearbook, of course, but otherwise I haven't a clue who went with me. But, the things I can recall, those are clear.
The 2nd year just didn't have the fun. Andy was back, and we hung out a bit. But no time for games at the Garden this time. For the accommodations, I think we were 4 in each room. One of my roommates was a guy I'll call Brian. I'd known Brian since kindergarten, probably. We'd gone to the same elementary school, the same Hebrew school. I knew where he had lived and I knew his mom. Maybe he's in the 8mm movie my dad shot of my 6th birthday party. He was likely at my bar mitzvah. But we were never close friends, and by 12th grade we weren't in any of the same classes or social circles.
The first morning at the hotel, I got up out of bed and washed up and got dressed. Brian got up and fixed himself a drink. All these years later, I don't know what drink it was... was it a screwdriver? Straight vodka? I'm not sure. It wasn't a big deal for high school kids to drink in 1980; after all, the drinking age was only 18 and it wasn't like anybody in the city cared. I had no problem the prior year ordering a drink for my 16-year old self and my 15-year old companion at Blarney Rock, with no ID. But I'd never seen someone my age load up before breakfast. That was new to me.
I don't remember who my other roommates were.
The last night, some kids in our delegation put together a massive party. We had a large layout of rooms on one of the hotel's floors, and my recollection is that two adjoining rooms were used for the party. Plenty of drinks for everyone, and it was loud and kids were getting drunk. Maybe I went to the big dance downstairs before going to the party, but if I did that it was without running in to any old friends. So it was either the party or turning in, and I chose the party.
Big mistake. The spectacle of the high school kids getting progressively louder and drunker wasn't my idea of fun. I probably got myself a beer, probably talked to someone, but I don't remember that. I retreated to the 2nd room, which was less crowded. Probably just to relax a bit before returning to my room. But really, I don't remember why, I just remember I was there.
Then Brian came in the room. With a girl. I'll call her Mary.
Or maybe they were already in the room. I'm not really sure of that detail anymore.
I'd known Mary for 3 years. She was a couple years younger than us, and had gone to a different elementary school. She was in the same grade as my younger sister, and that's how I knew her.
Mary was drunk. Not just a little drunk. Mary was drunk. And Brian had control of her.
Brian got Mary over to a bed. I don't remember who was on the right and who was on the left, but they were laying down on the bed, and Mary was not participating voluntarily in any of this. So far as I was aware, she didn't even know Brian. Not before then, anyway.
What happened on the bed, that I remember:
Brian shoved Mary's hand down his pants.
Which hand? Don't recall.
What was Brian wearing? Don't know, but it definitely included pants, tight pants. Containing one hand. Because Brian. shoved. her. hand. down. his. pants.
Over in the corner, I did not yell "stop!," and don't know if that would have changed anything.
I did not jump on Brian to get him away from her. Had I tried it, I might have hurt her hand, that had been shoved down his pants.
I really had no idea what to do. I don't even remember if there was anyone else in that 2nd room at that moment, but if there was, they weren't stopping it either.
How long? I don't know. Maybe just a few seconds, though it seemed much longer. Even at age 17, it was probably not long enough for him to become Consummated Brian of the Shoved Hand. He went to get both of them more drinks, back in the main party room. I guess she wasn't yet drunk enough to be totally compliant.
As soon as Brian moved past the doorway to the main room, I went to Mary and said, "I'm taking you to your room. Now." She was dazed, and in a bit of a drunken trance, I think she laughed. I think she started singing some weird thing, which was weirder to me because I don't remember her as a singer. It felt like a literal wall of denial: this is not happening. But she understood, well enough. We were leaving. She agreed. Yes, we were leaving. We were leaving right now. I put my arm around her to keep her from falling over. Could I have done better? Yes. But at least she was out of there.
I stopped back by the party rooms on the way back to my own room. Andy was in the hallway. "We almost kicked you guys out tonight," he told me (that line, I remember pretty much verbatim). I half wished they had followed through.
Besides Brian and Mary, I would need to check the yearbook to recall who else from my high school was there. I suppose my sister must have been there, otherwise I wouldn't have known where to take Mary; I think they were roommates. Maybe some of my closest friends were at that party. I just don't remember.
I didn't report Brian. He was 17, Mary was 15. He had assaulted her. But it never occurred to me to report him. Would he have been punished? I doubt it. If anything, Mary would have gotten in trouble: She was 15 and drunk!
Since that weekend, I've never talked to Mary about it. I don't know what impact the assault had. Has she ever spoken to anyone about what happened? Should she be afraid of not being believed? Of being blamed?
As for Brian, I don't know that I've spoken to him at all since then. But I can't be certain, my memory's not that good about things like that.
I've told bits of the story in social media settings a couple times, typically to make a point that should be pretty obvious to anyone who has been a witness, or (much) worse, a victim: We forget a lot of things. But some memories, they persist.
When considering the story of Christine Blasey Ford, who was 15 when she was (allegedly) assaulted by then 17-year old Brett Kavanaugh, consider this article in The New York Times. Or consider the story above. I wasn't the victim. But 38 years after the fact, it's still sensitive enough to me that I'm not even using real names.
It's not "youthful indiscretion," and it's not "mixed-up." What happened then does matter now.
I believe her. Without hesitation.
I was at the hotel as part of the National High School Model United Nations (NHSMUN). After a successful run in 1979 representing Nigeria, this time I'd been tapped for a coveted Security Council spot representing France. There, I got to support France's pro-nuclear energy stance, in the aftermath of Three Mile Island. 38 years later, that's about all I can remember of my positions that week. I also remember one of the delegates from the USA and the USSR, but only because we all went to the same college a few months later.
In 1979, the delegation from my high school had been somewhat small. But I'd met up with my old camp friend Andy the first day, he was working the event on "security," and we had skipped out across the street one evening to sit courtside for a Knicks game. That was fun even though the Spurs got a 3 point play in the final seconds to win the game. On the final night, I had run in to another old camp friend at the big dance, and ended up spending the rest of the evening with her high school group. That included a quick trip across the street to the Blarney Rock, where I had my first mixed drink -- she got a screwdriver, so I did too. In the room, the radio played the new George Harrison single "Blow Away," and some of the kids decided to get high and have a séance, and that seemed kind of cute but a bit weird so we didn't join. I stayed so late I ended up taking the service elevator back up to my room; after all I didn't want to get "caught." Other details are long gone. I can't remember who else from my high school went that year, not a single one of them. It's in the yearbook, of course, but otherwise I haven't a clue who went with me. But, the things I can recall, those are clear.
The 2nd year just didn't have the fun. Andy was back, and we hung out a bit. But no time for games at the Garden this time. For the accommodations, I think we were 4 in each room. One of my roommates was a guy I'll call Brian. I'd known Brian since kindergarten, probably. We'd gone to the same elementary school, the same Hebrew school. I knew where he had lived and I knew his mom. Maybe he's in the 8mm movie my dad shot of my 6th birthday party. He was likely at my bar mitzvah. But we were never close friends, and by 12th grade we weren't in any of the same classes or social circles.
The first morning at the hotel, I got up out of bed and washed up and got dressed. Brian got up and fixed himself a drink. All these years later, I don't know what drink it was... was it a screwdriver? Straight vodka? I'm not sure. It wasn't a big deal for high school kids to drink in 1980; after all, the drinking age was only 18 and it wasn't like anybody in the city cared. I had no problem the prior year ordering a drink for my 16-year old self and my 15-year old companion at Blarney Rock, with no ID. But I'd never seen someone my age load up before breakfast. That was new to me.
I don't remember who my other roommates were.
The last night, some kids in our delegation put together a massive party. We had a large layout of rooms on one of the hotel's floors, and my recollection is that two adjoining rooms were used for the party. Plenty of drinks for everyone, and it was loud and kids were getting drunk. Maybe I went to the big dance downstairs before going to the party, but if I did that it was without running in to any old friends. So it was either the party or turning in, and I chose the party.
Big mistake. The spectacle of the high school kids getting progressively louder and drunker wasn't my idea of fun. I probably got myself a beer, probably talked to someone, but I don't remember that. I retreated to the 2nd room, which was less crowded. Probably just to relax a bit before returning to my room. But really, I don't remember why, I just remember I was there.
Then Brian came in the room. With a girl. I'll call her Mary.
Or maybe they were already in the room. I'm not really sure of that detail anymore.
I'd known Mary for 3 years. She was a couple years younger than us, and had gone to a different elementary school. She was in the same grade as my younger sister, and that's how I knew her.
Mary was drunk. Not just a little drunk. Mary was drunk. And Brian had control of her.
Brian got Mary over to a bed. I don't remember who was on the right and who was on the left, but they were laying down on the bed, and Mary was not participating voluntarily in any of this. So far as I was aware, she didn't even know Brian. Not before then, anyway.
What happened on the bed, that I remember:
Brian shoved Mary's hand down his pants.
Which hand? Don't recall.
What was Brian wearing? Don't know, but it definitely included pants, tight pants. Containing one hand. Because Brian. shoved. her. hand. down. his. pants.
Over in the corner, I did not yell "stop!," and don't know if that would have changed anything.
I did not jump on Brian to get him away from her. Had I tried it, I might have hurt her hand, that had been shoved down his pants.
I really had no idea what to do. I don't even remember if there was anyone else in that 2nd room at that moment, but if there was, they weren't stopping it either.
How long? I don't know. Maybe just a few seconds, though it seemed much longer. Even at age 17, it was probably not long enough for him to become Consummated Brian of the Shoved Hand. He went to get both of them more drinks, back in the main party room. I guess she wasn't yet drunk enough to be totally compliant.
As soon as Brian moved past the doorway to the main room, I went to Mary and said, "I'm taking you to your room. Now." She was dazed, and in a bit of a drunken trance, I think she laughed. I think she started singing some weird thing, which was weirder to me because I don't remember her as a singer. It felt like a literal wall of denial: this is not happening. But she understood, well enough. We were leaving. She agreed. Yes, we were leaving. We were leaving right now. I put my arm around her to keep her from falling over. Could I have done better? Yes. But at least she was out of there.
I stopped back by the party rooms on the way back to my own room. Andy was in the hallway. "We almost kicked you guys out tonight," he told me (that line, I remember pretty much verbatim). I half wished they had followed through.
Besides Brian and Mary, I would need to check the yearbook to recall who else from my high school was there. I suppose my sister must have been there, otherwise I wouldn't have known where to take Mary; I think they were roommates. Maybe some of my closest friends were at that party. I just don't remember.
I didn't report Brian. He was 17, Mary was 15. He had assaulted her. But it never occurred to me to report him. Would he have been punished? I doubt it. If anything, Mary would have gotten in trouble: She was 15 and drunk!
Since that weekend, I've never talked to Mary about it. I don't know what impact the assault had. Has she ever spoken to anyone about what happened? Should she be afraid of not being believed? Of being blamed?
As for Brian, I don't know that I've spoken to him at all since then. But I can't be certain, my memory's not that good about things like that.
I've told bits of the story in social media settings a couple times, typically to make a point that should be pretty obvious to anyone who has been a witness, or (much) worse, a victim: We forget a lot of things. But some memories, they persist.
When considering the story of Christine Blasey Ford, who was 15 when she was (allegedly) assaulted by then 17-year old Brett Kavanaugh, consider this article in The New York Times. Or consider the story above. I wasn't the victim. But 38 years after the fact, it's still sensitive enough to me that I'm not even using real names.
It's not "youthful indiscretion," and it's not "mixed-up." What happened then does matter now.
I believe her. Without hesitation.
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