I was walking down the street with my mom. A group of men in their older 30’s and late 40’s began nudging each other. I ignored them as did my mother as they whistled and laughed, trying to get the “pretty ladies” attention. She knew better than I did not give them attention.I knew my body was changing, and with that came a lot of talks about big things, especially for a young Hispanic girl. One thing that stuck with me at the time, is that once those changes began, I wouldn't be regarded the same as a “kid” in public anymore. That's part of growing up, but I was already taller, and bigger than everyone else in my grade. I started to grow hips and breasts. The increase in warnings from my mom when I went out to play scared me.

When I was 8, I got my first period. I don't know if it was a coincidence or not, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it was, as it was the same year this story began: with a catcall. During this time I was grateful for my older sister. She was always there to talk me through these changes and problems, she never made me feel dumb, and answered all my questions. In fact, I looked forward to her insight so much. Although she was so much older, it was always just the two of us and It stayed that way as she made her way through college. I loved hearing her opinion, and I think she liked hearing mine too.

During her last year of college, she wrote an essay that was to be published. I was reading her essay like I always do, as she printed out the pages and something clicked. The paper she wrote was about the sexualization of culture and people of color. She wrote about how young hispanic and black girls often reached puberty faster and got negative attention for it. I knew it was really early for me to start puberty, but I didn’t know the vast amounts of research people have done and how common it was for those adult eyes to be turned to girls.

As I got older, I didn't know how to describe the upsetting nature of sexualization to my friends. Where I was once 8 being called out to on the street, I was now in 8th grade where I was being leered at by men a lifetime older than me. It felt weird having adults debate and dictate what I wear, all because of something I couldn't control.It was everywhere, it was impossible to ignore the comments about being “skimpy, pretty, young girls,” whether that's what I wanted or not.

The school perpetuated many double standards. The shorts and tank tops my friends wore, I got “dress coded” for. Teachers would call me down to the office, and tell me that what I was wearing wasn't allowed. I swear I could feel their eyes more than any other student. I began to feel like it wasn’t the clothes that were inappropriate, it was my body. Talking to the boys in my class about the issue didn’t raise any awareness, they thought it wasn't an issue because they never got told to change clothes. I was frustrated trying to explain how unfair it was. Myself and other girls had to be constantly aware of how teachers would comment on how much skin we were showing.

It wasn't hard to come to the conclusion that it's easier to cover up than to be ogled. But that didn't help my self image any. Since then, I've learned that judgment never stops, no matter how old you get or how you look. People’s words can be more exposing of themselves than the clothing covering us. Words like “skimpy, risque, slutty, sexual:” are directed towards young girls too often. It's time to turn our accusing eye from the girl showing some skin, to the person who's blaming her for being too exposed. Our accumulated experience has power, and the chance to speak up, is now.

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