On the first day of my women’s self-defense class, the teacher asked how many of us had ever been harassed or assaulted. Without missing a beat, every single one of us raised our hands.

Memories closed in on my psyche, crowding my vision: the man on the soccer field when I was eight. The man in the dressing room when I was twelve. The man at the grocery store when I was sixteen. The man at the bus stop when I was nineteen. Men on the street, men in clubs. Men grabbing from cars, men slapping my ass. Men I didn’t say no to because I didn’t know that I could. All of the times I waited for a man to…