In the era of #MeToo, my late husband of 45 years would have been canceled, if not arrested, for having dated me, that is if you can call the courtship between a married 47-year-old man with two teenage children and a 17-year-old girl dating.
Arnold and I met in 1969 when I became his student in an evening life-drawing class. With his graying temples and beard and vast knowledge of art history, Arnold seemed the archetype fantasy of an artist. I immediately developed an all-consuming crush as only a teenager can. Had I been alert to the warnings that today’s young women instinctively possess, I might have recognized his glance down my blouse, his staring at me when he thought I was not looking, his whispering in my ear “I wish you were older,” his first kiss, for what they were, an older man’s manipulations to seduce a teenager. But that was not how I saw it back then, in the heady effervescence of the sexual revolution. In 1969, sleeping with your art teacher was an act of defiance and bravery, not one of subjugation.
The other students in the class were mostly retirees, the age I am now. Surely, they must have noticed the special attention Arnold directed at me, yet not one of them spoke up or took me aside to warn me that Arnold’s behavior had crossed the line.
On the last night of class, after the retirees left, Arnold kissed me and I fervently kissed him back. I had fantasized about his kiss ever since he looked down my blouse. As soon as I got home that night, I told my mother that I was in love with him. My mother fumed and told me that Arnold was a pervert, but she, too, did nothing, though I was so head-strong in those days there was little she could have done. My father had long been out of the picture so she could not rely on him to straighten me out. The pervading ethos of the post-pill, sexually liberated, free-for-all late ’60s gave her no guidelines.
Knowing what I know now, that our scandalous beginning turned into a happy 45-year marriage, do I wish someone had intervened?
Say I had been one of those retirees taking a life drawing class in 1969. Would I have spoken up when I noticed our middle-aged instructor leering down one of his student’s blouses, the youngest in the class? Would I have taken my teenage self aside to warn her? About what? The abuse of power? Heartache? Would I have told her that she was a victim, or about to become one? At seventeen, I would not have listened. I did not see myself as a victim. I saw myself as a fearless young woman who got the lover she wanted.