HIT ME!
The man who juggles in
Rittenhouse Square stabbed
two people in 2020. He calls
my dog a scavenger when he
sees her at the fountain. It is
her favorite place to sit so I
don’t make her move.
I tell my mom about him
but not what happened to
my neighbor. She was walking
her dog when a man hit
them with his cane.
I have always wanted to
get in a fight.
I asked an ex to hit me
once, which he thought
was very funny. He could get
angry, so no one believed
he treated me well.
A man has started bringing
me gifts at work. He pays
someone to paint a picture
of my dog and I don’t know
what to do so I keep it
in my backpack.
It rides back and forth
with me on the subway.
My counselor would tell
me, Remember: you
got out.
That is, unbelievably, true.
I closed the door and left
their house by myself. I can
change my face so no one
bothers me on the subway.
You shouldn’t call yourself
crazy, my boyfriend says.
I have told him how, when I
lived in Charlottesville, there
were months when I was
afraid to go outside. I would
walk my dogs and there would
be no one around me.
I moved to the city to see
people on the street. I don’t
know what I expected them
to do: the other men in
the house had laughed
when I left.
Someone at work calls
me a people-pleaser. I
agree because I want to
keep my job.
What I should have said
is, How are you so sure?
I have never wanted to
make anyone else happy.
When I get angry, my
boyfriend says I should
beat him up. I don’t hit him
in case it doesn’t hurt.
I have started telling him
about the things men have
said to me in public. A few
years ago, in Rittenhouse
Square, a man told me he
wanted to fuck my dog.
Keep walking, my mom
would’ve said. Her favorite
piece of advice is, It’s not
worth it.
Once, at a Christmas
party, her friend tried to
kiss me. I told her and she
said that he was drunk.
When I mentioned it,
years later, to an ex, he
asked if I would still drink
if I had not been raped. It is
remarkable how easy it was
to answer.
In June, I took an early train
to work. I didn’t realize
there were cops a block
away; that after, I would
hear them laughing.
I thought I was alone on
the street. I only felt the
man when he tried to
smell my hair.
He said something that
I did not hear. It was not
an apology and I did not
back up.
I was not afraid of anything
he could do. I have only been
hurt by people who feel safe.
Move, I said, and it sounded
like, Hit me. I stepped forward
and it sounded like, Hit me.
I wanted what no one had
asked me for: permission.
*
Grace Alvino’s work has been or will be featured in Four Way Review, Barrelhouse, Cleaver Magazine, Mudroom, The Ex-Puritan, Grist, and more. She earned her PhD in English from the University of Virginia, and she lives in Philadelphia with her boyfriend and their dog and cat. You can find her on Instagram at @gray_cious.
