I learned early to become my own safe harbor.
When I was sixteen, two school friends convinced me to join them on a Spring Break trip to Rome.
I didn’t have the money, so I did what any determined teenager would do — I took the bus to downtown, and begged my way into a part-time job.
That’s how I ended up as a dental assistant trainee in a clinic that, in hindsight, had more red flags than a parade.
At first, it felt like a win. I learned to sterilize instruments, take full-mouth X-rays, and even remove sutures from a terrified little boy without fainting. The staff was friendly enough, though there was a strange tension in the office I couldn’t quite name.
Patty, a nineteen-year-old assistant with chestnut hair and an older-sister calmness, took me under her wing. We jogged together on Sundays. She made the job feel safe.
But safety was an illusion.
One of the dentists — Dr. B — was a fifty-something “teddy bear” type who liked to hold court in the hallway and invite young assistants to sit on his lap.
I always declined.
One Saturday, he didn’t take no for an answer.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me onto his lap. I escaped as quickly as I could, uneasy but still too young to fully understand what had just happened.
At closing time, I went downstairs to grab my coat.
The room was dim and quiet.
I reached for my sleeve — and Dr. B jumped out from behind the coats and shoved his mouth onto mine.
I pushed him away and ran for the door.
Behind me, he called out:
“No need to tell anyone! I thought you liked me! You do like me, don’t you?”
I was sixteen.
The next morning, I told Patty.
She didn’t believe me. Or maybe she simply couldn’t afford to.
By Monday, I was fired — handed my final paycheck before I could even speak.
The partner assaults a sixteen-year-old.
The sixteen-year-old gets terminated.
Welcome to the real world.
I rode the bus home feeling dirty, ashamed, and very, very alone.
But when I told my father, he simply said:
“Be glad you’re out of there.”
The next night, he came home carrying a three-piece set of red leather luggage for my Rome trip.
We never spoke of it again.
About a month later, he tossed a newspaper onto the kitchen table.
“Here,” he said. “Read this.”
Dental Office Under Investigation
I didn’t need details.
I knew exactly what had happened.
My quiet, determined father had told someone… who told someone… and the six-foot dentist finally got the scare he deserved.
Maybe it saved another girl.
Maybe it stopped him.
Maybe that was enough.
What I know is this:
That experience taught me to trust my instincts, even when no one else does.
It taught me that silence protects the wrong people.
And it taught me that sometimes, you have to become your own safe harbor.
Romancing the Herd 