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When I was eleven years old I went to the grocery store for my mother. When I got there I wandered up and down the aisles looking for the items ordered. On my way down one side aisle a man came toward me from the opposite direction. I didn’t look at him. I was scared, I was always scared. As he went by I thought I saw his penis out of his pants. I hurried by, not wanting to disappoint my mother by leaving the store without the supplies I was sent for. I went down the next aisle; so did he. And his penis was out of his pants. I ran out of the store and went home with nothing but tears running down my face. One warm day when I was thirteen my grandfather came to town to visit us. It was always a very special event and a big deal was made of his time in the city. We were preparing a picnic outside, so that’s where most people were, except for my mother, my grandfather, and me. My mother walked down the stairs and went outside. That left me and my grandfather. I was scared, I was always scared. He was standing close behind me when the door closed behind my mother. As soon as it slammed, his hand went down the front of my pants. In the next second the door opened, and as fast as his hand went in, it came out. I never let myself be alone in the same room with my grandfather again. I am only one person and these are only a few of the things I remember. There was the time I was ice skating, going from the pavilion onto the ice. As I walked out the door the hand of someone going in cupped my breast and squeezed. Again and again and again I was scared. I felt so abused, so used, so low. All of my life I remembered these things, and now I’m telling. For the Wrst time in all of these years I can say it wasn’t my fault and for the Wrst time I’m recognizing and hearing from other women that they too had an uncle who managed to brush his hand across their breasts every time there was a hug to be given, or a family friend who always wanted the girls to sit on his lap so he could fondle their breasts or put his hand down their pants when no one was looking. It’s time we all started telling the truth about our normal childhoods. —Bonnie Urfer runs Nukewatch, a nonproWt in Luck, Wisconsin, that is dedicated to the abolition of nuclear weapons and nuclear power and to the preservation of the environment. Awesome Women in Sports Ruth Conniff may 1993 For the last few days I’ve been tearing pictures out of magazines—Shape, Runner’s World, Sports Illustrated—collecting photographs of women athletes. I found a great 88 p a r t 4 campaigning for women’s equality shot of Gail Devers, Olympic gold medalist in the 100 meters, bounding out of the starting blocks, and I ripped out an ad for running shoes that shows two women striding side by side, silhouetted against an enormous blue sky. I am pinning up these pictures on a bulletin board in the basement locker room of my old high school, Madison East, where I coach girls’ track. I decided to make the bulletin board at the beginning of this year’s season, ostensibly to provide information— weekly announcements, workout schedules, team records, etc.—but also for sneakier reasons. One is to do a little public relations for track (gym classes pass through this locker room every day, and I’m hoping to win a few new recruits). Another reason is to boost the girls’ morale. The bulletin board I captured runs the length of one wall of the locker room. Covered with purple and gold paper and glossy photos, it stands out. My hope is that it will reXect a picture to the girls who walk by it of energy and optimism and strength. Hence my hunt through magazines for inspiring images of women in sports. The ads do reXect a signiWcant demographic change in attitude and self-image among American women. It’s a change that has everything to do with more women playing sports. Most of all, I see the change in women...

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