The first time I understood power dynamics, I was being crushed by a stained-glass Jesus. At eleven years old, tears smeared the church bulletin clutched in my hands as boys my age played tag through the pews – their laughter bouncing off vaulted ceilings while I sat exiled in a side chapel. An elder’s calloused palm suddenly weighed down my trembling thigh. “There now,” rumbled a voice meant to comfort. My lungs constricted like trapped moths.
We tell girls their discomfort is currency. That unwanted touch is love coins tossed in our fountain. At nineteen, watching vodka tonic splash across my roommate’s defiant face in that sticky-floored nightclub, I finally saw the counterfeit. “Frigid bitch!” the stranger spat as Rachel wiped citrus sting from her eyes. His words tasted familiar – the same saccharine poison we’d been swallowing since pigtail-pulling days.
“Back home,” I whispered later, picking lime pulp from her hair, “we’d call that a compliment.” Rachel froze mid-hair-wring. Her stare could’ve cut diamonds.
My niece’s Saturday morning ritual breaks me better than any alarm clock. Seven-year-old knees dig into my ribs as dawn light outlines her conspiratorial whisper: “The boys say girls can’t be scientists and astronauts.” Her indignation smells of strawberry toothpaste. “I told them my aunt fixes spaceships!”
I trace the crescent scar on her elbow – souvenir of last month’s playground standoff when Tommy yanked her off the monkey bars. “Did he say sorry?”
Her nose wrinkles. “He said I’m pretty when angry.”
The coffee machine gurgles its agreement. Somewhere between pouring cereal and finding her left sneaker, we practice what I wish I’d known at that stained-glass age:
“Try this,” I say, extending my hand toward her juice box. “May I?”
She giggles, clutching the pouch to her chest. “No thank you!”
“Respectfully withdrawn,” I bow, earning orange-juice spit-takes.
Men still ask me why we “overcomplicate” human connection. Last Tuesday’s coffee shop encounter plays on loop: “After #MeToo, we’re walking on eggshells!” protested the guy manspreading across two chairs. His caramel macchiato grew cold as he lamented “the death of romance.”
I stirred my tea slowly, watching sugar crystals dissolve. “Did you know 81% of women experience sexual harassment before eighteen?” The statistic landed like a brick in cream. His chair legs screeched retreat.
Consent isn’t rocket science – and I should know, being actual rocket scientist – but we treat it like deciphering alien hieroglyphics. We arm children with multiplication tables before teaching bodily autonomy. We drill “stranger danger” but stay silent when Uncle Joe demands hug payments.
The revolution’s happening in Saturday morning pajamas. My niece now corrects playmates: “You need permission layers!” (Her current obsession with wedding cake diagrams). Last week, she negotiated stuffed animal adoption papers with the neighbor’s kid: “Mr. Whiskers prefers left-ear scratches. Initial here.”
Some mornings, her questions pierce sharper than any congressional hearing: “Why do teachers say ‘he’s mean because he likes you’?”
We’re rewriting fairytales these days. Sleeping Beauty files restraining orders. Cinderella opens a footwear startup. When she reenacted Rapunzel cutting her own hair to build a rescue ladder, I nearly cried into my avocado toast.
The church incident still visits me sometimes – not the groping hand, but my childhood self’s genius survival tactic. While that man whispered empty comforts, I focused on counting stained glass colors: crimson robe, azure halo, emerald palm fronds. Twenty-seven hues later, the bell rang.
Now I teach my niece different color charts. The red flags in “you’re mature for your age.” The green lights in “can I hold your hand?” Yesterday, she informed her father: “Daddy, you need to ask before tickle attacks!” His proud laughter shook the breakfast table.
Progress tastes like slightly burnt pancakes shaped like consent constellations. It sounds like a first-grader advising her doll: “You don’t owe anyone your smile.” It feels like rewriting family legacies one “may I?” at a time.
Our storytime book these days? Whatever she wants. Currently it’s a dog-eared field guide to insects, because “girls can love beetles and ballerinas.” As we diagram firefly communication through light pulses, I realize – this is how consent culture spreads. Not through courtroom dramas or viral hashtags, but in the quiet glow of trusted voices saying: Your body speaks its own language. Let’s learn to listen.
