I’ve been riveted by the sexual assault stories swirling around this year’s election, with good reason. There are probably instances of impropriety I can’t remember much earlier in life, but I’ve dealt with unwanted groping since junior high, when boys thought my early development was an invitation to touch and grab. I was ashamed and nearly crying on a bus trip to the beach, when two boys I’d known since kindergarten thought it was a game to try and grab me from their seats behind me. I had to borrow a big puffy jacket from my friend sitting next to me to try and shield myself, but they still kept trying. I didn’t drive until I was 20, but walking to bus stops or waiting for buses and for my mom to pick me up was excruciating because I endured catcalls and whistles. I would wear billowing T-shirts on 100-degree Fullerton days, sunglasses, headphones and a ferocious expression to get through each day. I thought it was my fault, especially since family members would look at me disapprovingly just for wearing a sleeveless shirt, or something that didn’t completely obscure my figure. It came to a breaking point when I finally gave in to a guy who had visited my church and had been touted as “a good boy” by a close family member. I had made the mistake of letting him come over to my house, but to get him out without getting in trouble, I had to say, “OK, fine.”

It’s not fine.