Alone on a crowded train...

I shouldn’t have held the door.

Back in 2006, I went back to college to complete my Bachelor’s Degree. I’d spent my early twenties having fun, but after the loss of a beloved family member, I’d had a quarter life crisis, and decided to buckle down and finish what I’d started.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

I was accepted to DePaul University, where I decided to complete a Bachelor’s Degree in Communication. I lived in a near west suburb with my fiancé (now he’s my husband), and I decided to commute via public transportation to DePaul. I took the Metra Milwaukee District West Line to Union Station, and then the Brown Line CTA train to Fullerton.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

One bright and sunny afternoon on my commute home, as I went up the stairs to the train platform, I sensed someone behind me, and I held the door.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

The man followed me onto the platform, and was speaking to me. He was in dirty clothes, had a smell of alcohol on his breath, and was speaking in rambling sentences. I tried to give short, non-committal responses to his ramblings. To anyone else standing on the platform, I was clearly uncomfortable.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

The train arrived, the doors opened on the nearest car, and I stepped in. The man followed close on my heels. I found a seat, of which there were only pairs of seats available. No single seats were open. The man sat down next to me, continuing to ramble.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

He asked my name. I told him my name was Beth. He told me his name was Cross. Then he took his finger and drew a cross on the flat of my chest (above my breasts), and said, “Like a Cross.”

I shouldn’t have held the door.

I looked around the train, at my fellow passengers. No one was looking at me. Everyone was staring down at their books, newspapers, and MP3 players (it was before the smart phone revolution). Others were visibly uncomfortable, but not meeting my eyes.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

I was alone in a crowded train. I was being harassed by mad man. I didn’t know if he had a weapon. He was mentally unstable. He probably had a pocket knife. He might have had a knife. He probably had a knife. Why wasn’t anyone looking at me? Why was I alone on crowded train? Why was this man touching me without my permission? WHY AM I ALONE ON A CROWDED TRAIN? The adrenaline roared through my head. My hearing was sharper than usual, but there were no sounds from the other people in my train car. I was alone. I was abandoned by my fellow humans.

The message was clear. I was on my own. I needed to escape.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

The train doors opened at Merchandise Mart. This was not my stop, but it was a busy platform. Right before the doors closed, I ran off the train. I looked behind me, and the man had not been able to follow.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

Two trains went by before my panic attack abated. I finally got on a train and went to my stop at Quincy.

A night went by with restless sleep.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

The next day I took the Metra to Union Station, and got onto the Brown Line at Quincy. When I exited at the Fullerton platform, I approached a CTA worker (let’s call him Tom). I told him what had happened the previous day.

He was stunned for a moment. “Weren’t there other people on the train?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Why didn’t anyone help you?”

“They were too busy being relieved that it wasn’t them,” I said, as this was the only explanation I had come up with for why I’d been left to fend for myself.

“You were assaulted. Why would no one help you?”

I was silent. I hadn’t assigned the word “assault” to what had happened to me until Tom had used the label.

Tom spoke again, “If this ever happens again, go to the largest man you can see on the train and tell him that you need him to stand between you and the other guy.”

But it was obvious I’d been alone on a crowded train car, I thought. How do I even know I can trust another man after this?

“Then,” Tom continued, “when the train stops, slap the emergency blue button. Don’t respond to the voice that comes through. The conductor must then get out of the lead car and see who hit the button.”

But the man might have had a knife.

I’ve carried pepper spray since this incident.

The next academic year I mostly drove to campus. I couldn’t muster up the courage to get back on the el.

I am a warrior.

I am a coward.

I am strong.

I am vulnerable.

I can defend myself.

I need to be defended.

I am one among many.

I am alone.

I shouldn’t have held the door.

I will hold the door again.

Reprinted with permission.