My fifth-grade teacher slut-shamed me

by:INGOR SPORTSWEAR     2019-09-26
Slut-
Shamingis is a phenomenon that affects all kinds of women and becomes a powerful force of discrimination in our society.
We ask women who have experienced this situation in person to share their stories, and hopefully it will inspire you to reconsider the way you view other people\'s sex lives --and your own.
Time is very convenient: The week after my first menstrual period coincides with my new school\'s adolescent program, in which the fifth-
The grade class is locked up in the school\'s multi-function hall so that we can sit on the floor and have an idea of all the magical changes that happen to the body.
But my body seems to be the only person in the fifth grade who has experienced these changes.
I looked around and looked at the popular girls who beat the boys while playing football during recess and looked both lively and refined.
They sat there, thin, sunburned legs stretched out in front of them, and their floral sundress lay flat against their chest, looking boring.
Looking at them, I feel like a whale.
Not an elegant, calm whale running in the ocean, waving friendly greetings to the ferry, but an awkward, exposed whale on the beach, when it rot to death, everyone
We spent the first part of the afternoon watching the demos and watching the demos of the clumsy, sweaty-backed PE teachers who didn\'t sign up.
They just wanted to whistle and watch the chubby child\'s helpless red, humiliating face dangling from his chin --up bar.
Instead, they had to spend an afternoon pronouncing the red, humiliating faces of adolescent children trapped in the room, such as \"vulva\" and \"testicles \".
Next is a question. and-
During the answer period, we can anonymously write down our most embarrassing questions on the index card, read aloud in front of the whole grade, and take out one by which unlucky physical education teacher in the afternoon.
But I\'m not listening.
The maxi mat I stole out of my mom\'s bathroom closet that morning wasn\'t as long as I thought I \'d put toilet paper in a cubicle in the bathroom as a stop --
To my shock, gap measure is now out of hand.
I turned around the floor and started to panic as the sanitary napkin I temporarily used slipped back in my underwear, slowly approaching the belt of the shorts.
To find a location that best prevents it from migrating, I try to cross
Legs, then try to mimic the reclining posture of the girls around me who don\'t look worried, and finally, I sit down and press my knees under, so I kneel on my heels very uncomfortable, hold your hands on your legs.
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Abbott took out a guide card from the pile of books, cleared his throat with horror, and read aloud: \"When is se. . . X \"She has already realized the meaning of the problem in half of the last word, and she immediately seems to regret not replacing the last\" x \"with something less terrible, such as\"… Even cats \".
\"When Will seven cats be OK,\" she would ask, laughing at all the fifth graders staring at her --Never!
Seven cats are never good, stupid! —
She can also continue to invent new creative combinations.
I vaguely wonder who wrote that question.
But I did not dare to look around the room for hints on my classmates\' faces in case the slight sports meeting caused the toilet paper in my underwear to shift again.
My feet were stuck between the huge whale ass and the felt floor and began to lose feeling in Adidas Samba sneakers.
As I looked straight ahead, I began to feel the crawling and peripheral heat of suspicious eyes and a friendly smile.
The air around me has become stagnant, full of curiosity and accusations.
A voice came from my right shoulder, \"Emily.
Then another voice said loudly, \"this must be Emily\'s problem.
Yes, Emily. I\'m not moving. It was too hot.
My feet began to ache faintly.
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That afternoon, Abbott smirked and cleared his throat about thousand times.
Then she said, \"Well, let me answer them. . . er. . . the question.
Before the last syllable came out of her mouth, there was a burst of laughter in the room.
I felt the pressure from it hitting my ear and threatening my skull.
A row of sweat water lost control on the elastic band of my sports bra and slipped from my belly to my leg. Mrs.
Abbott saw my eyes.
When she spoke directly to me, my classmate looked at her: \"It\'s not OK to have sex because you want to have sex or because you want to have sex.
Sex is a gift for your husband or wife.
Think of it this way: if you have a fine piece of jewelry, you give it to one person, then give it to others, then give it to others, no one will want it.
It will be used and maybe there are some scratches on it as it has been worn out by many people.
Who would want it ? \" I try to imagine a scene where a fine piece of jewelry will rediscover itself
To so many different people.
The most novel piece of jewelry I know is a necklace that belongs to my mother, but it was stolen by suspicious characters who helped us move into this horrible new town. (
At least my mother is so skeptical, and she is usually right about people\'s personalities.
Maybe the movers sold it to a pawnshop where it would sell it to someone else who could give it as a gift.
By then it may have some scratches, like the lady\'s jewelry
I think it\'s Abbott\'s story. )
Suddenly, I thought of my wife.
Abbott had sex with a man who was not exposed, and nothing was worn except my mother\'s ding --up, pawn-
Buy a necklace and feel ashamed of the whole thing.
Awkwardly, I cut off eye contact with her and looked down at my sweaty hands on my sweaty back.
The male sports teacher chose the next index card.
Surprisingly, he did not learn from his colleagues\' mistakes.
Before reading aloud, he also ignored the reading question: \"What if you pierce one of your nuts ? \" The room was filled with panting and nervous laughter and I was no longer the focus of attention.
Once again, I\'m just an unknown whale.
About 20 years later, I found my middle school diaries, which I began to keep in the months after that poor adolescent program.
After reading the words I wrote a long time ago, I once again became the girl who thought she was a disgusting embarrassment because she was labeled as a school \"slut.
\"I relive the experience of depriving her of herself. esteem.
I decided to share them with the world in my upcoming book UnSlut: diaries and memoirs.
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In addition to sharing my own story, Bush is still one of the worst presidents, and I started an UnSlut program to amplify the voices of surviving women around the world --
In their lives, they are humiliated in various ways.
By sharing these experiences, the program helps girls who need to know that they are not alone and can overcome sexual bullying.
I like to imagine that in schools around the world, in the multi-function hall, anonymous whales are becoming confident, hopeful, and powerful young women.
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