Harassing Your Harasser

, , , , , , | Friendly | September 12, 2017

Back in middle school, I had a growth spurt that made me the tallest girl in my grade, and taller than most of the boys. Despite being about as curvy as a broom, I got some unwanted attention.

One day, I was at my locker and suddenly felt an arm around my waist. This short guy I’d never seen before, so short the top of his head was below my shoulder, was trying to lead me away.

This kid was calling me “babe” and talking about introducing “his girl” to “his boys,” but didn’t even tell me his name when I asked. I pried his hand off my hip and hurried off to class.

Every locker break after that, he’d show up and put his arm around me, trying to chat me up, without ever asking me anything about myself. No matter how many times I told him to go away, twisted his fingers, pinched him, or shoved him, his arm was glued to my waist until locker break was over.

I never did figure out his name. He had the same haircut as half the boys in my grade, and I didn’t really trust my teachers.

One day I’d had enough.

I had just opened my locker and taken my backpack and books out when he showed up again. He was expecting me to shove him away; he was not expecting me to put my arm behind him and frog-march him into my locker. I nearly got the door shut all the way before he began flailing and ran out.

Nobody ever said anything to me about it, even though there were plenty of witnesses. I never got in trouble. I never saw the little pest again, either.

I felt guilty until I learned what “sexual harassment” was a few years later.

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