20CollaborationBecause Ten Minds Are (Usually) Better Than One
The first time a man touched me inappropriately, I was nine and on a family vacation in Hawaii. We were staying at a big resort—the kind that hosts tourist-exclusive luaus at night and serves frozen drinks in giant pineapples by day. To my great delight, my parents let us order things on their room tab, so my favorite activity became swimming up to the poolside bar and ordering a chocolate banana milkshake. As the bartender flicked on the blender, I would start to anticipate the taste of the chocolate syrup that he would drizzle on the inside of the cup for effect. The cloying sweetness pierced through the chill of the drink, and I loved letting the frozen shards of ice sit on my tongue until they melted into a sugary pool.
There was a private beach at the far end of the resort, where toddlers would carve sandcastles into feather-light sand while parents lay on lounge chairs. I loved wading out to my chest in the deep blue water and jumping along with the rhythm of each oncoming wave. As each wave rolled in, I would jump up—my feet leaving the sand while the water rose up to my neck—the power of the wave passing through me. I would repeat this for hours on end, and fall asleep at night with the sensation of my body bobbing up and down in the waves.
One afternoon, the heat was particularly oppressive ...
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