Four years ago, an eager freshman began her first class at University Park. Full of pride in the Air Force uniform I wore, and full of naievete, although I never would have admitted it.

I took a course my cousin recommended, saying the professor was phenomenal. On the first day of class, I found out that professor was on sabbatical, but I didn't want to make waves in a new system, so stifling my disappointment, I kept the course.

I was introduced to blue book exams and my high school record of excellence on essay exams was dashed with a big red "C." I was sure the grade was undeserved, and everyone told me to talk to the professor. Thus began the battle through graders and graduate assistants until I ended up in the professor's office wearing the uniform I was so proud of.

The professor seemed greatly fascinated by my uniform and took pains to express how great it looked on my figure. Although I felt self-conscious, it seemed a small price for a better grade.

The professor invited me to come and see him before the next exam with an essay written on some relevant topic for him to proofread. This seemed strange, but before the next exam, he read my essay, told me how to improve it and let me memorize it for the exam. He also told me to come back to his office as soon as I could.

We had four exams and by continuing visiting, I received straight "As." As this went on, and he began to admire my body more, I became less comfortable going there until I began to dread the visits. The day before the final exam I made my dreaded pilgrimage, sure I could get an "A" on my own, but doubting I would if I didn't go to see him.

As I walked into his large office, he shut the door behind me. My mind on the exam, I asked about it only to hear him say -- do you really want to talk about class? What about us? As I tried to pretend he wasn't thinking what was written on his face, I backed away as he moved closer to me.

As long as I live, my memories of Penn State will be haunted by that man's hands as he reached to pull me closer. I can still hear the sound of the chair I knocked over to get away and my heart still pounds when I think of the flights of stairs I ran down in my uniform to get away from him.

I have never been back to a male professor's office, and I never reported the professor because I didn't want to be a victim. The innocent freshman didn't want to make waves.

Everyone said I could only lose in a sexual harassment case. But today a woman in my English class told a story of harassment that sounded so familiar. It was that professor, the man I never reported. She had the courage to make waves.

When she filed a complaint, he was facing four similar complaints and one charge of using racial slurs in the classroom. He is still teaching here, but I can't help but wonder if the pain in my classmate's eyes would have been dimmer if I had reported him first.

After her complaint, this man received only a reprimand. As I prepare to graduate, I know I will spend the rest of my life telling every woman I meet that if this story sounds familiar -- report it. I didn't want to make waves, but only waves will stop the pain.