When I was nineteen years old, Elie Weisel grabbed my ass. It was a calculated act and worse than you think; he mistook me for an ultra-religious underage girl who was unlikely to tell anyone about it. In other words, he purposefully chose to molest someone who he assumed was a minor and who would be compelled into silence.

What is your reaction?

A. “Why are you making this a big deal? He didn’t rape you.”

B. “How could you make this public? You’re ruining a legacy.”

C. Both

Which is it: big enough to destroy or so small that it is harmless? Women are driven crazy and driven to silence trying to answer this question.

In 1989, while a sophomore biology major at the University of Pennsylvania, I attended the annual fundraising dinner of a large Jewish charity. At least 1000 people attended the event in a New York City hotel ballroom. These sorts of dinners have a lineup of speakers and typically honor those who have helped raise money for the charity.

Though not religiously observant, myself, I dressed modestly to respect the ultra-religious organizers. This was made easy by items fashionable in the eighties. I wore a newly purchased high-necked, long-sleeved, cranberry-colored blouse and a black taffeta, full, tea-length skirt owned since eighth grade. Cursed with appearing younger than my true age, fully-grown at 5' 3/4" tall and 104 pounds, I looked about fourteen at the time, maybe less.

That year, the dinner was in memory of my boyfreind’s recently-deceased father, being posthumously honored for his work on behalf of the non-profit. My boyfriend and his two brothers were to speak about their father, followed by dinner and a speech by the main attraction, Elie Wiesel. I’m sure there were others scheduled to speak, but the part I remember clearly about the pre-determined lineup (printed out and placed on each table) was: 3 brothers…dinner…Wiesel.

As family of an honoree, we were seated at a front table, all the way to the left if you were facing the giant podium. I was at the far side of the table so I didn’t have to turn around in my chair to see as the brothers spoke, one after another. I thought my boyfriend (later fiancé, then ex-husband), the youngest brother, was the best. His mother, recently widowed, was justifiably sad so I tried to express the pride and satisfaction that she couldn’t.

Dinner was about to be served, when leaping (I mean it) to the podium, off-schedule, came Elie Wiesel. The MC looked flustered. Elie Wiesel grabbed the microphone and said that he could not wait until after dinner to speak; the three brothers speaking about their father had moved him so much, he felt compelled to give his speech, immediately.

As attendees milled about after dinner, an official photographer waved a series of important people, rabbis, and big donors into groups for picture-taking. The organizers wanted a photo of the memorial honoree’s family with the Famous Speaker. While I stood off to the side, the brothers, their mother, and the eldest brother’s wife arranged themselves to flank Wiesel. The photographer began to focus the lens of his camera.

My boyfriend waved for me to join but I shook my head, no. I didn’t think it was appropriate to crash an official family photo, particularly during such a somber and noteworthy event. He waved again, insistent. So, I joined the group at the right end of the lineup, next to my boyfriend. Everyone had their arms around those next to them. A black backdrop was behind us, the podium side of the room was to our left, and the doors to the hallway to our right. The photographer re-focused the lens since everyone had moved.

The photographer was about to take the photo when Elie Wiesel yelled, “Wait!!”. He then lunged (this is not an exaggeration — he looked as if he was performing a fencing move) out of the middle of the arrangement, across the line of family members, towards his right, towards me. Pushing with his hands, he shoved me and my boyfriend apart, inserted himself between us, placed one arm over each of our shoulders, and then gave a nod to the photographer and said, “Ok.”

Weird.

The photographer re-focused his lens, which took some time. The hand on my right shoulder moved a few inches down my back to be on my shoulder blade. Maybe his hand had been uncomfortable in its original position. Although, how could it be more comfortable now that it was not resting on top of something? I didn’t have an answer for myself. The hand moved lower. It moved again. This happened slowly, over a period of seconds; a physical impossibility that is possible under such circumstances. I was in disbelief.

“That can’t be what he’s doing. That can’t be what he’s doing. That can’t be what he’s doing.”

“His hand is still in a normal position. It is still in a normal position, now. Even now, it is still in a normal position.”

The photographer snapped the photo. Simultaneously, Elie Wiesel’s right hand had reached my right ass cheek, which he squeezed. The photo was over, the photographer leaned back from crouching over his camera, the group separated, smiling at eachother, and Elie Wiesel immediately RAN, diappearing straight into the crowd of over 1000 people who were nearly all standing up. Already gray-haired at that time, Weisel’s agility impressed me as he fled the scene of the crime.

The family chatted with people nearby. I remained frozen to the spot in which Wiesel had left me. My boyfriend came over, unaware of what had just happened. I filled him in.

“He must have had his hand on your waist.”

“No.”

“Maybe it was on your back, really far down and it made you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know exactly where my ass is, and that’s where his hand was.”

While other men have done, technically, worse things to me, Wiesel’s actions were, in some ways, more sorrow-inducing. Perhaps bad people do bad things. Conversely, one might hope, good people don’t do bad things.

What happens when someone so objectively good that they received a Nobel Peace Prize, so good that they are qualified to tell people all over the world how to be good, so good that their memoir is required reading for high school students and they are hailed for teaching the world to understand the definition of evil in contrast to good, what happens when that’s the person who does something really really bad to you when you’re nineteen? You are sad beyond measure because, you believe, there are no good people. You mourn for humanity and for yourself.

Like many other women, I could make a long and ugly “shit men did to me” list, starting at age 11 that includes groping, stalking, date rape, following for blocks in the dark while saying with increasing anger ‘talk to me..what’s your name..what’s your name..why won’t you tell me your name!’, written death threats, severe workplace sexual harassment, disgusting whispers on the subway, etc., etc. Like many other women, I avoid getting in elevators that contain a lone man, I walk through dark areas with my phone open and my keys sticking through my fingers like a weapon. I avoid using underground or multi-level parking garages when alone and I hold it in rather than using a bathroom at the end of a desolate hallway in a poorly-lit basement underneath a loud restaurant or, like the other day, underneath a lecture hall at a university. Standard, daily habits, to which most men are oblivious.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3769818&forum_id=2#34489043)

1) What he thought her religion was.

2) What he thought her age was.

3) That his hand placement was intentional.

Even if we assume she's truthful and accurate about every fact she relays, she has no possible way to know any of these things. JFC.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3769818&forum_id=2#34490059)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3769818&forum_id=2#34490127)

1. all men, even saints, are incorrigible pigs

2. nothing can ever change this

3. shut the fuck about it and deal

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3769818&forum_id=2#34491283)

While other men have done, technically, worse things to me, Wiesel’s actions were, in some ways, more sorrow-inducing.

While other men have done, technically, worse things to me, Wiesel’s actions were, in some ways, more sorrow-inducing.

While other men have done, technically, worse things to me, Wiesel’s actions were, in some ways, more sorrow-inducing.

While other men have done, technically, worse things to me, Wiesel’s actions were, in some ways, more sorrow-inducing. While other men have done, technically, worse things to me, Wiesel’s actions were, in some ways, more sorrow-inducing. While other men have done, technically, worse things to me, Wiesel’s actions were, in some ways, more sorrow-inducing. While other men have done, technically, worse things to me, Wiesel’s actions were, in some ways, more sorrow-inducing.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3769818&forum_id=2#34491287)