CW: sexualization of a child, harassment.
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“Modest is hottest,” my youth pastor says.
He’s looking right at me. Then his eyes drop down to my chest. They stay there. Squirming in the church pew, I cross my arms so I don’t shiver. I don’t want him to see that I’m grossed out. That would definitely hurt his feelings.
My body knows it’s my fault that he’s forced to look, but I can’t quite pinpoint the specific reason. I hate my breasts—two monsters that suffocate me in my sleep. Mom reassures me that it’s normal puberty, but I don’t believe her. I try to hide them, but they just keep growing.
The church elders say that if boys are looking at me, then I’m too tempting, which is bad. I try so hard not to be bad. I thought this black turtleneck was appropriate, but now I know it wasn’t enough. My jacket will cover me up better, but I left it in the car. If I ask my dad for the keys, he’ll probably ask me why. I might have to admit I tempted a man. Maybe Dad would tell me I’m just being silly, but I’m scared he’ll be disappointed instead.
No, it’s safer to just stay quiet.
But what if the pastor pictures me without my shirt on? How am I supposed to fix it for him then? I feel bile in my throat. It’s not like I can climb inside his head and make it stop. What else should I have done better?
This is not fair. Sometimes I wish I were a boy, then I wouldn’t have to constantly think about doing and saying all the right things. But even these thoughts are probably sinful. Pastor always says that our hearts are the most deceitful. He is our leader, so he must know these things better than me.
Everyone says God cursed girls because we sinned first. I think that’s true. I’m the only fourth grader I know who wears two C’s inside her shirt, so it does make sense—at least sometimes I think it does.
***
As we pull into the gas station, I spot a man sitting on the curb in front of the building. I park the car and get out, staying aware of my surroundings. My kids are laughing in the backseat, each watching a show on their tablet. I glance at the man again when I swipe my credit card.
Our eyes meet and he flashes me a toothy smile. His gaze runs up and down my body. My muscles tense and I resist the urge to avert my eyes and cover up. Suddenly, he’s up and jogging toward me.
“Hey there, boo. Do you have a minute? Let’s talk.” His voice sounds sweet, but all I hear is danger within it.
I swing my driver door open to keep a barrier between us. My voice comes out booming, exactly the way I want. “Stop right there! I need you to back up.”
He holds his palms up in the air and mutters, “Sorry.”
I think I hear him cussing under his breath as he shuffles back. For a split second, I wonder if I made him angry. Guilt slices through my chest, but I shove it away quickly. It’s taken years of therapy for me to be able to do that. I refuse to slide backwards now.
My brain knows I’m not in immediate danger, but my hands still shake uncontrollably as I put the gas nozzle back. The tank is only half full, but it’s enough for errands. My kids are still consumed with their tablets—I’m grateful they missed the interaction.
But a few minutes after we’ve left, my eight-year-old daughter looks up. She asks me, “Mom, don’t you think you should have been nicer to that man back there? You probably hurt his feelings.”
My eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror as my fingers tighten on the wheel. My heart pounds faster in my chest. I don’t know why it feels like I’m in trouble, but the familiar presence of bile burns my throat.
This is an important moment, and I don’t want to mess it up. I try to remember everything my therapist taught me. She doesn’t deserve to grow up hating herself like I did. She can trust her body. I want her to know that better than I did.
It’s been a while since God has heard from me, but I say a quick prayer in case he wants to help me get this right.
Taking a deep breath, I tell her, “Yeah, his feelings might be hurt. But I was really uncomfortable. I chose to trust what my body was telling me.”
She raises her eyebrows. “But what if it was wrong?”
A few minutes pass before I say, “It might be wrong sometimes, but I’m okay with that. And I want you to remember it’s okay to trust what your body tells you, too.”
She smiles and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve told me that before, Mom.”
******
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