His leg pressed against mine.
We were crammed into two seats on a commuter jet between Dallas and Peoria, Ill. It was tight. I didn’t think much of it. I moved my leg, resituated myself. He moved his foot back into his space.
Weird. But the guy had to be in his 70s. Maybe he was tired.
Sure enough, it looked like he fell asleep. Then his leg leaned into mine again. I moved again, gave his leg a little shove, the kind that could’ve been me accidentally bumping into him. He moved back into his space. Then it happened again. I resituated. Again. Gave him another slight shove. Went back to my book.
A chapter or so later, I felt his arm across the armrest, pressing into my side. It was so gradual, I wasn’t sure when it started. So I moved my arm back down and pushed his away. Resituated again. He retreated again.
At that point, something definitely felt off. This was not a big man. He was elderly. But he didn’t need both his space and some of mine. The kids would say that the vibes were off.
So I crossed my legs and leaned away from him, and I positioned my book so I could read it but also keep an eye on him.
His arm was back on the arm rest. Then he did it. He reached over and tried to touch my leg.
I couldn’t believe it. The unmitigated gall. I turned and looked him right in the eyes.
“STOP.”
His eyes flicked up at mine and then he quickly looked away. He shrank back against the window and almost visibly became smaller. Like a kid who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, except the cookie jar was my leg.
I went back to my book, still watching him from the corner of my eye. We began to descend into Peoria. He straightened up a little and looked over at me.
“I’d like to apologize …” He started, then drifted off. I gave an icy stare, nothing more. No response. No “Oh, it’s OK.” I was not there to make him feel better about getting caught. He could sit in whatever feeling he was sitting in. He’d just confirmed his bad behavior, and I’d never have to worry if I was mistaken or if I’d read too much into it.
The plane landed and I stood up immediately. I’d just spent most of a flight trying to avoid being touched by a creepy old man in the 18-inch seat next to me, and I had zero cares about what anyone else thought.
Take-home
When I got home, the first thing I did was recount the entire thing to my daughters, ages 22 and 16. I wanted them to know they don’t have to put up with that, that “Stop” is a full sentence, and one word can take back your power and your agency over your own body and space.
And that’s exactly why I’m sharing this here. Harassment isn’t a thing we talk about often on the pages of farm magazines, and certainly, it’s not a thing most of us encounter frequently. I’ve made it 49 years and taken a lot of flights before it ever happened to me, and even then, it was a 70-plus-year-old man that I honestly could have taken if I had to.
But gosh, he made me mad. Nobody gets to take away your power. Nobody gets to touch you if you don’t want them to, on a plane or otherwise. Plus, I had a good book. The audacity of ruining a good book and a peaceful read, on top of everything else.
In my lifetime, agriculture has come a long way in weeding out sexual harassment, but it still exists even in today’s enlightened world. If you’ve read this far and you’re a young woman and this hasn’t happened to you, I’m happy for you.
But sadly, that it would happen is likely not if but when. What will you do? Think it through ahead of time. Don’t placate someone like that. Don’t be afraid to escalate it and get help if “Stop” doesn’t work immediately. And if you’re a man reading this, watch out for the women around you. More than once I’ve benefited from a friend who was paying attention and helped ward off a creep, or made sure I got where I needed to be safely.
The take-home is pretty simple: Stay aware, trust your gut, speak up. Get help if you need it. The man in 19F is OK, until he isn’t.
Comments? Email holly.spangler@farmprogress.com.