In high school, I tried to keep a low profile. I had previously developed a habit of walking with my head down and by junior year, it was my trademark. With that being said, like Cher from Clueless, I probably wasn’t the most qualified person to give advice to my friends on any topic but I tried anyway. I usually spoke from what my instinct was telling me or from tidbits of acquired knowledge, and I could usually get away with that. In all honesty, I thought I always did. But right now, I’m sitting in my cold dorm room with my hair up, a lukewarm Peter Pan mug half filled with coffee and a haunting memory of the worst advice I ever gave. At least, the worst that I can remember.

First, let me tell you about Laura. She was great despite the fact that there were a lot of girls that tried really hard to hate her, to start rumors about her life or to try and weigh her down. We met in middle school and I’d like to think we were close friends. Laura was a riot. She had a love for giant dogs and a really horrifying preference for scary movies. By junior year we could brag that we’d had every math class together since seventh grade. This was probably more my doing since she was more talented in that area than I could ever hope to be. It was a calling. She was meant to work with numbers because, although she worked really hard, she had a natural understanding for them.

Anyway, she was more extroverted than I was. She garnered more attention in our math classes and was generally more comfortable. Or at least that’s what I presumed. I can remember this one time I missed school. The next day she was catching me up on what had happened in math and I was panicking because I had obviously made a mistake by missing the lesson. But it was what she told me next that has stayed with me.

She was laughing about how awkward it was because these two younger boys in our class were talking to her the entire time. She described to me the way they began asking her weird questions regarding a girl’s chest. Actually, to be frank they were asking about girl’s boobs in a pre-calculus class. Laura thought it was funny but she also admitted that it was really strange that they would want her to answer questions like that with a teacher within hearing distance. Yes, they were considered friends but that’s no excuse.

I can’t remember if I gave her this advice out loud or if I just strongly thought it but it stuck with me all this time. I told her (or thought) she brought it on herself and that if she had just ignored them they would grow disinterested and stop. Why continue to make the situation awkward when all she had to do was not respond? Avoiding the conversation they kept pushing on her was as simple as looking away and saying nothing.

That’s the worst advice I could have ever given anyone, especially a young woman. I don’t remember ever vocalizing that the guys were obviously being inappropriate. I don’t remember telling her to hold her ground and tell them what they wanted to hear because a woman should never be ashamed to answer those questions. I never told her to hold her head up high and refuse to take their crap.

I guess, I believed then that she was being inappropriate because she met their questions with straightforward responses. It wasn’t new that boys said weird things. It was a natural sign of immaturity, right? Well, that’s exactly the kind of “boys will be boys” mentality that is sadly perpetuated in our society, it was a lesson I learned in middle school. If I shut up, if I didn’t respond to their inappropriate teasing about my body then they would lose interest and stop. It was like waiting for an attack by a black bear to be over by laying down and taking it. But no one ever brings to mind the damage that’s left. Girls should not have to deal with boys who decide they want to do or say whatever they want because they get away with this “locker room talk.” Girls should not have to put up with it or be reprimanded for responding and holding their ground. After all, the best way to survive an attack by a black bear is to fight back. (Or carry pepper spray, either works really.)