Another Apple

The other apple story.
When I was a freshman at Dartmouth, I decided I would get over my shyness by sitting with a different person at lunch every day. I decided I would just walk up to somebody and say, "May I join you?" sit down, and get to know them. Of course, it never occurred to me that people might not like this.
One day, I sat down at the table of this Korean guy who always ate by himself. He didn't look too thrilled, but he did start passing the conversational ball back and forth.
We ate in this big dining hall called Thayer, a big echoing place. It always felt like a viking hunting lodge to me--big painted beams crossed the ceiling, long wooden tables stretched from end to end. As a freshman, you were required to eat there. I thought the food was pretty good. Everybody else complained. Maybe they'd grown up on something other than cream of mushroom soup--my mother has about 77 dishes she makes with cream of mushroom soup.
All the sudden, there's a hush. A guy, Jay Qamar--that's his real name, jumps up on a table and starts singing a song. It's a terrible song--one of the worst I've ever heard. It's got lines about women fucking dogs. It's demeaning and ugly. I'm really not a prude--now and then--I almost never get offended, so when I do, I pay attention.
At Dartmouth that fall, I'd encountered a level of misogyny I'd never experienced in Little Dixie. I was completely unprepared for it. It seemed so sly and deep--hard to point to--but here it was bubbling up in this terrible song no boy from my county would ever be caught dead singing around girls. So I picked up an apple and I threw it. I can't usually throw very well and I have terrible aim, but this time, it arched beautifully across the length of the dining hall and hit him in the thight, right by the crotch.
Song over.
But not the hate.
You wouldn't believe the things that happened because I did that. The guys at the table belonged to Theta Delt. They pissed under my dorm room door. They carved things into it: "Haley's pregnant." They destroyed my bicycle--my poor purple 1967 Western Flyer. They would interrupt my classes and scream, "Haley Patton is a Cunt." They continued this campaign all fall.
I had worked so hard to get there. I was the only person from my town that year to go to an Ivy League college. I went with visions of Winter Carnival and F. Scott Fitzgerald. I came from a cramped, two bedroom house, where my mother, from fear of lack, stacked crates of canned food in the living room. You could hardly walk. My parents drove one 20 year old car and sold all their treasures to pay my tuition. It was my big chance. It was a nightmare.
I couldn't tell anyone from home about it, because I didn't want them to feel bad and I also didn't want to admit I was having a bad time. It didn't occur to me that this was harrassment and I needed to report it. I was ashamed that it was happening. I failed two classes. I was afraid to go to the library. I started dating a guy who lived off campus and moved in with him. I never went to my room. I was 17 years old and school was terrifying.
I haven't made the best choices, but when you don't feel safe, you never do. Now, at 41, I'm pretty good at keeping a clear head even when I'm very frightened and not making decisions that will later sabotage me. But when you're young, you don't usually have that capacity. You just react. I didn't think--if I don't get a dean involved in this situation, I will screw up my future and not get into medical school. I just tried not to walk alone at night and stayed away from class.
But you know what? I'm glad I threw the apple.
I just wish I'd thrown a rock. instead.
That's my 1/2 hour.