Wednesday 22 April 2015

Wearing the wrong clothes.

2007: Me (centre) with awesome people 

With Nickelback blasting and the recent passing of our grandfather, I still can't shake off this nagging thought.

When news broke of how a poor family's hopes for their daughter to embark on a career of healing was robbed by a group of intoxicated men, my insides burned with anger and indignation. Over a year later, during the interview of one of those sick men, this line of "wearing the wrong clothes" hit a nerve too close.



I was 16. It was a sleepy quiet Saturday morning and I was en route to Newton Station for my track training. Most would take the seat beside the glass panel in a bid to sneak in a little nap. I liked that seat because it meant only one side would be exposed to strangers. A Chinese man old enough to be my father, dressed in a yellow fluorescent jersey seated himself next to me. That was an odd move, considering how there were less than 10 in that section of the train. I brushed it off. He started to nod off, as though he was falling asleep, leaning closer to me. Soon, he began man-spreading. Only when it felt like something was definitely off, I had just realised the train was approaching Novena Station and I stood up immediately. That was the moment he placed his filthy hand on my upper thigh. Gravity don't push things up. In the few mintues of waiting for the City-bound train to arrive, he stood at the mid-section of the staircase, watching me.

I was 16, in my school's PE tee shirt and shorts. You'd be able to guess how old I was.


I was 20. The afternoon sun shone brightly through the glass of Wheelock Place. Standing on the upwards escalator, I noticed a bright flash in the reflection at the glass sides of the escalator. I looked behind and asked what he was doing. He took off and all I could remember was a black cap, black tee shirt, blue jeans and that black sling bag. It took me a couple of minutes to register all that. There were others around too. Did they not see anything? I made a police report and waited alone by the main entrance for the police. It was the longest 45 minutes of my life. Blur surveillance footage and vague description proved to be as useful as mug with a hole. He was old enough to be my brother.

I was 20, in a mini-dress in broad daylight in a busy shopping district.

Was I wearing the wrong clothes?