The world in which we lived reinforced the sense that I had no say in the matter of how men treated my body. Boys could laugh at our breasts in gym class and not get in trouble for it. Every day in high school our bras were snapped, our skirts flipped up, our butts lightly spanked as we walked to class. If our nipples showed through our shirts, some asshole would inevitably say, “Cuttin’ any diamonds lately?” On the rare occasion that any one of us girls complained to a school official about the catcalling and unwanted touching, it was met with, “it just means they like you,” and of course,
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