American Girl

Growing up, no one told me what sexual assault was.

Not when teachers saw my male classmates snapping my bra straps in the middle school hallways. Or during assemblies where we sat at the long rectangular tables in the cafeteria, and boys would crumple up pieces of notebook paper or straw wrappers and try to “shoot” them down my shirt — aiming, unsurprisingly, for the point between my boobs.

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