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Chikan
A Subway Pervert

by Laura Holmes



A man showed me his penis today. It was an action I most definitely did not invite. It was also the second time
that has happened to me in four years. And although I was in far less danger this morning than the first time it
happened, I am still upset. But upset in a different way than I was four years ago and for different reasons.

The first incident, on a sunny Sunday afternoon--while I was not physically harmed--caused some of my silly
childhood beliefs to crash down around me. It was as if there, on the floor of that Minneapolis laundromat, the
creep with his pants down around his knees not only wagged his penis at me but spit and trampled all over my
belief system while he masturbated; the belief that I could go anywhere, anytime and be okay--no, not just be
okay but safe, safe because I was me and would always be safe because I believed I would always be
safe--lay crushed beyond any hope of restoration on the sidewalk outside the Suds 'n Duds on South Xerxes
Avenue.

This second incident, in Japan, is even more upsetting in that, unlike in Minneapolis when I ran to the store
around the corner, blurted out my story and found people not only outraged but willing to help, this morning,
when I reached the subway office to report a chikan on the platform below, I was met with an "ugh?" He
paired his "ugh" simultaneously with a shrug of such indifference that it took all I had to keep from assaulting
him. He was so unaffected by my report he wasn't even able to mutter the "shoganai" that accompanies so
many shrugs in Japan. "Oh well." It would not have surprised me if he had dismissed me with a backward flick
of his hand.

Fury enveloped me as I ascended the stairs into the Tokyo morning. It wasn't yet 7:30 and children were just
beginning their weekday flood into the stations and onto the trains to make their way to
school--unaccompanied and unprotected and amongst chikan, men legendary in Japan for molesting females
of all ages on the trains. In fact, I'd run by several kids in my panic to remove myself from the masturbator's
presence just a few minutes earlier. That subway worker, ticket taker--what ever his position is and
responsibilities are--had no more regard for those children streaming into his station than he had for my right
to safe public transportation. He had no thoughts for their safety, no compassion. Shoganai.

Sadly, I am not the first woman in Japan to be masturbated in front of and then brushed off and ignored when
trying to report the situation. And I most definitely won't be the last. And that is exactly what is so infuriating.

In Minneapolis that spring, posters with a composite drawing went up in the neighborhood, warning women to
beware the man who went around exposing himself and masturbating. People talked about him in the
hardware store and in the grocery store check-out line. Some expressed horror, others indignation, at his
deeds and they expressed hope that he would be put to a stop before he hurt someone. The point is they
were talking about him and what he was doing. They talked about what they wanted: the man caught,
prosecuted and locked away, so that it would be again safe to do laundry, to take their dogs for walks, to let
their children play outside. They wanted change. Otherwise there would have been no posters, no grocery
store conversations. There was no expression of "Oh well."

To be fair, I have seen posters, with cute cartoon characters, in train and subway stations around Tokyo,
warning riders to beware the chikan.. "Pay attention," they advise. But most of the discussion I have heard has
been that which I have initiated.

I watched Masayo's brown eyes bob up and down as she nodded her head knowingly when I got to the part
about the station worker shrugging me off. "No one will help," she sighed. "The one who helps may . . . " her
voice trailed off as she balled up her fist and gestured hitting herself in the eye. Her message was clear; the one
who helps may get hurt.

But it is the young girls of Tokyo--and now even some boys--who are getting hurt. The hurt, in the form of a
pinch, a touch, a rub, a grasp, may not cause lasting physical damage or scars that people can see. The
damage it does is more insidious. Young girls, harmed or harassed everyday of their school lives, adopt the
attitude of shoganai.

"What's new?" I asked the 16-year-olds in my Friday afternoon English club. Six very bright and talented
young women made up the club membership. Yumi immediately started searching for the English to
adequately describe her trip to school that morning. Of course she did not know the English equivalent of
chickan --molester. It is generally not included on most vocabulary lists. (Why is it one of the first words
foreigners learn on coming to Japan?) But she was able to adequately describe the incident on the Odakyu
Line that morning. A man had rubbed her leg, trying to reach under her skirt. Yumi displayed no discomfort in
describing what had happened, but she grew increasingly uneasy when I expressed concern for her--was she
all right; had she been hurt? "Happens everyday," she said. This time, this particular chikan happened to push
things a bit further than the others. Shoganai . . . Her shrug was a silent one as she changed the subject to the
coming school festival.

Age: old
Sex: plenty

Date: Thu Aug 24 04:00:57 2000 GMT

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