I was just a kid, 11 years old with a black one-piece swimsuit and wet hair. It was a scorching summer day spent at the lake with family—my cousins, aunts, and uncles. We dashed from the truck to a nearby pizza place, our feet burning on the hot ground. While my cousins and I crowded around the candy machines, I bent down to insert my quarter when I noticed some commotion outside. My uncles were in a heated discussion with a stranger. Frankly, I was more interested in candy and pizza than the drama unfolding around me.
Later, I discovered that my uncles had seen a man make an inappropriate gesture while I was bent over. I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks, the shame washing over me.
I was that little girl who developed early. While my classmates were still sporting flat chests and skinny legs, I was already sprouting curves. My body was a source of confusion and embarrassment. Boys pointed it out, teasing me, and even the girls joined in. It was hard to ignore the constant comments, especially from family, where my uncles made light of my weight, calling me “chubby” instead of recognizing my curves. The moment I got my period at 10, my grandmother winked and called me a señorita. But inside, I still felt like the little girl who just wanted to play with Barbies. And then there were the stares and whistles from much older men. It was all very overwhelming.