So when grandfather asked me to follow him into the pantry and put his hands down my panties, I just stood there like the good doll I was while he sat on a stool behind me.
I knew there was a hole somewhere in my nether regions but I thought it was just for peeing. I never once asked them, “Mommy, where do babies come from?” Maybe I wasn’t quite an inquisitive child. My parents were traditional in their ways (and very strict). And yet now we have 8-year-olds using the word in grammatically correct sentences. I only understood its meaning a whole year later. I didn’t know the word ‘f*ck’ until I was 15. With about 9 other relatives on the first floor. It was in a dusty half-lit store pantry on the ground floor of my grandfather’s house. It didn’t happen in an alleyway, or in a sleazy motel room. It was silent-mostly because I had no idea what was going on. It’s not like most stories that you might have read about there was no struggling, no screaming, no taunting or violence.
