Years ago, when I was in high school history class, we took a break every day. A boy in my class would position himself at the door, and before I walked out, he would stretch his arm out across the door frame so that I had to pass under it. As I passed, he would slowly look me up and down. I could feel my cheeks burn with anger and embarrassment. After a couple weeks of this, I could stand it no longer. When break came, I rushed to the door, and when he approached, I stretched my arm across, looked him straight in the eye, and then slowly looked him up and down. Then I let him pass. I’m sure I was blushing, but he could also see the anger flashing in my eyes. We had never exchanged a word, but he never did that to me again.
