Ten Years Later: Out of the Elevator

by: Lauren Jonik

In a split second as my eye caught his, I knew that I couldn’t let lightning strike twice. He was standing outside of a bodega in DUMBO, Brooklyn leaning casually against the silver railing beside the concrete steps. I was in the middle of the street, hugging my black coat towards my chest to keep out the December chill. It was too late—I had departed the safety of the
sidewalk and was moving straight towards him. I was too stunned to amend my pace. Certainty propelled me. I was twenty-eight, but suddenly felt like I did when I crossed a busy street as a small child without holding my mother’s hand. How is this even possible?

The recognition was instant and mutual. Some faces are unforgettable, but I had to make him believe his had been erased from my memory. Passing by him, I hurried into the store, careful to avoid prolonged eye contact. Inside, there were too many choices, too many strangers— the world overwhelmed. While the air felt close and stifling, heavy with the scent of warm food, the
high ceilings of the cavernous store expanded farther above like the shoreline morphing into an endless sea. My relationship to the space around me shifted. Other customers waited in line to purchase sandwiches, sodas and chips. For them, it was lunchtime. For me, it was suddenly 4:10PM on a wet, steamy July afternoon. I was back in the small elevator of an apartment
building on a quiet Brooklyn street. He was there dressed in baggy jeans and a bright red t-shirt. With every inch of ascent, my descent deepened. The return climb would take years.

I gathered breathless courage and exited the store. He was watching the glass door intently. The sight of him pierced my much needed illusion of believing that he was no longer in the area. Now, I had to walk inches by him—and convince him that he was just another random stranger to me.
I looked him in the eye and turned the corners of my mouth upward. My body felt weightless a moment later. I barely was tethered to the ground. Puffy clouds hovered above the blue outline of the Manhattan Bridge. The day was bright. I was more afraid this time than I had been in July. I shivered and felt deeply alone again. Memories flooded and took control.

There was the push forward as I stood near the buttons in the elevator, the confused surprise, the flesh of his thick muscular arm gripping me above the collarbone from behind, frustration that I could not stomp on his foot hard enough, the inability of my teeth to penetrate his arm, the swift motion of him dragging us both to the ground, down, down, down. I had on jeans, a
maroon shirt, sneakers and a black backpack which rendered me looking like a disoriented ladybug when we reached the dingy floor. I tried to stab him with the keys I had in my hand. I was afraid to hurt him and missed my chance to plunge them into his eyes. I couldn’t believe that what was happening was indeed happening. How is this happening? I wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone—even someone trying to kill me. Dismantling that false belief cost me precious seconds. There are exceptions to every rule and this was one. He knocked the keys out of my hand. They jangled upon hitting the surface of the wall before falling. I corrected my hesitation and tried go for his eyes. The moistness of his eyeballs surprised me when I made momentary contact, my fingers recoiling. My hands had a forced migration to the flesh around his ears. My fingertips memorized the sensation of the texture of his very short hair. His hand gripped the circumference of my throat. It would take weeks for the bruises and fingernail marks he left as a souvenir to fade. I hated that I had to see proof of his existence—of our meeting— every time I looked in the mirror. The black eye disappeared much faster. I had never been hit by a man before. It was soul-shattering every time his fist greeted my cheek. I surrendered into each blow—the gift of years of practicing yoga. When I kicked him in the face with the sole of my sneaker, I had miles of bike riding to thank for making my legs strong. The surprise of my strength electrified me. He should have writhed in agony, but instead the pain angered him. He stood up and reached for his zipper. I flailed and flailed my limbs and silently comforted myself as if I were talking to a child. Just get through this. All you have to do is survive. We can work out the rest.

As the world was starting to drift into blackness—the result of his hand still squeezing my throat and the force of the punches, I hit one button on the elevator: the buzzer. It startled him long enough to let go of my throat. I gasped for him to take my money. The elevator doors opened yet again—with no one on the other side. He grabbed my black purse and fled. I still want that purse back. I really liked it.

I survived and ten years later, I’m still working out the rest. I am 38 years old, but on July 23, 2014, I celebrate my 10th birthday for the second time. The first involved cake, candles and a new red bike with a wire basket attached to the front from my parents—my first three-speed with hand brakes. The second, which marks not the day I was given life, but the day I acknowledge that I was given more life will be filled with reflection, prayer, gratitude, rain (it almost always rains on this day in New York City) and against the odds, loveliness and wonderment.

In the initial years of processing the trauma, in addition to professional guidance, I sought ways to convince myself that beauty still existed in the world. I needed to see it. I yearned to capture it, hold onto it and show the world. See! Here—there is so much ugliness all around, but there is still this—something beautiful in the everyday! I began taking pictures. I blended my love of music and writing (and burgeoning career as a music journalist) with my desire to prove that other humans I did not know could be exquisite and magical and safe for me to be around. I worried that I never again would know if anyone new I met would be a friend or foe. My radar
had gone offline. Everyone felt dangerous. Or, dangerous to the extent that I could feel. During the first weeks, I felt vulnerable yet invincible. For many months after that, I felt numb. The world existed on the opposite side of glass from where I stood. I could see it, but not touch it. I believed it could not touch me. I could not let it.

My camera offered a window. As I started photographing musicians on stage, the energy of their performances met me in a place where I was receptive. This was a siren’s call that my spirit heard. Come back. Create. You’re not done yet. Look at all the beauty still here. . .

Years later, when life abruptly changed again in moments, I adapted more fluidly and more quickly. When I could no longer shoot concerts every night due to a serious health condition, I turned to landscape, cityscape and nature photography and ShootLikeAGirlPhotography was born. The world again convinced me of its charm by simply showing up before my eyes—and camera lens. I had found a way to take the originating event that felt so surreal and devastating and through a process of grace and alchemy, allow it to transform into something real and blessed.

As I told the story of my return to life through images, I also found solace in telling the story of the attack through words. Every detail had been inked on my soul. Letting it be written upon the page moved it in small pieces away from my interior. Telling the story until I cannot tell it any more has been the only consistent way to untangle the events from being wrapped around
my heart. I can’t remove the thorns without unraveling the vine. Sentence by sentence, word by word, I cut the cords connecting me to the intensity that exploded in the elevator that day.

I am still saddened whenever I share my experience and the immediate response—particularly from women—is a version of “Something like that happened to me (or my friend or a relative), too. . .” I am grateful they share their stories with me, but am dismayed that there are so many
stories. Why are there so many stories? Violence against women should be the anomaly, not a quiet cultural norm that we have accepted.

The vigilance required to try to ensure safety when walking down the street or going anywhere alone exhausts me. Even though I no longer routinely look over my shoulder at every turn, I remain keenly aware of my surroundings. My nervous system never fully relaxes. I awaken at the slightest unusual sound in my apartment. A solid night of deep sleep is like a mythical unicorn to me—I have heard tales it exists, but it’s not present in my life. The regular nightmares stopped years ago, but sometimes I still relive the experience in that space between slumber and wakefulness. I awaken fully into relief that it was just a bad dream— just my mind
still processing and letting go. . .

A part of me died ten years ago—one I could not resurrect for I could never “unknow” what I had known, but a new self developed. The beauty I sought in the small, ordinary moments as medicine for my soul is no longer a rarity, but a way of life. It is impossible for me not to see it now, even on difficult days. It is there in the eyes of strangers on the train, in patterns of clouds,
in shimmering puddles of dirty water and oil mixing on the street, in flowers blossoming and and in reflections of sunlight painting mosaics on buildings at dusk. One of the darkest hours of my life brought some of the most profound and lasting illumination to it. And for that, on each July 23rd, I celebrate and stand in wonder of the power of transformation—of taking a tragedy and using the broken pieces left to create something new. Something sustaining. Something beautiful.