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Not every pedophile or abuser fits our stereotype of the completely evil, remorseless predator. My brother abused me and I know that he is a good person, he was just in a very confusing and trapped place in his life. He didn’t know what he was doing. When people assume that all abusers come from this unforgivable, monolithic idea, it also hurts those of us who are survivors, because it inhibits our own chance to understand the people that we still love, despite what they did to us.

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**TW Sexual Assault, Harassment**

I’m nearly 50. I’m tremendously fortunate. I live in a safe neighborhood, I am comfortable, and I have the privilege of a terrific education and opportunities in life. I am not timid — I have spent much of my life suing states for violating women’s rights. But when I think about Women’s History Month, I think about the ways in which all too often, as I walk on the streets, I put my head down, how I feel the street is not my place. And I think about how little I and other women talk about this.

Today will be different.

I first remember it happening when I was around 14. I was in high school. I lived in the country. I had to walk a quarter of a mile from where the bus dropped me off to home. Guys driving by would sometimes call stuff out the window of their cars. Sometimes they slowed down. Sometimes they stopped the car to say things and offer me a ride. I was afraid. I didn’t know if they would take no for an answer. I didn’t know if I could run faster than they could. I knew bad things happened.

College. I was 20 feet or so from my dorm one night. A guy grabbed me from behind. He put his hands between my legs. He told me not to scream. I screamed. He ran. The cops asked me if I was frequently asked out on dates.

Life after college. I’m living in D.C. I’m walking on 18th or 17th Street. I’m walking with a friend. A man passes, walking in the opposite direction. He reaches behind to grab my ass as he goes. I turn. I point. I yell: “This man just grabbed my ass! Stop it!” People stare. I feel vindicated.

My first years of being a lawyer. I am traveling to give a talk at a university about women in the law. I am walking out of my office building. A man passing by stares and says, “Nice tits.” I look down. I want to disappear.

Fast-forward 10 years. My niece is living with me while she does an internship. She talks of her commute on a packed rush hour subway. She tells of a guy rubbing against her. She tells herself it’s just that the train is crowded. Then he puts his hand on her thigh. Then he starts to move his hand up her leg. She was too stunned, too in disbelief to do anything at the time. Several weeks later, the two of us are coming home and some guy says something. I turn and yell, “Stop harassing us!” He looks embarrassed. My niece smiles.

And now. I am walking to the subway. A man coming toward me says, “Good morning sexy. Want some [not printable]?” It’s a Saturday. It’s 6 a.m. It’s New York City. There is no one else in sight. I think, as I did nearly 40 years ago, “Could I outrun him?”