“Stop commenting about my body and get lost”

I was fifteen or so when my grandfather died, though I looked more like thirteen. At his wake, which my sister and I attended all that evening, we took a break and walked to the local Dunkin’ Donuts to get a bite to eat with a girlfriend. On the way back, a group of guys (whose faces I couldn’t see in the dark) in huge SUVs honked their horns and wolf-whistled at us. I was absolutely terrified, as this was the first instance of sexual harassment I’d ever experienced. They made comments about our bodies and how “hot” we were, dressed in funeral clothes. I hung my head down and moved faster, trying to avoid causing any “trouble.” I was well-read enough to understand what groups of men + darkness + young girls equaled, even if I hadn’t experienced before or really been talked t about it, and I didn’t want anything like that to happen to me, my sister or my friend. I wish I’d been brave enough at the time to have said something, but I didn’t. We managed to get out of there unmolested, though a few of the guys seemed to have been following us right up to the funeral home. When I told my mother about it, my sister said she was happy that they’d found us attractive, while I just felt ashamed. We’ve both learned our lessons about verbal harassment now and don’t stand for things like this anymore, but sometimes I wish I had a time machine and could go back and tell my younger self to yell at them to back off. Long after that incident, I noticed how many of my male “friends” said similar things under the guise of “compliments.” Now I say what I wished I’d said back then, “Stop commenting about my body and get lost.”

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