June 16, 2000

So now it’s 44 women who were assaulted by about 50 men. Every morning the numbers recited on the news get bigger and bigger, and goddamn if I don’t continue to be horrified. At least now, it seems, the cops are paying attention. Ten men have been arrested and 29 have been identified with the help of various video tapes. Let’s hope those numbers grow as well.

In the shower this morning, I rehearsed what I would say if I ever happened to be asked about the attacks by a perky news reporter. I said all the requisite "I’m outraged!" "in broad daylight!" "police everywhere!" things, and I sounded like an idiot. To my ears, anyway. I have to remember that people don’t listen to hysterics. People listen to people who speak softly, eloquently, intelligently. And, most importantly, people listen to people who don’t blame the people who are listening.

Sadly, I am not known for my ability to "tone it down."

On Sunday, a demonstration against the attacks is being held at Central Park & 6th Ave. at 6:00 p.m. This is where most of the attacks took place. I will be there. I want to make a sign, but I don’t know what I want it to say. I was thinking about finding an appropriate quote from a Springsteen song, because, y’know, the police are too busy whining about a song that dares to mention something that they happened to do, no question about it. They shot at an unarmed man 41 times, effectively killing him. But, y’know, if everybody stops talking about it, maybe we’ll just forget.

So, yeah, something from Springsteen. Maybe something like "We’re not tramps, and we weren’t born to run." Well, no. That would be stupid. I don’t know. I just want to be seen, want to be heard, want my anger to be acknowledged. I want to yell and scream and glare at anyone who dares to say something brilliant like "Hey, baby, you’re hot when you’re mad." I don’t doubt there will be people like this. I am stunned daily by the fact that men have had the gall to be making comments like this to me all week. Every morning, at least one botched abortion leers at me, sucks his teeth and smacks his lips at me, and, yesterday, dared to follow me on his bike, trying to be all suave and seductive. That last guy was French. So I gave him the benefit of the doubt. You know how the French are.

At lunch, I got some pizza, and as I was waiting in line to pay, holding out my $1.60, one of the guys behind the counter took my money (even though I hadn’t gotten to the cashier yet), saying, "Two things I can’t resist -- money and, well, you don’t wanna know what the other thing is." He was smiling, joking, but, well, I just didn’t find it funny. "Y’know, after this weekend, I really don’t wanna know what the other thing is," I said, not smiling, not joking. He looked at me with a "What’s your problem?" look on his face. I didn’t have the energy to explain.

Seeing half-naked women in advertisments makes me cringe a little more than it used to. Hearing Eminem’s lyrics makes me wonder if censorship might not be so bad. Seeing girls with skimpy tops makes me want to rush them to safety. At one point, I might have thought safety resided in a sunny corner of the park near the Plaza Hotel, with policemen a few feet away. Now, well, yeah, now. NOW is having the protest on Sunday. Show up, if you want. I will be the woman who is really pissed off. Yeah. The one woman.

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