It happened so fast, and I barely had time to register what was happening.
I had just walked out of the church office, past the book sales cart, and was crossing the reception area when he seemed to swoop in out of nowhere.
His right arm wrapped around me and pulled me tight against his side. He was a respected elder in our church. He and his wife led music sometimes. I was in the youth group with his kids. I had been to his house.
Of course, all of the elders at our church were respected. They were the spiritual ones. The models of character. The ones whose opinions mattered. The ones you listened to. The ones who were the bosses of my dad. And suddenly, one of them had his arm around me and was making me extremely uncomfortable.
I looked down. At the floor. His shoes. The brown leather briefcase in his hand. Focusing on anything that might help me get away. My hands felt clammy. My heart beat harder. My breathing went shallow.
I could smell his cologne. I could feel the heat of his body along my shoulder and the side of my arm. His minty breath moved across the top of my head when he spoke.
He was telling me things he liked about me. My hair. My dress. My earrings...
I remember my body going rigid. I remember trying to make myself smaller. I remember wondering how I could move without making it obvious that I wanted, more than anything, to get away.
Because he was an elder. Because I was thirteen. Because even as every part of my body was telling me to get away, some other part of me was still trying to figure out how to do it politely.
Then, somewhere through the pounding in my chest and the rushing in my ears, I heard him say it was my turn. I now needed to tell him five things I liked about him.
What the fuck.
I can say that now. I can look back at that scene and think, What the fuck was that man doing?
Oh, I now know what he was doing...
At thirteen, though, I didn’t think what the fuck. I thought: Briefcase. Shoes. Socks. My eyes scanned whatever I could see. Anything I could name. Anything that would get me to five.
I don’t remember the last two things I said. I remember the urgency. Just get to five. Five meant finished. Five meant maybe he would let me go. And when I finally got there, I pulled myself out from under his arm and walked away as quickly as I could. Not running. But close.
I don’t remember seeing him much after that. Maybe I did. What I remember is making sure I was never close enough for it to happen again. I knew that much. My body knew that much. Stay away from him.
Looking back now, I want so badly to interrupt the scene.
I want to walk into that reception area and see her standing there with her eyes on the floor, hands damp, heart pounding, trying to be good while every part of her is telling her to get away.
And I want to scream: Make it awkward. Be rude. Fight. Yell. You don't owe him five things. You don’t owe him a smile. You don’t owe him politeness. This is not ok. Trust your body. Trust your instincts. He is a sick man.
But she didn’t know any of that.
She knew how to be respectful. She knew how to listen to adults. She knew not to cause a scene. She knew how to trust those who held spiritual authority over her. Most of all, she knew how to obey.
She did not yet know that she was allowed to trust the panic rising in her body.
And I think that is the part that stays with me.
Not that I froze. Not that I named his briefcase and his shoes and his fucking socks.
I was thirteen.
What else was I supposed to do with a moment I hadn't been given language for?
What stays with me is how much I already knew about being good and how little I knew about being safe. Those two things had been braided together for so long that I didn’t yet know they could come apart.
I didn’t know that being a good girl could sometimes mean disappointing others. I didn’t know that respect could have limits. I didn’t know that an authority figure could be wrong and my body could be right. I didn’t know that fear did not require evidence before I was allowed to leave.
I wish I could go back and find her there, just past the book cart, before his arm ever reached around her. I would take her hand and lead her across the reception area.
And we would not stop for him.