from him grabbing on me and I ran and I ran all the w ay up the
aisle in the dark and I found the usher w ho was all the w ay in
the back and I said the man was bothering me but I was afraid
to say what he did and the usher didn’t say anything or do
anything so I asked if I could sit somewhere else please and
could he keep the man from bothering me please because I
knew you weren’t supposed to talk in the movies and the usher
could make you stop and he just stared at me and he took me
somewhere else with his flashlight and I sat there making my
shirt right and my pants right but I couldn’t make them right
and wiping my hand dry and I sat there looking all around in
the dark and there wasn’t enough light from the movie for me
to see where the man was and I couldn’t look at the movie
because I kept looking for the man but I was afraid that if he
saw me looking for him he would think I was wanting him to
come and I kept trying to see where he was in the dark and i f he
was going to try to talk to me more and the movie kept going
on but I was afraid to watch it because maybe the man would
come and I knew I couldn’t find my mother because it wasn’t
time to meet her yet and I had to stay in the movies or I didn’t
have anywhere to go and then the man came and I was going
to scream or hit him or shout but I was afraid to because I was
never allowed to hit adults, no such thing could ever happen,
and he looked at me and he stared and he walked by and down
the aisle and I was afraid he would come back and I got up and I
ran, I ran out, I ran into the street, into the cars, into the hot air,
into the light, it was like running into a wall o f heat and I
couldn’t breathe, and I ran to the department store and once
when I was a little child I had gotten lost in a department store
and I was lost from m y mother a long time and someone took
me to the manager because I was crying and lost and scared
and they announced over the loudspeaker for m y mother to
come find me and she came and this was the first time I was
ever so scared since then but I w ouldn’t cry or make noise
because I didn’t want the man to find me so I kept running and
saying I needed the manager and I needed m y mother and it
was an emergency but I kept as quiet as I could and I couldn’t
breathe so they called her on the loudspeaker and then when
she came I shook and cried and I tried to tell her and she said,
did anything happen, and I kept saying yes and I kept trying to
say each thing that happened and then we were on the bus and I
kept crying but I w asn’t supposed to talk because people could
hear and it was something bad, and then we got home and I
said how I didn’t want the man to sit next to me and I didn’t
know how to tell him to go away because he was an adult and I
didn’t mean to do something w rong but I didn’t know how to
tell the man not to rub because I didn’t even know what it was
or if it was a mistake because maybe he was making a mistake
because it was dark and maybe he thought I was someone else
that he knew or it was some other mistake and when I told him
he didn’t listen to me and he rubbed me and I didn’t want him
to, I wanted him to go away, and I tried to be polite and act like
an adult and not make noise in public and I didn’t cry like a
child and he had a dark jacket on and they asked me if it was
leather but I didn’t know what leather was and they asked me
what it felt like but I didn’t know how to say and he had on a
striped shirt and he had on dark pants and he had dark hair and
he didn’t sit straight even when he first sat down and he had
bad posture because he couldn’t sit straight and he smoked and
he asked me i f I wanted to smoke, and I did but I didn’t say that
to m y mother because I just looked ahead o f me and said no
even though I wanted to and so I was good and I didn’t have to
say I wanted to, and then he slumped all over me and held me
still with his arm around m y shoulder and his head pinned
under m y head so I couldn’t m ove aw ay and I couldn’t
describe him enough for them but I could still see him; and m y
mother cried; and now I can see him, almost, I can’t remember
yesterday as well, even now he’s right next to me, almost, on
me, almost, the pressure o f his body covering m y heart,
almost, I can touch him, nearly, I could search the earth for
him and find him, I think, or if he sat down next to me I w ould
die, except I can’t quite see his face, nearly but not enough, not
quite, and I can feel his fingers going in, almost, if I touch my
face his fingers are more real, and it hurts, the bruised, scraped
labial skin, the pushed, twisted skin; and my daddy came into
my room after I couldn’t cry anymore and said nothing
happened and not to cry anymore and we wouldn’t talk about
it anymore; and I waited to be pregnant and tried to think i f I
would die. I could have the baby standing up and I wouldn’t
make any noise. M y room is small but I can hide behind the
door.
T W O
In 1961 and 1962
(Age 14, 15, 16)
M y name is Andrea. It means manhood or courage. In Europe
only boys are named it. I live in the U . S . A. I was bom down
the street from Walt W hitman’s house, on M ickle Street in
Camden in 1946, after the war, after the bomb. I was the first
generation after the bomb. I’ve always known I would die.
Other generations didn’t think so. Everyone says I’m sad but
I’m not sad. It doesn’t make me sad. The houses were brick,
the brick was made o f blood and straw, there was dust and dirt
on the sidewalks, the sidewalks were gray, the cement was
cracked, it was dark, always dark, thick dark you could reach
out and touch and it came down all around you and you could
feel it weighing on you and bumping up against you and
ramming you from behind. Y o u m oved against the dark or
under it or it pushed you from behind. The dark was
everything. Y o u had to learn to read it with your fingers or
you would be lost; might die. The cement was next, a great
gray desert. Y ou were on it, stuck and abandoned, a great gray
plain going on forever. They made you fall on your knees on
the cement and stay there so the dark could come and get you.
The dark pushed you, the cement was the bed, you fell on
your knees, the dark took you, the cement cradled you, a
harsh, angry embrace tearing the skin o ff your knees and
hands. Some places there is a great, unbearable wind, and the
fragile human breaks in it, bends in it, falls. Here there was this