In second grade, my mom still chose my clothes for me, so when Mrs. Hand (her real name — I doubt she’s still alive) called me up to the front of the classroom, twisted my arm, and berated me for my “inappropriate” top, I was bewildered.
It was a warm day, and my shirt was sleeveless. The armholes were snug, probably more than on the tank tops my male classmates wore. I was seven, and my chest was no different from theirs. Excuses, excuses.
She shook me and called me names I didn’t understand until I was in tears, apologizing for something that had never been my choice. I can still remember her fingernail marks on my arm.