August 15, 2021Yo También
Ms. Commisso said Mr. Cuomo also kissed her repeatedly, including at least once on the lips, and rubbed her buttocks.
–New York Times
The entire Spanish Department was in the auditorium.
I was there to recite José Martí, un hombre sincero. I saw the Chair,
striding up the aisle—we hadn’t spoken since he’d signed his book
for me, helped me get a research grant. I reached out to greet him
with a handshake but before I could stand he leaned down, kissed me
full on the lips, a wet smack in plain view of the room. I froze,
my cheeks carmín encendido. I was un ciervo herido, afraid my peers
and professors would think I was sleeping with him, a macho wannabe
with his fake tan and too-tight shirt unbuttoned to expose tufts of gray.
It was 25 years ago. He was brazen and smart, surprising me in public
with a move that was inappropriate but it wasn’t like he propositioned
me. I talked to the student ombudsman, who said it was my choice
whether to file a complaint. Who couldn’t guarantee that Dr. S_____
wouldn’t dock my grades, block me from required courses, write bad letters
of rec or expect recompense for good ones. That he wouldn’t do it
again, to me or someone else. I doubt I was the first or last undergrad
he kissed, don’t doubt he went further with others. He did it because
he could. It was a violation, but it wasn’t personal. Unlike another professor
at a party ten years later, my best friend’s husband, my own husband’s
colleague at a university where the old guard called each year’s incoming
female students the talent, who grabbed my ass in my own kitchen, squeezing
hard, remarking on its tightness. I was wearing a thong and skinny jeans.
My friend was eight months pregnant, tired and swollen on the couch.
I called him out and he called it drunken tomfoolery. I never told her.
How could I? She’s gone now, died young. I still ache to think I kept
a secret from her. To think how she’d feel if she ever knew.
from Poets Respond