Regrets, To the Little Girl on the Staten Island Ferry

One resolved, only to acquire another. The intention here is to maintain the most optimistic attitude possible; I am a 'glass half-full' person in the worst of times. Thus, I hope the little girl seen at 2:00 a.m. on the Staten Island Ferry was sad and in tears for anything but what it looked like: another child with an abuser, perhaps a sexual abuser. The person she was with offered a tissue, though I know this type of person very well: trying to look civil in a public setting. His face showed no compassion and avoided eye contact, knowing I was watching.

Because I couldn't get close enough to hear the conversation, I stood up two rows away and watched directly. She looked at me with burning eyes, clearly not wanting to be where she was and at times looking almost as if she wanted to die, to be anywhere but where she was.

There were 'officers' in the back of the boat. It was a twenty-five minute trip. I was sleep-deprived from a long day and could barely put two sentences together, let alone find the right words to express myself effectively, or so I thought. It was a Friday night, and this was perhaps his visitation, or this was a night someone else was unavailable and he was the only one who could 'take care of her'.

Whatever was going on, it didn't look like it was the first time. Either she had just come from somewhere that kept her crying silently during the whole trip, or she was about to experience something that she was helpless to prevent. I pray it was the former; either way, I feel as though I should have acted, though past experience had me frozen. All I could do in those twenty-five minutes was stand during the whole trip and stare at them, looking for a clearer sign to go to the police, who happened to be visible at the back of the boat.

There was an employee a friend knew who worked on the boat in the ladies room, who had disclosed to her that she was regularly beaten by her boyfriend. I was disturbed enough by this to go to an officer the next time I saw her working there and tell them what I knew. His response was that unless the woman went to him herself there was nothing he could do, that 'what if they took action on everyone who made such a report'? I was disappointed and discouraged, thought not surprized.

That experience and my fatigue kept me from going to the back of the boat that night, expecting the same response. This time it was a child, this time who she was with would lie if asked if there was something the child was upset about; he would likely not permit anyone to talk to her directly. She was property, too afraid to speak with who she was with that she couldn't get away from, who spoke in a very low voice with no emotion or expression of compassion as her tears flowed that she wiped herself, refusing the tissue he offered.

I watched helplessly as they got up when the boat got closer to its destination, the little girl, no more than eight, the same age as my son, walked ahead of her captor and faced forward to not have to look at him. I stood as close as I could to her side on the other side of the rope. She glanced at me a time or two, looking terrified, or enraged, or both, maybe at me for not doing anything, maybe because that's what she's always gotten: no one helping or caring, or even knowing that whenever she's with this person, something happens that she can't stop, and can't tell anyone.

By the time I was ready to go to someone they were still in the back of the boat, chatting as they had the whole time, watching no one, untrained, uncaring for any sort of subtle dynamics as these, inaccessible. I was angry that they were not now in the front of the boat, as they should have been.

Still helplessly watching, the seemingly heartless person the child was with took her hand again, as he had when I first spotted them about to get on. They walked together briskly toward the buses and disappeared into the crowd; there was nothing I could have done by then even if I'd been able to keep up with them. An eight year old if sad over anything other than coming from a death of a loved one does not continue to cry in such a way for such a time period unless something is out of the ordinary.

Two days later when I was able to see another cop on another boat I asked what was the procedure when those kinds of things happen. What are they trained to spot or do when nothing is happening though it appears clear that something may be about to happen, something that's happened before and may happen again, sometimes ongoing for years in a child's life with no one knowing. He said different officers are different, though they're not trained to spot such things for the most part, and that I should have gone to them...

I hope you were sad over anything but what it looked like; if I ever see you again or him I will not forget what you or he looked like. I will never forget your face. If I ever see the two of you together again with the same thing going on I promise I'll get help; I'm sorry I may have failed you. I hope you can forgive me. It's sometimes all I can do to protect one child, as I sometimes have to watch helplessly while another goes through what they don't deserve. Please be well, and safe.