An 11-Year-Old Girl

I was eleven years old.

I grew up near Boston in a mixed immigrant neighborhood. We stayed outside until the streetlights came on. Kids were everywhere. We didn’t have much money, but we had stoops, radios and music — The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Elvis.

This happened in the middle of the day.

I saw two boys I played with almost every day. Gary was my age. Guy was a little older and had recently moved from California. He taught us new words, like “bitchin,” which meant something like what we called “wicked.” We thought it was cool.

I smiled as they approached me but something felt different. They had a look I didn’t recognize.

Guy pushed me behind some shrubs. Gary followed. I remember Gary looking scared. I remember Guy telling him what to do.

They held me down and touched my body in unfamiliar ways.

When they were done, they walked away laughing.

I got up and went home.

Confused.

I am still confused.

I never told anyone. Not then. Not for decades. Shame is a powerful silencer.

I wish I could say this is the only time something like this happened to me in the ‘60s. The old man who was a crossing guard in my neighborhood, the old man who ran the corner store before supermarkets were invented — I have my own hidden list.

Do you?