Yesterday in South Station there was an amazing, heart-wrenching display of t-shirts hung up with messages decorated with paint and magic marker from people who had been raped. Almost all from women; I think I saw one from a man. The messages were so personal it was as if the person was right there, talking, looking in your eyes. Many were directed at the person who attacked them, who hurt them, who damaged them, and while there was anger in the messages, there also was a feeling of even more than surviving, but of living.
I stopped and looked when I arrived in Boston in the morning, and I spent time for the couple of minutes I had before the evening train.
And the thing I couldn't understand was the people who were standing by, not seeing or noticing. Maybe they had already looked and read and were just taking it all in. Maybe it was too painful to think about. Maybe they just didn't give a s**t.
It's always hard for me to figure out what's going on in another person's head.
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